The Project Gutenberg EBook of Argonaut and Juggernaut, by Osbert Sitwell This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Argonaut and Juggernaut Author: Osbert Sitwell Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61368] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT *** Produced by Al Haines Argonaut and Juggernaut BY OSBERT SITWELL LONDON Chatto & Windus 1919 _All rights reserved_ TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT ROSS My thanks are due to Messrs. Blackwell for permission to reprint certain poems which first appeared in the anthology "Wheels," and to the editors of _The Times_, the _Nation_, _Art and Letters_, the _Cambridge Magazine_, _Everyman_, _Colour_, _New Paths_, and _Poetry and Drama_ (New Series), for allowing me to reprint various poems which first appeared in their columns. Several of the war verses at the end of this volume first appeared in the _Nation_ under the signature "Miles." "HOW SHALL WE RISE TO GREET THE DAWN?" How shall we rise to greet the dawn? Not timidly, With a hand above our eyes, But greet the strong light Joyfully; Nor will we mistake the dawn For the mid-day. We must create and fashion a new God-- A God of power, of beauty, and of strength-- Created painfully, cruelly, Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds. It is not that the money-changers Ply their trade Within the sacred places; But that the old God Has made the Stock Exchange his Temple. We must drive him from it. Why should we tinker with clay feet? We will fashion A perfect unity Of precious metals. Let us tear the paper moon From its empty dome. Let us see the world with young eyes. Let us harness the waves to make power, And in so doing, Seek not to spoil their rolling freedom, But to endow The soiled and straining cities With the same splendour of strength. We will not be afraid, Tho' the golden geese cackle in the Capitol, In fear That their eggs may be placed In an incubator. Continually they cackle thus-- These venerable birds-- Crying, "Those whom the Gods love Die young," Or something of that sort. But we will see that they live And prosper. Let us prune the tree of language Of its dead fruit. Let us melt up the clichés Into molten metal; Fashion weapons that will scald and flay; Let us curb this eternal humour And become witty. Let us dig up the dragon's teeth From this fertile soil; Swiftly, Before they fructify; Let us give them as medicine To the writhing monster itself. We must create and fashion a new God-- A God of power, of beauty, and of strength; Created painfully, cruelly, Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds. Cast down the idols of a thousand years, Crush them to dust Beneath the dancing rhythm of our feet. Oh! let us dance upon the weak and cruel: We must create and fashion a new God. _November_, 1918. CONTENTS PREFACE POEM "How shall We rise to Greet the Dawn?" BOOK I: THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS PART I Prelude The Silence of God Adventure Dusk Sailor-Song The Dance Why should a Sailor ride the Sea? PART II Cornucopia Song Prospect Road BOOK II: GREEN-FLY War Horses Church-Parade At the House of Mrs. Kinfoot Green-fly De Luxe BOOK III: PROMENADES Nocturne Lament of the Mole Catcher The Beginning The End Fountains Song of the Fauns "A Sculptor's Cruelty" Pierrot Old Night From Carcassonne Progress Return of the Prodigal London Squares Tears Clavichords Promenades Clown Pondi Lausiac Theme Metamorphosis The Gipsy Queen Black Mass Pierrot at the War Spring Hours BOOK IV: WAR POEMS "Therefore is the Name of it called Babel" Twentieth-Century Harlequinade This Generation Sheep-Song The Poet's Lament Judas and the Profiteer Rhapsode The Modern Abraham The Trap The Eternal Club Heaven The Blind Pedlar Hymn to Moloch Armchair Ragtime Peace Celebration The Next War BOOK I THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS _To_ EDITH THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS PART I PRELUDE We have wandered through the dim valleys of sleep --That lie so still and far-- Have bathed in the lakes of silence, Where each star Shines brighter than its own reflection in the heavens; Where, diving deep, My soul has sought to catch and keep The silver feathers of the moon That float like down upon the waters, In whose pale rest We find Forgetfulness of death That comes so soon --Waters that lull the mind With some sweet breath Of wind, of flowers, With summer showers of rain, Or quicken it with recreative pain. We have fled further from this leaden cage, Seeking those rainbow forests, Where the light Thrills through you, shaking, fainting, with delight; Where sway tall luminous trees Wind-swept in one vast flashing harmony, That like a wave Splashes its seething sound And then envelops you. We have strayed to other places, Courts of fear, That stretch like echoes through the endless dusk Drenched with dead memories; Like musk They cling about you In a heavy cloud. Each shadow-sound we hear Clutches the heart. With fevered hands we tear The terror-pulsing walls --Fight our way out --Out Into other Courts As vague and full of fear. And we have found the proud and distant palaces of night. THE SILENCE OF GOD One night upon the southern sea In helpless calm we lay, Waiting for day, Waiting for day. As goldripe fruit fall from a tree A comet fell; no other sight, But in the ocean tracks of light Trembled--then passed away, Away. No sound broke on our waiting ears, Though instinct whispered wayward fears Of things we cannot tell-- Of things the sea could tell. No wisp of wind, no watery sound Reached us; as if high on the ground We stayed. A sense of fever fell Upon each mind, Each soul and mind. Until our eyes, that ever sought The cloying empty darkness, find Another shape--or is it wrought Of terror?--on the deep The endless deep. All dark it lay. No light shone out; And though we cried across, no shout Came back to us. As if in sleep The black bulk lay so still, So still. No sign came back; no answering cry Cleft the immense monotony That swathed us like a funeral pall, In folds of menace; almost shrill The silence seemed, And we so small. Swiftly a boat was lowered down; The rowlocks creaked; our track shone white Behind us like God's frown, God's frown. We clambered up that great ship's height; There was no light; there was no sound; Nor was there any being found Upon that ship, That ship. We groped our way along. God knows How long the rats had been alone With dust and rust! Yet flight was shown To have been instant, in the grip Of some force stronger than its foes --Its human foes. * * * * * Then sudden from the dark there thrilled The distant dying of a song That hung like haze upon the sea, and filled Each soul with joy and terror strong, With joy and terror strong. Upon the sombre air were spent These notes, as from a hidden place Where all time and all love lay pent In lingering embrace-- In lingering embrace. Deep in our hearts we felt the call; We knew that if our fate should send That song again, we must leave all And follow to the end, The end. ADVENTURE Down through the torrid seas we swept, Sails curved like bows about to shoot. As an arrow speeds through the air Our ship parted the clinging waters. Then, out of the ocean Blossomed a distant land. * * * * * The air quivered, Dancing above it In a frenzy of passion. Waves of heat trembled towards us Across the cool lassitude of the ocean. They rolled new odours at us, Sounding the chords of hidden senses, Till we were alert With minds as sensitive and taut As resined strings. The sea itself Crouched down behind us, Urging us on, Driving us on, To unknown Perilous adventures. * * * * * Ships and sea were forgotten. We trampled And stumbled On, on, Through the burning sand To the hot shroud of the squat threatening forest, Where, as you walked, You tore apart A solid sheet of air. Brown satyrs grimaced at us, Swinging with long hairy arms From crooked branch to crooked branch. The sun Was at its height. Rays pierced the hot shade; White lines of light Shot through the shadows To where a point of green Shuddered with dangerous movement, Throbbed and hummed with the whirr of insects. Birds more bright than any streamers from the sun Cleft the air Like hammers; Scintillating wings Tossed patches of colour Into the dark shimmering air. Shrill calls Whistled like knives Hurled through the empty heat. Frantic chattering rose up. Through the honeycombed darkness Slim animals --Their hides splashed with false sunlight-- Quivered away Into the hollow distance. Or clattered past us, Cloven hooves Kicking at the hard, bent trunks Of gnarled trees. Large hairy fruits of wood Were cast at us, Snarlingly, From the darkness. Faces --Faces peered down From the interwoven boughs. Hastily we stumbled on; Hurriedly we stumbled back, Bewildered. Small tracks Tripped through the blackness Hither and thither; Twigs crawled from under our feet, Hissing away In venom --And we were bewildered. Then suddenly We felt, Rumbling in curling patterns through the ground, The beating of drums. As winds bellow into caves, As waves swirl and curl into hollows, We heard the blowing of wooden trumpets And of pipes. Soon, Under the western canopy of the sun, Where the fevered hills lay huddled together, We saw great gourd-shaped palaces Loom up like mountains. Figures played on trumpets, Twisted like snakes, Or on the curved, carved horns of unknown beasts. In the sound was mirrored The panic seizures of the night, --The fear of things that walk in darkness. The drums were painted In hot colours That, even through the dusk, Glowed torture and writhing torment. Like a shower of molten lead The din fell down upon us From the Palaces. Bare yellow women Hurried To greet us; Their heels swayed inward As they walked. They offered fruits --Fruits that were strange to us; Mellow they were, and with a scent Of sun, of summer, And of woodland nights. We ate --And dreams closed round. * * * * * DUSK Night like a hawk Swooped down On to the phoenix bird, --Tore out its flaming feathers. Solitary plumes Flared down into the darkness, Floating above the distant sea. Stillness and heat clung together; And the hawk Spread out her wings. Gigantic pinions Flutter the air above, Fanning our faces And We sing..... SAILOR-SONG On swinging seas our ship has flown --In sun and shadow lands alit. We saw the sack of Carthage Town (And Dido building it). Cassandra, direful prophetess, We heard foretell the fate of Troy, And through its streets helped wheel and press That wooden, painted toy. We've seen events aboard this hulk Of grave import and mystery --The serpent's writhing horrid bulk Go seething through the sea. Then once we left Atlantis Town. Behind us like a lily flower It blossomed; but then down, far down, Sank every vane and tower. Now you can hear the clanging beat Of bells beneath the furious foam. In coral palaces the great Sea monsters make their home. Their corridors with pearl are pav'd; Float down them in an endless flight Fierce finny beasts. The walls are laved In irridescent light. We brought gifts--myrrh and frankincense-- From Khubla to the Great Moghul; Espied the Juggernaut immense Pound over flesh and skull; Saw desert-men atone for ills With frenzied hands, with wounds that gape, --The hermits hidden in the hills --The Herod in his Tyrian Cape. From out our ship, held fast by gale, We watched Andromeda's release; Beheld the galleon in full sail That flew the Golden Fleece. Icarus, proud of his new power, We saw stretch out his wings to fly. We heard in that tremendous hour The cry from Calvary. Thus many things we understand That puzzle landsmen: we can tell Of perils in each time and land; But outside Heaven or Hell No fruit so strange we tasted save But one; none cast so strange a spell Except the fruit the first Eve gave To the first man who fell. THE DANCE The song ends. The rocking earth Plunges madly --Lunges like a man About to fight. Trees roll beckoning branches at us, Branches that swing and sway. From the forest The animals Howl Like laughter. With their burning scimiters Flames slice the night. Monotony, A life preserved in ocean salt, Scales off our limbs. Within our veins The liquor of this fruit-of-fire Mounts in splendour inexhaustible. The world itself Dances To make us dance In cosmic frenzy. WHY SHOULD A SAILOR RIDE THE SEA? Why should a sailor ride the sea, When he can drink and dance and sing, Or watch the stars out-blossoming Upon the tree of night? Why should he face the tear-salt waves, When he can sing, or feast on fruit, Dance to the silver-sobbing lute, And all men seem his slaves? No more to ship or sea we'll go, To watch the land sink out of sight Suffused by purple fumes of night, Each heart weighed down with woe. But under rustling fretted lace Of leaves, we'll dance and stamp our feet In frenzy, to the furious beat, --The rhythm of all space. Or watch each dappled fawn and elf Spring from the green lairs where they hide; Now every soul is multiplied And communes with itself. The softly sailing moon is now A pendulum, hung in a vast Blue bubble--so to mark our fast Lithe movements to and fro. Down from the sky the willing stars Fall round each brow a crown to form; Till feet and limbs, a rushing storm, Dance whirling on in ecstasy. The earth dances; The earth dances; Trees charge at us Like horsemen; Forests swoop Down the hill, Charging at us, But we are brave, Full of a fiery courage, And go onward Onward, Through the galloping trees. We shout Glowing phrases --Snatches of ineffable wit. The frenzy in our feet Must surely set the world afire. Yet still the stars Rain down their golden tremors of delight, And the moon Sweeps like a bird Through the arch of space. We, too, Float downward Gently To soft shipwreck. We, too, Are of the kindred of the Pleiades; Reel on our golden path Down, Down, Through the curved emptiness of the heavens. PART II CORNUCOPIA Now music fills the night with moving shades; Its velvet darkness, veined like a grape, Obscures and falls round many a subtle shape --Figures that steal through cool tall colonnades, Vast minotaurian corridors of sleep; Rhythmic they pass us, splashed by red cascades Of wine, fierce-flashing fountains whose proud waves Shimmer awhile; plunge foaming over steep Age-polished rocks, into the dim cold caves Of starlit dusk below--then merge with night, Softly as children sinking into sleep. But now more figures sway into our sight; Strong and bare-shouldered, pressed and laden down, Stagger across the terraces. They bear Great Cornucopia of summer fruit And heavy roses scented with the noon --Piled up with fruit and blossoms, all full blown, Crimson, or golden as the harvest moon-- Piled up and overflowing in a flood Of riches; brilliant-plumaged birds, that sing As the faint playing on a far sweet lute, Warble their tales of conquest and of love; Perch on each shoulder; sweep each rainbow wing Like light'ning through the breathless dark above. Heaped up in vases gems shine hard and bright; Sudden they flare out--gleaming red like blood-- For now the darkness turns to swelling light, Great torches gild each shadow, tear the sky, As drums tear through the silence of the night; Breaking its crystal quiet--making us cry Or catch our sobbing breath in sudden fear. A shadow stumbles, and the jewels shower On to the pavers with a sharp sweet sound. They mingle with the fountain drops that flower Up in a scarlet bloom above the ground, A beauteous changing blossom; then they rain On to the broad mysterious terraces, Where sea-gods rise to watch in cold disdain Before those vast vermillion palaces, --Watch where the slumbering coral gods of noon, Drunk with the sudden golden light and flare Of flaming torches, try to pluck and tear That wan enchanted lotus flower, the moon, Down from its calm still waters; thus they fall, Like flowing plumes, the fountains of our festival. Slowly the torches die. They echo long, These last notes of a Bacchanalian song, Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep, --Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep. In thanksgiving for shelt'ring summer skies Still, far away, a fervent red light glows. Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes, Caress them like a laughing summer rose, And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight. A harp sobs out its crystal syruppings; Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings, Fragile yet radiant, of a butterfly Beating against the barriers of night. Then from the Ocean came the Syren song, Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh, Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong; Chaining our limbs; making our bodies seem Inert and spellbound, dead as in a dream. * * * * * Bound by the silver fetters of your voice To this new slavery of dreams, We, listening, rejoice. The magic strains Swell in this darkness star-devoid. The music streams Upon the world in patterns passionate yet clear, And stains Each soul. The mind, decoyed By thoughts that grind and tear Away old values, Is sent down other thoughts So subtly swift, That in their fleeting passage They can cut adrift our souls Upon a sea of wonder and of fear. Within the arid minds of men This music sounds but once, for then They hear no other song. In it, tumultuous rush of wings, The glamour of old lovely things In deserts buried long, The grace of beasts that bound and leap With movements blithe and strong --Of those that creep Away in hissing-reptile rage-- All these, all these are found. They hear The secrets, solved, of each dead age, Each mystery is clear. For in this music's flow, the din Of spheres that tear and speed and spin Through pulsing space is heard, And all things men have loved and feared Are mirror'd in each sound. SONG Our hidden voices, wreathed with love's soft flowers, Wind-toss'd thro' valleys, tremble across seas To turbann'd cities; touch tall lonely towers, Call to you thro' the sky, the wind, the trees. Misted and golden as the hanging moon, That like a summer fruit floats from the sky, Thrills out our distant age-enchanted tune, --Nor will it let you pass our beauty by. But if it should not reach to stir your mind, Then hold a summer rose against the ear, Till through its crimson sweetness you can hear The falling flow of rhythm--so designed That from this secret island, like a star Shining above a shrouded world, our song Cleaves through the darkest night and echoes long, Bidding you follow whether near or far. Come hither where the mermaids churn the foam, Lashing their tails across the calm, or dive To groves and gardens of bright flowers; then roam Beneath the shade of stone-branched trees, or drive Some slow sea-monster to its musselled home. Here, as a ladder, they climb up and down The rainbow's steep refracted steps of light, Till, when the dusk sends down its rippling frown, They quiver back to us in silver flight. The moon sails down once more; our mermaids bring Rich gifts of ocean fruit. Again we sing. Enchantment, love, vague fear, and memories That cling about us like the fumes of wine With myriad love-enhancing mysteries We pour out in one song--intense--divine, Down the deep moonlit chasms of the waves Our song floats on the opiate breeze. Why seek To goad your carven galleys, fast-bound slaves Who search each sweeping line of bay and creek, Only to stagger on a hidden rock, or find The limp dead sails swept off by sudden wind? Thus always you must search the cruel sea, For if you find us mankind shall be free! But when you sleep we grasp you by the hand, And to the trickling honey of the flute We lead you to a distant shimmering land Where lotus-eaters munch their golden fruit, Then fall upon the fields of summer flowers In drunken sunlit slumber, while a fawn Prances and dances round them. Oh, those hours When through the crystal valleys of the dawn Down from the haunted forests of the night There dash the dew-drenched centaurs on their way, Mad with the sudden rush of golden light --Affright the lotus-eaters, as they sway Towards the woodlands in a stumbling flight. In these deep groves we follow through the cool Shadow of high columnar trees, to find The fallen sky within a forest pool That's faintly veiled and fretted by a wind, Lest our white flashing limbs should turn you blind. * * * * * As the sweet sound of bells that fall and fade In watery circles on the verge of night, So rounded ripples spread beneath the shade Of flowing branches dripping with green light. Thus do we wander; but when day is spent We grope our way thro' vast tall palaces, Palaces sinister and somnolent, Where lurk dim fears and unknown menaces. These high pale walls and this pale shining floor Seem built of bones, by ages planed and ground To a white smoothness. On this rock-bound shore The bodies of dead sailors oft are found. These sombre arches pierce the sullen sky. These pillars are the pillars of the night. Of what avail your strife and agony? Why seek to search and struggle for the light? Our music chains you: binds your limbs from flight. PROSPECT ROAD Gigantic houses, tattered by all time, Raise their immense and ruined bulk and height In one unending universal street, Against a strange and sunken yellow sky --Like sunset trickling through into the sea, Down to the depths--yellow and grey and green. Blind windows face the interminable road; Innumerable those windows seem to stretch All smeared and stained and stamped with time and blood, --Stains that seem faces--horrid twitching masks Moving their lewd derisive lips and tongues, Spitting out treacheries with vampire lips-- Or eyes that gaze from far blank-stretching walls --The tortured eyes of those who see their death Approaching ĉon-by-ĉon along this road. Behind the walls sound voices whispering Of dire and hidden, carefully hidden, thoughts-- Cruel, wicked and unfathomable things That lie behind this infamy of stone. Then clamour, shrieking voices, or a pause That falls like lead through the suspended air; Broken by laughter--rending piercing sounds That seem to tear the fabric of our minds. Slinking along these wicked, stricken walls, I reached a shining distant point of light. And glory came--vast and unending light, Rays--flashing, writhing rays of light. And then the music sounded. Ah, that sound! Cadences rose and fell unendingly-- Quivering, shining waves of sound and sight-- Sounds of the universe--the cries of space And planets tumbling wildly round our world --Showing the meaning of the meaningless. "God and eternity"--strange flashing sounds The whirl of time, "Melchisedec"--"Glory of God" And space--the universe--like framing words-- "Gog and Magog"--"Infinity"--the rush of waters And the sky comes down. Down with the splintering stars. 1916-1919. BOOK II GREEN FLY WAR-HORSES How they come out --These Septuagenarian Butterflies-- After resting For four years! Surely they are more spirited Than ever? Their enamelled wings Are rusty with waiting --Their eyelids Sag a little Like those of a bloodhound; But they swim gaily into the limelight. Oh, these war-horses! They have seen it through. Theirs has been a splendid part! The waiting--the weariness! For the Queens of Sheba Are used to courts and feasting; But for four years Platitudes have remained Uncoined, For there have been few parties And only Three stout meals A day. But now They have come out. They have preened And dried themselves After their blood-bath. Old men seem a little younger, And tortoise-shell combs Are longer than ever; Earrings weigh down aged ears; And Golconda has given them of its best. They have seen it through! Theirs is the triumph, And, beneath The carved smile of the Mona Lisa False teeth, Rattle Like machine guns, In anticipation Of food and platitudes. Les Veilles Dames Sans Merci! CHURCH-PARADE The flattened sea is harsh and blue-- Lies stiff beneath--one tone, one hue, While concertina waves unfold The painted shimmering sands of gold. Each bird that whirls and wheels on high Must strangle, stifle in, its cry, For nothing that's of Nature born Should seem so on the Sabbath morn. The terrace glitters hard and white, Bedaubed and flecked with points of light That flicker at the passers-by-- Reproachful as a curate's eye. And china flowers, in steel-bound beds, Flare out in blues and flaming reds; Each blossom, rich and opulent, Stands like a soldier; and its scent Is turned to camphor in the air. No breath of wind would ever dare To make the trees' plump branches sway, Whose thick green leaves hang down to pray. The stiff, tall churches vomit out Their rustling masses of devout, Tall churches whose stained Gothic night Refuses to receive the light! Watch how the stately walk along Toward the terrace, join the throng That paces carefully up and down Above a cut-out cardboard town! With prayer-book rigid in each hand, They look below at sea and sand. The round contentment in their eyes Betrays their favourite fond surmise, That all successful at a trade Shall tread an eternal Church-Parade, And every soul that's sleek and fat Shall gain a heavenly top-hat. From out the Church's Gothic night, Past beds of blossoms china-bright, Beneath the green trees' porous shade, We watch the sea-side Church-Parade. AT THE HOUSE OF MRS. KINFOOT At the house of Mrs. Kinfoot Are collected Men and women Of all ages. They are supposed To sing, paint, or to play the piano. In the drawing-room The fireplace is set With green tiles Of an acanthus pattern. The black curls of Mrs. Kinfoot Are symmetrical. --Descended, it is said, From the Kings of Ethiopia-- But the British bourgeoisie has triumphed. Mr. Kinfoot is bald And talks In front of the fireplace With his head on one side, And his right hand In his pocket. The joy of catching tame elephants, And finding them to be white ones, Still gleams from the jungle-eyes Of Mrs. Kinfoot, But her mind is no jungle Of Ethiopia, But a sound British meadow. Listen then to the gospel of Mrs. Kinfoot: "The world was made for the British bourgeoisie, They are its Swiss Family Robinson; The world is not what it was. We cannot understand all this unrest! Adam and Eve were born to evening dress In the southern confines Of Belgravia. Eve was very artistic, and all that, And felt the fall Quite dreadfully. Cain was such a man of the world And belonged to every club in London; His father simply adored him, --But had never really liked Abel, Who was rather a milk-sop. Nothing exists which the British bourgeoisie Does not understand; Therefore there is no death --And, of course, no life. The British bourgeoisie Is not born, And does not die, But, if it is ill, It has a frightened look in its eyes. The War was splendid, wasn't it? Oh yes, splendid, splendid." Mrs. Kinfoot is a dear, And so artistic. GREEN-FLY I. Like ninepins houses stand up square In lines; their windows mouths to bite At servants, who lean out to stare At anything that moves in sight. Where once was green-limbed tree or ledge Of greener moss or flowery lane, Set back behind a private hedge Each house repeats itself again. Each house repeats itself again, But smaller still and yet more dry; For--just as those who live within-- So have these houses progeny. Throughout each dusty endless year, Whose days seem merely wet or fine, These children constantly appear In an unending dusty line. As, on a rose that is ill-grown Nature, insulted and defied, Showers down a blight, so sends she down On houses, those who live inside. II. Within each high, well-papered room, Compressed, all darkness lay, Darkness of night, and crypt, and tomb, Nor ever entered day. But through the endless black there crept, With groping hand and groping thought, With eyes that blinked, but never wept, And minds that fell, but never fought, The wonderless, the hard, the nice, Who scurry at a ray of light, Then, like a flock of frightened mice, Career back into night. From out this damning dreadful dark (While history, thundering, rolls by) They wait for an anĉmic lark To sing from weak blue sky. Or if a dog is hurt, why then They see the evil, and they cry. But yet they watch ten million men Go out to end in agony! Their own strange God they have set up, Of clay, of iron, and mothéd hide; Whose eyes, each convex as a cup, Reflect the herd endeified. Their twisted feet in boots He made To walk the narrow asphalt way, And gave each room a curtain's shade To muffle out the light of day. For this God understands their need; Created lids for each pale eye; He sculped each mouth to say "Agreed," And gives them coffins if they die. When, if for punishment they go To other lands, why, it should be The judgment that, down there below, They see this world as they might see! A world of contrast, shade and light-- Clashing romance and cruelty, But stricken with the dreadful blight Of fear to feel and fear to cry. Where for a moment lives are filled With love or hate--where born of pain The children grow up--to be killed! Where freedom--dead--is born again. Wherein life's pattern crude and shrill Is weft by neither foe nor friend, But by some rough colossal will Towards some vast invisible end. But in those houses dark there creep, With bodies wrapt in woollen dress, With eyes that blink but never weep, The sentimental wonderless! DE LUXE I. HYMN. Above from plaster-mountains, Wine-shadowed by the sea, Spurt white-wool clouds, as fountains Whirl from a rockery. These clouds were surely given To keep the hills from harm, For when a cloud is riven The fatted rain falls warm. Through porous leaves the sun drops Each dripping stalactite Of green. The chiselled tree-tops Seem cut from malachite. Stiff leaves with ragged edges (Each one a wooden sword) Are carved to prickly hedges, On which, with one accord, Their clock-work songs of calf-love Stout birds stop to recite, From cages which the sun wove Of shade and latticed light. Each brittle booth and joy-store Shines brightly. Below these The ocean at a toy shore Yaps like a Pekinese. II. NURSERY RHYME. The dusky king of Malabar Is chief of Eastern Potentates; Yet he wears no clothes except The jewels that decency dictates. A thousand Malabaric wives Roam beneath green-tufted palms; Revel in the vileness That Bishop Heber psalms. From honey-combs of light and shade They stop to watch black bodies dart Into the sea to search for pearls. By means of diabolic art Magicians keep the sharks away; Mutter, utter, each dark spell, So that if a thief should steal, One more black would go to Hell. But Mrs. Freudenthal, in furs, From brioche dreams to mild surprise Awakes; the music throbs and purrs. The cellist, with albino eyes, Rivets attention; is, in fact, The very climax; pink eyes flash Whenever nervous and pain-racked He hears the drums and cymbols clash. Mrs. Freudenthal day-dreams --Ice-spoon half-way to her nose-- Till the girl in ochre screams, Hits out at the girl in rose. This is not at all the way To act in large and smart hotels; Angrily the couples sway, Eagerly the riot swells. Girls who cannot act with grace Should learn behaviour; stay at home; A convent is the proper place. Why not join the Church of Rome? A waiter nearly drops the tray --Twenty tea-cups in one hand. Now the band joins in the fray, Fighting for the Promised Land. Mrs. Freudenthal resents The scene; and slowly rustles out, But the orchestra relents, Waking from its fever bout. BOOK III PROMENADES NOCTURNE The valleys that were known in sunlit hours Are vast and vague as seas; Wan as the blackthorn flowers That quiver in the first spring-scented breeze: Far as the frosted hollows of the moon. The sighing woods are still-- Wrapp'd in their age-long boon Of mystery and sleep. A naked hill, Loud and discordant, looms against the sky, And little lights like stars Break the monotony Of blue and silver, black and grey. Strange bars Of light resemble silver masks, and leer Across the forest lane. Tall nettles, rank from rain, Scent all the woods with some ancestral fear. Trees rustle by the water. A voice sings Faintly, to ward off fright. The water breathes pale rings Of sad, wan light; Faintly they grow, Then merge into the night: The last poor twisted echo takes to flight. _To_ W. H. DAVIES. THE LAMENT OF THE MOLE-CATCHER An old, sad man who catches moles Went lonely down the lane-- All lily-green were the lanes and knolls, But sorrow numbed his brain. He paid no heed to flower or weed As he went his lonely way. No note he heard from any bird That sang, that sad spring day. "I trap'd the moles for forty years Who could not see the sky, I reckoned not blind blood or tears, And the Lord has seen them die. For forty years I've sought to slay The small, the dumb, the blind, But now the Lord has made me pay, And I am like their kind. I cannot see or lane or hill, Or flower or bird or moon; Lest life shall lay me lower still, O Lord--come take it soon." THE BEGINNING Great spheres of fire, to which the sun is nought, Pass thund'ring round our world. A golden mist-- The margin to the universe--falls round The verges of our vision. Rocks ablaze Leap upward to the sun, or fall beneath The rush of our rapidity, that seems Catastrophy, and not the joyous birth Of yet another star. The air is full Of clashing colour, full of sights and sounds Too plain and loud for men to heed or hear, The cosmic cries of pain that follow birth: A multi-coloured world. The scorching heat Surpasses all the equatorial days: Steam rises from the surface of the sea. Gigantic rainbow mists resemble forms That bring to mind strange elemental sprites Exulting in the chaos of creation. They glide above the tumult-ridden sea Which now is shaken as are autumn leaves; Great hollows open and reveal its depths-- Devoid of any form of life or death. Till wave on wave it gathers strength again And shakes a mountain, splits it to the base (Still weak from struggle as a new-born babe). Then night comes on, and shows the flaming path Of all the rocks that vainly seek the sun. Broad as the arch of space, a myriad moons Sail slowly by the sea; the glowing world Shows up the pallor of their ivory. The din grows greater from the universe: There rises up the smell of fire and iron,-- Not dreary like the smell of burnt-out things, But like the smell of some gigantic forge-- Cheerful, of good intent, and full of life. Now all the joyous cries of sea and earth, The universal harmonies of birth, Rise up to haunt the slumber of their God. THE END Round the great ruins crawl those things of slime Green ruins lichenous and scarred by moss-- An evil lichen that proclaims world doom, Like blood dried brown upon a dead man's face. And nothing moves save those monstrosities, Armoured and grey, and of a monster size. But now, a thing passed through the cloying air With flap and clatter of its scaly wings-- As if the whole world echoed from some storm. One scarce could see it in the dim green light Till suddenly it swooped and made a dart And brushed away one of those things of slime, Just as a hawk might sweep upon its prey. It seems as if the light grows dimmer yet-- No radiance from the dreadful green above, Only a lustrous light or iridescence As if from off a carrion-fly,--surrounds That vegetation which is never touched By any breeze. The air is thick, and brings The tainted subtle sweetness of decay. Where, yonder, lies the noisome river-course, There shows a faintly phosphorescent glow. Long writhing bodies fall and twist and rise, And one can hear them playing in the mud. Upon the ruined walls there gleam and shine The track of those grey vast monstrosities-- As some gigantic snail had crawled along. All round the shining bushes waver lines Suggesting shadows, slight and grey, but full Of that which makes one nigh to dead with fear. Watch how those awful shadows culminate And dance in one long wish to hurt the world. A world that now is past all agony! FOUNTAINS "The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep. Carved with a smile, the poor mouths clutch At a half-remembered song, Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing." SACHEVERELL SITWELL. Some fountains sing of love In full and flute-like notes that charge the night With all the red-mouthed essence of the rose; Then turn to voices murmuring above, Among the trees, Of hidden sweet delight. Another fountain flows With the faint music of a first spring breeze; Each falling drop is jewelled by the moon To some fine luminous ecstasy of light. It sings of noon, Of sunlit blossoms on a first spring day And all things sweet and pleasant to the sight. Another fountain sings Of the cool pleasures of those moonlit hours When dappled sylvan things Trample through thickets and through secret bowers To prance and play, Or, squatting round in rings, To wreathe their horned heads with wan sweet flowers Till dawn comes grey and sweeps them to the wood. Another fountain sobs Its song of passions that have passed away. Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums, it throbs And bursts into a flood Of fierce wild music; and its savage spray Becomes the blood Renewed, of crimes long past. Another fountain sings its song of fear, Of rustics flying fast Before some foe-- A deadly, unknown foe that comes so near They feel his panting breath, And run for many a lengthy, panic mile. Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe! Carved with a happy smile They strive to weep... End their eternal laughing--for awhile To lose themselves in sleep Or in the silver peacefulness of death. SONG OF THE FAUNS When the woods are white beneath the moon And grass is wet with crystal dew, When in the pool So clear and cool The moon reflects itself anew, We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon, We shake away The sleep of day, Out from our bosky homes we spring; Horns wreathed with flowers, Throughout the hours Of moonlight, worshipping we sing. Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light Looks down upon us worshipping-- Each dappled faun Who shuns the dawn, Is here, and rarest gifts we bring-- The feathers of the birds of night Wrought to a crown Of softest down We offer you, and crystal bright, The dew within a lily cup Reflecting stars In shining bars; All things most strange we offer up-- Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers To place within your secret bowers. We shake down apples from the trees, And pears, and plums with velvet skin; Up to the sky We cast these high And pray you'll stoop to net them in. We dance: then fall upon our knees And pray and sing--all this to show The love that all loyal fauns must owe To you, white goddess of the night. But no more play, We must away, The eastern sky is growing bright. "A SCULPTOR'S CRUELTY" The faun runs through the forest of the noon, Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss On which he pirouettes, all is so fair! He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss For what to do, he roams the wood--espies A figure like himself--but stiff and grey! Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs That are his pride. "But surely this can play And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day As well as me?" So he comes near and eyes The lichened features of a faun of stone. Oh! it is sad to be so young--alone! PIERROT OLD The harvest moon is at its height, The evening primrose greets its light With grace and joy: then opens up The mimic moon within its cup. Tall trees, as high as Babel tower, Throw down their shadows to the flower-- Shadows that shiver--seem to see An ending to infinity. The Pagan Pan has now unbent And stoops to sniff the night-stock scent That brings a memory sad and old, When he was young, and free, and bold, To play his pipe in forests black, Or follow in some goatherd's track Who, fill'd with panic fear, then flees Through all the terror-threatening trees. Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers, Hover about the warm dark bowers, And wait to breathe the lime-tree scent That perfum'd many a compliment Address'd to beauties young and gay, Their faces powdered by the ray Of that same moon that looks upon Their dreary lichen-cover'd tomb. The dryads throw their water wide And strive to stem the surging tide That dashes up the fountain base, Hoping to catch the moon's pale face-- A game now played without a score For three good centuries or more. And all the earth smells warm and sweet --A fitting place for fairy feet. But now a figure white and frail Leaps out into the moonlight pale. From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief, He finds in this strange world relief. Yet all the shadow, scent and sound, Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound. Watch how he dances to the moon While singing some faint fragrant tune! But Pierrot now is tired and sad --Remembers all the evenings mad He spent with that fantastic band So gaily wand'ring o'er the land. They all are dead--and at an end, And he is left without a friend. For tho' the hours can pass away, Poor Pierrot still must grieve and stay. Upon the dewy grass he lies: The perfumes stir strange memories. Once more he hears a laughing cry That brings great tear-drops to his eye. That step--that look--that voice--that smile. Ah! they've been buried a long while! And who's the man in pantaloons, And he who sings such festive tunes? Why, it's that laughing man of sin, That roguish rascal Harlequin! Forgiving Pierrot hides his head Deep in the grass and mourns the dead; Forgetting all the pranks they play'd, And how he was himself betray'd. The butterfly lives but one day, But Pierrot still seems doom'd to stay. He falls asleep there, tragic-white, And wakes to find the bleak daylight. NIGHT All the dim terrors dwelling far below, Interr'd by many thousand years of life, Arise to revel in this evil dark: The wail forlorn of dogs that mourn for men-- A shuffling footfall on a creaking board, The handle of a door that shakes and turns-- A door that opens slightly, not enough: The rustling sigh of silk along a floor, The knowledge of being watched by one long dead, By something that is outside Nature's pale. The unheard sounds that haunt an ancient house: The feel of one who listens in the dark, Listens to that which happened long ago, Or what will happen after we are dust. The awful waiting for a near event, Or for a crash to rend the silence deep Enveloping a house that always waits-- A house that whispers to itself and weeps. The murmur of the yew, or woodland cries, A sombre note of music on the breeze; A shudder from the ivy that entwines The horror that is felt within its grip. The sound of prowling things that walk abroad, The nauseous flapping of Night's bat-like wings-- These are the signs the gods have given us To know the limit of our days and powers. _To_ MARGARET GREVILLE FROM CARCASSONNE I Now night, The sighing night, Descends to hide and heal The crimson wounds Ripped in the sky, Where the high helmet-towers (With clouds as streaming feathers) Have torn the Heavens In their incessant sunset battle. Below, Upon the mound, Small golden flowers Release their daylight slowly At the Night's behest, Till they become pale discs That quiver When the evening wind Draws his thin fingers Down the dew-drenched grass --As an old harper, Who awakes From drunken sunlit slumber, Blindly plucks His silver-sounding strings, Making the sound That, further, darker down The trees make, When they draw back Their upturned leaves In fountain-foaming hurry. II The curling, hump-backed dolphins, Drunk with purple fumes Of wine-stained sunset, Plunge through the wider waters of the night-- Waters that well down every narrow street In darkening billows, Till they become quiet, full-- Canals that, mirror-like, Reflect each sound Of snarling song In all the town. And as the dolphins dive There splashes back Upon their goat-eared riders, Dislodged in sudden fury, The foaming froth of summer-cooling winds --Issuing from where the northern trees Bellow their resined breath Across the seas To ripple through far fields Of twilight flowers-- Sweeping across To where these old high towers Of Carcassonne Still stand to break their flow. Neptune, from his high pedestal, Can watch the waters of the night Rise, further, further, And the faun-riders sink below The conquering, cool tide. PROGRESS The city's heat is like a leaden pall-- Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, Of silver bodies bathing in a pool, Or trees that whisper in some far, small town Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold Was merely metal, not a grave of mould In which men bury all that's fine and fair. When they could chase the jewelled butterfly Through the green bracken-scented lanes, or sigh For all the future held so rich and rare; When, though they knew it not, their baby cries Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL I lay awake in that dim room of fear Which seemed to hold the essence of the night, Clutched in the grip of its tall sentient walls: Dark walls and high, that stretch for ever up-- Up to the darkness, vague and menacing, As if no light could ever penetrate That mist of shadows, only cast a gloom More cavernous upon the atmosphere That seems to thicken into cloudy shapes, Substantiate--then disappear and die. And all the room is full of whisperings; Of moving things that hope I do not heed; And sudden gusts of wind blow cold upon My head, lifting the heavy mantle of the air, Revealing for an instant some vague thought Snatched from the haunting lumberland of dreams. Far in the distance, from the open night, Sounds an insistent hooting from the wood; The owl is calling to its kindred things. The bat emits its sinful piercing note-- So high one cannot hear it, only feel The rhythm beat within the shrinking ear. A faint breeze blows in from the countryside, Rustling the curtains with the forest's breath, Stirring the grass of many an unknown tomb, Some new--some immemorably old, Whose dwellers never heard an owl at night, Only the reptile sounds and beating wings Of some forefather of that bird of night-- Some flapping scaly monster with huge wings. Then, sudden, through the rustling of the room Silence shrills out its startling trumpet call Of terror, and the house is frozen still. Despair dropp'd down like rain upon my heart, Catching my breath and clutching at my throat. Fear magnified my senses, and my brain Could hear beyond the threshold of this world. Then through the threatening silence of the house, The silent waiting for the coming play-- There came that halting well-remembered tread, The dreadful limp, and dragging of the feet, That cruel sin-white face looked through the door! And in my scream--that rent the trembling air, Reaching the woods and tainting them with death, Filling the fountain with strange ripplings That make the moon's reflection but a mask Like to that face of shame--my soul passed out-- Out of my ashen lips, to find its end. LONDON SQUARES To-night this city seems delirious. The air Is fever'd, hot and heavy--yet each street, Each tortuous lane and slumb'ring stone-bound square Smells of the open woods, so wild and sweet. Through the dim spaces, where each town-bred tree Sweeps out, mysterious and tall and still, The country's passionate spirit--old and free-- Flings off the fetters of the calm and chill. There in the garden, fauns leap out and sing-- Chant those strange sun-born songs from far away! With joyous ecstasy in this new spring, They cast the coats and top-hats of the day. There by the railings, where the women pace With painted faces, passionless and dead, Out of the dark, Pan shows his leering face, Mocks their large hats and faces painted red. Then as they walk away, he mocks their lives, Racking each wearied soul with lost desires, And--cruelty more subtle--he contrives With aching memories of love's first fires To tune their hearts up to a different key. So, when they sleep, the withered years unfold --Again, as children round a mother's knee They listen to their future as foretold --A future rich and innocent and gay. Then wake up to the agony of day! TEARS Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night, Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh For their past vivid vernal ecstasy. The branches and the leaves let in the light In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky --Create mysterious Gothic tracery Between those high dark pillars, that affright Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by. Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain Making each frail tired sigh a sob of pain; Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear Such as are shed by Pierrots when they fear Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death. The world is waxen; and the wind's least breath Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf Which falls to bury from our sight its grief. _To_ VIOLET GORDON-WOODHOUSE CLAVICHORDS Its pure and dulcet tone So clear and cool Rings out--tho' muffled by the centuries Passed by; Each note A distant sigh From some dead lovely throat. A sad cascade of sound Floods the dim room with faded memories Of beauty that has gone Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool, Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground)-- Like moonlit skies Or some far song harmonious and sublime-- Breaking the leaden slumber of the night. A perfume, faint yet fair As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn Seeming to flower alone Within the arid wilderness of Time. The music fills the air Soft as the outspread fluttering wings Of flower-bright butterflies That dive and float Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn. The rippling sound of silver strings Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves Break over rocks, And into hidden caves Of silent waters--never to be found-- Waters as clear and glistening as gems. And in this ancient pool of melodies, So soothing, deep, We search for strange lost images and diadems And old drowned pleasures, --Each one shining bright And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep. As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat, Blown by a salt cool breeze, --Laden with age-old treasures And rich merchandise-- Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas-- So this last glowing note Hovers awhile--then dies. PROMENADES Long promenades against the sea Kaleidoscopic, chattering! Pavilions rising from the sea, On which a fawning, flattering, Hot crush of orientals move, And sell their cheap and tawdry wares, To other Jews, and aldermen, And rich, retired, provincial mayors. Oh! many colours in the sun; Copper and gold predominate! Parasols, held 'gainst the sun Throw down their shadows incohate On leering faces looking sly-- All shining with the heat of June. The shifting masses move and talk And whistle tunes all out of tune. Long promenades against the sea, And oranges and mandolines! Pavilions rising from the sea And penny-in-the-slot machines! CLOWN PONDI When youth and strength had changed my blood to fire And every day passed long and glorious, Another link in the eternal chain Of life, I turned my love of luring and my sense For all the unfathomable ways of God, My burning sense for laughter and my joy In crowds, in tumult, and in blazing lights, To make my fellows see these qualities. Thus I became "Clown Pondi," and my fame Grew high in every theatre in the land. I seem'd to draw fresh vigour from the crowds-- Loving the sea of faces, eyes with tears, And gaping mouths wide open--loosely hung; The acrid, opalescent haze of smoke, Hanging above the auditorium. And over it the crowded galleries That float far up, like painted prows of ships-- All overweighted and alive with men. I loved the limelight, hard and white and strong, The throbbing music and the theatre's scent, That artificial, paper, printed scent That sweeps across the footlights to the stalls. Then was I pleased to strut about the stage, With face dead white, and strangely purple nose-- Flamboyant in the garb of foolery-- To run about too quickly--and fall down; To make queer noises--inarticulate Strange sounds and oaths, the signal for my share Of cackling laughter. Thus the years pass'd by And--all unheeding--swept away my youth, Till, one sad night, I heard a voice near-by: "Ah! Poor old man! It's shocking they should laugh; Mock his bent legs, and poor old toothless jaws!" And then old-age rush'd down upon my head, Each sombre year roll'd past in solemn time; In true perspective--to the jingling tune That was my exit; and so near came death, Holding a mirror to my ridicule, That show'd each line beneath the smearing paint, Each wrinkle underneath the dab of rouge, That in my sudden hopelessness I wept. But as I left the stage with dragging feet, With body bent with age, and crouching low, I heard the applauding people pause and say, "Who but Clown Pondi could amuse us so?" LAUSIAC THEME SERAPION-THE-SINDONITE Wore a cloth about his loins. This Christian Recondite Never carried coins. Never did he ask for bread; Revelled in his own distress. High of spirit, low of head, With no other dress Than a loin-cloth, Serapion Was free from greed and gluttony Progressed in the direction Of impassivity. Serapion, though ascetic, Could not keep within his cell-- Spiritual athletic, Who wrestled with Hell-- This Sindonitic holy man Converted, overcome by pity, Thais, the famous courtesan, To Christianity. Thais was not thin or frail But full of figure. Flesh and blood Rose up in riot--made her rail At a selfless God. From Theban windows, far above, She plays and sings to a guitar With low voice: the light of love Beckons like a star. Eagerly she welcomed in The unexpected Sindonite; But he spoke to her of sin-- Set her soul alight. So they went together out To the crowded, garish street, Where he taught her how to flout Fumes of wine and meat. To the Thebaid they go-- Where she stands each Christian test, Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro, Sure of heaven's rest. In the desert they both died, Thais and the holy man. They were buried side by side, Ascetic and courtesan. METAMORPHOSIS The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and white Beneath a mist-wrapp'd hill: An owl, horned wizard of the night, Flaps through the air so soft and still; Moaning, it wings its flight Far from the forest cool, To find the star-entangled surface of a pool, Where it may drink its fill Of stars; a blossom-laden breeze Scatters its treasures--each a fallen moon Among the waiting trees-- Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon. The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears. The rustling branches sway And listen for some sound from far away-- A silver piping down the Pagan years Since Time's first joyous birth-- The listening trees all sigh, The moment of their hornèd king is nigh. Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirth Of Pan their master, lord and king, And round him in a moonlit ring His court, so wan and sly! But then the trees closed round and hid from sight Their deeds--the voices seemed to die. An owl, horned wizard of the night, Flaps through the air so soft and still. Moans, as it wings its flight Toward the mist-wrapp'd hill. THE GIPSY QUEEN A ragged Gipsy walked the road, Her eyes blazed fierce and strong, But she gazed at me as on she strode, She fiercely gazed, and long. "Give me a penny, sir," she said, "To buy me drink and buy me bread, For I've nothing had to eat or drink, And at night I never sleep a wink. Cold is the snow and wet the rain, But my soul died when my love was slain!" "Fair Gipsy, in some southern clime, I've seen your face before In some far other distant time, But whom are you weeping for?" "'Twas Antony I loved," she said, "For him, in vain, I shed these tears, But my loved Antony is dead-- Is dead these long two thousand years; Then I was mighty Egypt's pride, Fear'd both by friend and foe-- Yet they believe Cleopatra died Two thousand years ago!" BLACK MASS The atmosphere is charged with hidden things --Thoughts that are waiting--wanting to revive Primeval terrors from their present graves --Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man. The fear of those bright, countless stars that shine Celestially serene on summer nights, --And those, too far for human eye to see-- That make men feel as small and ill at ease As do the thoughts of immortality; The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sight Unspoilt by any memory of a ship-- Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shores Of some far-distant, undiscovered land; The curious fear of caves and horrid depths Where lurk those monsters that we hide away And bury in our self-complacency. The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard; The fear of moonlight falling on a face; The sound of sobs at night, the fear of laughter; The misty terror lurking in a wood Which night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs. The horror that is felt where man is not, In lonely lands all dotted with squat trees That seem to move in the grey twilight breeze --Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples, Intent on every movement, every thought-- Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulk Cover'd with lichen older than the hills-- A warning for the ages yet to come; Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars, Deflect their course for very weariness. These fears are gathered, press'd into a room Vibrating with the wish to damage man; To put a seal upon his mind and soul-- These fears are fused into a living flame. The room is filled with men of evil thoughts, And some poor timid ones, on evil bent. They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation. The guttering light is low, and follows them With subtle shadows tall beyond belief: Vast elemental shapes that make men feel Like dusty atoms blown by wayward winds About the world: shadows that sway and swing. And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive. Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly, Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes; Malignant, mocking things that caper round-- Triumphant heralds of an evil reign. Secret and swift they flit about the wall; Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor, And murmur subtle infamies of love, Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts. Yet all are waiting, evilly alert... Yet all are waiting--watching for events. Silence has ceased to be a negative, Becomes a thing of substance--fills the room And clings like ivy to the listening walls. The flickering light flares up--then gutters out. The shadows seem to shiver and expand To active, evil things that breathe and live. But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy. The highest moment of their mass is near. We only feel the swaying of the shades, --Rhythm of wicked music that escapes Our consciousness, tho' we have known it long-- The music of the evil things of Night Scarcely remembered from some dim, vast world-- The things that haunted us when we were young And nearer to our past realities. Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhes Through the sub-conscious basis of our mind. Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame, Twist into all the corners of the room, Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron, And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things. Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to us Amid the chorus of his satellites. The consummation of our awful hopes. PIERROT AT THE WAR The leaden years have dragged themselves away; The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd down And flattened by the hurricane of death: The roses fallen, and their fragrant breath Has passed beyond our senses--and we drown Our tragic thoughts: confine them to the day. Pierrot was happy here two years ago, Singing through all the summer-scented hours, Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night. Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white, Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers, Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below. But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground, Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight. With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone, He gazes at the sky--left all alone-- Grimacing under every rising light: His body waits the peace his soul has found. _April_, 1917. SPRING HOURS The air is silken--soft and dark-- Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea; Sweet as a youthful dream, The trees stand cold and stark, Yet full of the new life which makes each tree To tremble with delight; sets free The summer rapture of the stream. But now the clouds disperse and drift away, Splashing the woods with patches of pale light, Sail off like silver ships, and then display The dazzling myriad blossoms of the night. Ah! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hour To see the heavens bursting into flower. BOOK IV WAR POEMS "THEREFORE IS THE NAME OF IT CALLED BABEL" And still we stood and stared far down Into that ember-glowing town, Which every shaft and shock of fate Had shorn unto its base. Too late Came carelessly Serenity. Now torn and broken houses gaze On to the rat-infested maze That once sent up rose-silver haze To mingle through eternity. The outlines once so strongly wrought, Of city walls, are now a thought Or jest unto the dead who fought... Foundation for futurity. The shimmering sands where once there played Children with painted pail and spade Are dreary desolate--afraid To meet night's dark humanity, Whose silver cool remakes the dead, And lays no blame on any head For all the havoc, fire, and lead, That fell upon us suddenly, When all we came to know as good Gave way to Evil's fiery flood, And monstrous myths of iron and blood Seem to obscure God's clarity. Deep sunk in sin, this tragic star Sinks deeper still, and wages war Against itself; strewn all the seas With victims of a world disease --And we are left to drink the lees Of Babel's direful prophecy. _January_, 1916. TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE Fate, malign dotard, weary from his days, Too old for memory, yet craving pleasure, Now finds the night too long and bitter cold --Reminding him of death--the sun too hot. The beauty of the universe he hates, Yet stands regarding earthly carnivals: The clatter and the clang of car and train, The hurrying throng of homeward-going men, The cries of children, colour of the streets, Their whistling and their shouting and their joy, The lights, the trees, the fanes and towers of churches, Thanksgiving for the sun, the moon, the earth, The labour, love, and laughter of our lives. He thinks they mock his age with ribaldry. From far within his ĉon-battered brain Well up those wanton wistful images That first beguiled the folk of Bergamo. Now like himself, degraded and distress'd, They sink to ignominy; but the clown Remains, reminder of their former state, And still earns hurricanes of hoarse applause. This dotard now decides to end the earth (Wrecked by its own and his futility). Recalls the formula of world-broad mirth --A senseless hitting of those unaware, Unnecessary breaking of their chattels. The pantomime of life is near its close: The stage is strewn with ends and bits of things, With mortals maim'd or crucified, and left To gape at endless horror through eternity. The face of Fate is wet with other paint Than that incarnadines the human clown: Yet still he waves a bladder, red as gold, And still he gaily hits about with it, And still the dread revealing limelight plays Till the whole sicken'd scene becomes afire. Antic himself falls on the funeral pyre Of twisted, tortured, mortifying men. _March_, 1916. _To_ HELEN THIS GENERATION Their youth was fevered--passionate, quick to drain The last few pleasures from the cup of life Before they turn'd to suck the dregs of pain And end their young-old lives in mortal strife. They paid the debts of many a hundred year Of foolishness and riches in alloy. They went to death; nor did they shed a tear For all they sacrificed of love and joy. Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb, For, entering life--they found it was their tomb. 1917. _To_ FRANCIS MEYNELL SHEEP-SONG From within our pens, Stout built, We watch the sorrows of the world. Imperturbably We see the blood Drip and ooze on to the walls. Without a sigh We watch our lambs Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter.... In our liquid eyes lie hidden The mystery of empty spaces All the secrets of the vacuum. Yet we can be moved; When the head-sheep bleats, We bleat with him; When he stampedes --Heavy with foot-rot-- We gallop after him Until In our frenzy We trip him up --And a new sheep leads us. We are the greatest sheep in the world; There are no sheep like us. We come of an imperial bleat; Our voices, Trembling with music, Call to our lambs oversea. With us they crash across continents. We will not heed the herdsmen, For they warned us, "Do not stampede"; Yet we were forced to do so. Never will we trust a herdsman again. Then the black lamb asked, Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?" And the herd bleated angrily, "We went in with clean feet, And we will come out with empty heads. We gain nothing by it, Therefore It is a noble thing to do. We are stampeding to end stampedes. We are fighting for lambs Who are never likely to be born. When once a sheep gets its blood up The goats will remember...." But the herdsman swooped down Shouting, "Get back to your pens there." _September_, 1918. THE POET'S LAMENT. Before the dawning of the death-day My mind was a confusion of beauty. Thoughts fell from it in riot Of colour, In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit... Then the red dawn came --And no thought came to me Except anger And bitter reproach. God filled my mouth With the burning pebbles of hatred, And choked my soul With a whirl-wind of fury. He made my tongue A flaming sword To cut and wither The white soft edges Of their anĉmic souls. I ridiculed them, I despised them, I loathed them ... But they had stolen my soul away. Yes, they had stolen my soul from me. My heart jumps up into my mouth In fury; They have stolen my soul away. But we will wait, And later words will come --Words that in their burning flight Shall scorch and flay, Or flare like fireworks Above their heads. In those days my soul shall be restored to me And they shall remember, They shall remember! JUDAS AND THE PROFITEER Judas descended to this lower Hell To meet his only friend--the profiteer-- Who, looking fat and rubicund and well, Regarded him, and then said with a sneer, "Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sell For silver pence the body of God's Son, Whereas for maiming men with sword and shell I gain at least a golden million." But Judas answered: "You deserve your gold; It's not His body but His soul you've sold!" _To_ H. W. MASSINGHAM RHAPSODE Why should we sing to you of little things-- You who lack all imagination? Why should we sing to you of your poor joys, That you may see beauty through a poet's mind-- Beauty where there was none before? Why should we heed your miserable opinions, And your paltry fears? Why listen to your tales and narratives-- Long lanes of boredom along which you Amble amiably all the dull days Of your unnecessary lives? We know you now--and what you wish to be told: That the larks are singing in the trenches, That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring, That Youth is always happy; But you know the misery that lies Under the surface-- And we will dig it up for you! We shall sing to you Of the men who have been trampled To death in the circus of Flanders; Of the skeletons that gather the fruit From the ruined orchards of France; And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun-- Whose dust mingles with the sand Of distant, strange deserts, And whose bones are crushed against The rocks of unknown seas; All dead--dead, Defending you and what you stand for. You hope that we shall tell you that they found their happiness in fighting, Or that they died with a song on their lips, Or that we shall use the old familiar phrases With which your paid servants please you in the Press: But we are poets, And shall tell the truth. You, my dear sir, You are so upset At being talked to in this way That when night Has coffin'd this great city Beneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall, You will have to drink a little more champagne, And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall. What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is CHEERING-UP. There you will see vastly funny sketches Of your fighting countrymen; And they will be represented As those of whom you may be proud. For they cannot talk English properly, Or express themselves but by swearing; Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk. But they will all appear cheerful, And you will be pleased; And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh, And at each laugh Another countryman will be dead! When Christ was slowly dying on that tree-- Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross-- Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon, Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roar Rang out Those blessed humble human words of doubt: "My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?" But near by was a cheerfully chattering group Of sects, Of Pharisees and Sadducees, And all were shocked-- Pained beyond measure. And they said: "At least he might have died like a hero With an oath on his lips, Or the refrain from a comic song-- Or a cheerful comment of some kind. It was very unpleasant for all of us-- But we had to see it through. I hope people will not think we have gone too far-- Or behaved badly in any way." There in the street below a drunken man reels home, And as he goes He sings with sentiment: "Keep the home fires burning!" And the constable helps him on his way. But we-- We should be thrown into prison, Or cast into an asylum, For we want-- PEACE! _September_, 1917. _To_ SIEGFRIED SASSOON THE MODERN ABRAHAM His purple fingers clutch a large cigar-- Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two. He rests back in his fat armchair. The war Has made this change in him. As he looks through His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs: "Disabled Soldiers' Fund" he reads afresh, And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes-- The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh. They should not ask me to subscribe again! Consider me and all that I have done-- I've fought for Britain with my might and main; I make explosives--and I gave a son. My factory, converted for the fight (I do not like to boast of what I've spent), Now manufactures gas and dynamite, Which only pays me seventy per cent. And if I had ten other sons to send I'd make them serve my country to the end, So all the neighbours should flock round and say: "Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done. He loves his country in the elder way; Poor gentleman, he's lost another son!" 1917. THE TRAP The world is young and green. Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun; But within its trap of steel the rabbit plunges Madly to and fro. It will bleed to death Slowly, Slowly, Unless there is some escape. Why will not someone release it? And presently a kindly passer-by Stoops down. The rabbit's eye glints at him-- Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison. He stoops and lifts the catch (He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy). The rabbit could now be free, But it does not move; For from the darkness of its death-hutch The world looks like another brightly baited trap. So, remaining within its steel prison, It argues thus: "Perhaps I may bleed to death, But it will probably take a long time, And, at any rate, I am secure From the clever people outside. Besides, if I did come out now All the people who thought I was a lion Would see, by the trap-mark on my leg, That I am only an unfortunate rabbit, And this might promote disloyalty among the children. When the clamp closed on my leg It was a ruse To kill me. Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose! If I come out now They will think they can trap rabbits Whenever they like. How do I know they will not snare me Again next year? Besides, it looks to me from here..." But the catch drops down, For the stranger is weary. From within the hutch A thin stream of blood Trickles on to the grass Outside, And leaves a brown stain on its brightness. But the dying rabbit is happy, Saying: "I knew it was only a trap!" _April_, 1918. _To_ RODERICK MEIKLEJOHN THE ETERNAL CLUB Warming their withered hands, the dotards say: "In our youth men were happy till they died. What is it ails the young men of to-day-- To make them bitter and dissatisfied?" Two thousand years ago it was the same: "Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son! I knew him as a child--his head aflame With gold. He seemed so full of life and fun. And even as a young man he was fine, Converting tasteless water into wine. Then something altered him. He tried to chase The money-changers from the Temple door. White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poor Aged eyes. He grew so bitter and found men For friends as discontented--lost all count Of caste--denied his father, faith, and then He preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount! But even then he would not let things be; For when they nailed him high up on the tree, And gave him vinegar and pierced his side, He asked God to forgive them--still dissatisfied!" HEAVEN A theatre rises dark and mute and drear Among those houses that stand clustering round. Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hear The distant rhythm of some lauding sound, The hot applause that greeted every night The favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight. The laughter of the young and strong and gay Who greeted life--then laid their lives away. Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show, Forgetting all death's wrench and all its pain And all their courage shown against the foe? Is this the heaven that they died to gain? THE BLIND PEDLAR I stand alone through each long day Upon these pavers; cannot see The wares spread out upon this tray --For God has taken sight from me! Many a time I've cursed the night When I was born. My peering eyes Have sought for but one ray of light To pierce the darkness. When the skies Rain down their first sweet April showers On budding branches; when the morn Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers, I've cursed the night when I was born. But now I thank God, and am glad For what I cannot see this day --The young men crippled, old, and sad, With faces burnt and torn away; Or those who, rich and old, Have battened on the slaughter, Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold, Are creased in purple laughter! _January_, 1919. WORLD-HYMN TO MOLOCH Holy Moloch, blessed lord, Hatred to our souls impart. Put the heathen to the sword, Wound and pierce each contrite heart. Never more shall darkness fall But it seems a funeral pall; Never shall the red sun rise But to red and swollen eyes. In the centuries that roll, Slowly grinding out our tears, Often thou hast taken toll; Never till these latter years Have all nations lost the fray; Lead not thou our feet astray. Never till the present time Have we offered all we hold, With one gesture, mad, sublime, Sons and lovers, lands and gold. Must we then still pray to thee, Moloch, for a victory? Eternal Moloch, strong to slay, Do not seek to heal or save. Lord, it is the better way Swift to send them to the grave. Those of us too old to go Send our sons to face the foe, But, O lord! we must remain Here, to pray and sort the slain. In every land the widows weep, In every land the children cry. Other gods are lulled to sleep, All the starving peoples die. What is left to offer you? Thou, O Sacred King of Death! God of Blood and Lord of Guile, Do not let us waste our breath, Cast on us thy crimson smile. Moloch, lord, we pray to thee, Send at least one victory. All the men in every land Pray to thee through battle's din, Swiftly now to show thy hand, Pray that soon one side may win. Under sea and in the sky, Everywhere our children die; Laughter, happiness and light Perished in a single night. In every land the heaving tides Wash the sands a dreadful red, In every land the tired sun hides Under heaps and hills of dead. In spite of all we've offered up Must we drink and drain the cup? Everywhere the dark floods rise, Everywhere our hearts are torn. Every day a new Christ dies, Every day a devil's born. Moloch, lord, we pray to thee, Send at least one victory. 1917. ARMCHAIR If I were still of handsome middle-age I should not govern yet, but still should hope To help the prosecution of this war. I'd talk and eat (though not eat wheaten bread), I'd send my sons, if old enough, to France, Or help to do my share in other ways. All through the long spring evenings, when the sun Pursues its primrose path towards the hills, If fine, I'd plant potatoes on the lawn; If wet, write anxious letters to the Press. I'd give up wine and spirits, and with pride Refuse to eat meat more than once a day, And seek to rob the workers of their beer. The only way to win a hard-fought war Is to annoy the people in small ways, Bully or patronise them, as you will! I'd teach poor mothers, who have seven sons --All fighting men of clean and sober life-- How to look after babies and to cook; Teach them to save their money and invest; Not to bring children up in luxury --But do without a nursemaid in the house! If I were old, or only seventy, Then should I be a great man in his prime. I should rule army corps; at my command Men would rise up, salute me, and attack --And die. Or I might also govern men By making speeches with my toothless jaws, Chattering constantly; and men should say, "One grand old man is still worth half his pay!" That day I'd send my grandsons out to France --And wish I'd got ten other ones to send (One cannot sacrifice too much, I'd say). Then would I make a noble toothless speech, And all the listening Parliament would cheer. "Gentlemen, we will never end this war Till all the younger men with martial mien Have entered capitals; never make peace Till they are cripples, on one leg, or dead!" Then would the Bishops all go mad with joy, Cantuar, Ebor, and the other ones, Be overwhelmed with pious ecstasy. In thanking Him we'd got a Christian-- An Englishman--still worth his salt--to talk, In every pulpit they would preach and prance; And our great Church would work, as heretofore, To bring this poor old nation to its knees. Then we'd forbid all liberty, and make Free speech a relic of our impious past; And when this war is finished, when the world Is torn and bleeding, cut and bruised to death, Then I'd pronounce my peace terms--to the poor! But as it is, I am not ninety yet, And so must pay my reverence to these men-- These grand old men, who still can see and talk, Who sacrifice each other's sons each day. O Lord! let me be ninety yet, I pray. Methuselah was quite a youngster when He died. Now, vainly weeping, we should say: "Another great man perished in his prime!" O let me govern, Lord, at ninety-nine!" _August_, 1917. RAGTIME The lamps glow here and there, then echo down The vast deserted vistas of the town-- Each light the echo'd note of some refrain Repeated in the city's fevered brain. Yet all is still, save when there wanders past --Finding the silence of the night too long-- Some tattered wretch, who, from the night outcast, Sings, with an aching heart, a comic song. The vapid parrot-words flaunt through the night-- Silly and gay, yet terrible. We know Men sang these words in many a deadly fight, And threw them--laughing--to a solemn foe; Sang them where tattered houses stand up tall and stark, And bullets whistle through the ruined street, Where live men tread on dead men in the dark, And skulls are sown in fields once sown with wheat. Across the sea, where night is dark with blood And rockets flash, and guns roar hoarse and deep, They struggle through entanglements and mud, They suffer wounds--and die-- But here they sleep. From far away the outcast's vacuous song Re-echoes like the singing of a throng; His dragging footfalls echo down the street, And turn into a myriad marching feet. _December_, 1916. PEACE CELEBRATION Now we can say of those who died unsung, Unwept for, torn, "Thank God they were not blind Or mad! They've perished strong and young, Missing the misery we elders find In missing them." With such a platitude We try to cheer ourselves. And for each life Laid down for us, with duty well-imbued, With song-on-lip, in splendid soldier strife-- For sailors, too, who willingly were sunk-- We'll shout "Hooray!"-- And get a little drunk. _To_ SACHEVERELL THE NEXT WAR The long war had ended. Its miseries had grown faded. Deaf men became difficult to talk to. Heroes became bores. Those alchemists Who had converted blood into gold, Had grown elderly. But they held a meeting, Saying, "We think perhaps we ought To put up tombs Or erect altars To those brave lads Who were so willingly burnt, Or blinded, Or maimed, Who lost all likeness to a living thing, Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh For our sakes. It would look well. Or we might even educate the children." But the richest of these wizards Coughed gently; And he said, "I have always been to the front --In private enterprise-- I yield in public spirit To no man. I think yours is a very good idea --A capital idea-- And not too costly. But it seems to me That the cause for which we fought Is again endangered. What more fitting memorial for the fallen Than that their children Should fall for the same cause?" Rushing eagerly into the street, The kindly old gentlemen cried To the young: "Will you sacrifice Through your lethargy What your fathers died to gain? Our cause is in peril. The world must be made safe for the young!" And the children Went.... 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