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Title: Eidola
Author: Frederic Manning
Release date: January 15, 2011 [eBook #34966]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EIDOLA ***
EIDOLA
BY FREDERIC MANNING
σκιἁς εἱδωλου
Aeschylus
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1917
BY FREDERIC MANNING
| POEMS. | 3s. 6d. net |
| SCENES AND PORTRAITS. | 6s.net |
| THE VIGIL OF BRUNHILD. | 2s. 6d. net |
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY
All Rights Reserved
TO
THE COUNTESS OF ANCASTER
CONTENTS
| PAGE | |
| THE CHOOSERS | 1 |
| SACRIFICE | 3 |
| RELIEVED | 5 |
| REACTION | 6 |
| THE OLD CALVARY | 9 |
| THE GUNS | 10 |
| THE SIGN | 12 |
| A SHELL | 14 |
| THE FACE | 15 |
| WIND | 16 |
| BOIS DE MAMETZ | 18 |
| THE TRENCHES | 22 |
| LEAVES | 25 |
| TRANSPORT | 27 |
| αὑτἁρκεια | 29 |
| EPIGRAM, R. B. | 31 |
| NOW | 32 |
| GROTESQUE | 35 |
| DESIRE | 36 |
| BLUE AND GOLD | 38 |
| GANHARDINE’S SONG | 39 |
| THE SOUL’S ANSWER | 41 |
| WINTER | 42 |
| THE FAUN | 43 |
| THE CUP | 44 |
| PAROLES SANS MUSIQUE | 45 |
| DANAE | 47 |
| WORSHIP | 49 |
| TO A GIRL | 50 |
| EROS ATHANATOS | 52 |
| DEMETER MOURNING | 54 |
| THE LOST ANGEL | 57 |
| THE MOCKING SONG | 59 |
| THE MOTHER | 63 |
| MEDITATION | 65 |
| THE HONEY GATHERER | 67 |
| CROCUS SONG | 70 |
| THE IMAGE SELLER | 72 |
| SIMAETHA | 74 |
| TO THE UNKNOWN GODDESS | 76 |
| HURLEYWAYNE | 78 |
| TO SÀÏ | 80 |
| THE SHEPHERDS’ CAROL OF BETHLEHEM | 82 |
| PAST | 85 |
| THE BELOVED | 86 |
EIDOLA
THE CHOOSERS
O ye! Fragile, tremulous
Haunters of the deep glades,
Whose fingers part the leaves
Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,
Shall I see ye again?
Haunters of the deep glades,
Whose fingers part the leaves
Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,
Shall I see ye again?
Men have said unto me:
These are but flying lights and shadows,
Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,
The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,
Wind shadowing the clear pools.
But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:
Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!
These are but flying lights and shadows,
Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,
The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,
Wind shadowing the clear pools.
But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:
Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!
So here cometh unto me
That cry from the rejoicing air:
Men are but shadows! And prone about me
I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,
Made solemn and holy by the night,
In the dead light o’ the moon:
Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,
As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,
Egypt’s and Asia’s kings.
While between them are the footsteps
Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!
And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur
As between them pass
The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.
That cry from the rejoicing air:
Men are but shadows! And prone about me
I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,
Made solemn and holy by the night,
In the dead light o’ the moon:
Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,
As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,
Egypt’s and Asia’s kings.
While between them are the footsteps
Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!
And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur
As between them pass
The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.
Shall I see ye again, O flying feet
O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,
In a wet brake o’ blossom,
Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;
Ere I am torn from the scabbard:
(Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!)
Knowing no longer that earth
Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?
O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,
In a wet brake o’ blossom,
Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;
Ere I am torn from the scabbard:
(Lo, one
To be a sword upon my thigh!)
Knowing no longer that earth
Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?
SACRIFICE
Love suffereth all things.
And we,
Out of the travail and pain of our striving,
Bring unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the heart of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
And we,
Out of the travail and pain of our striving,
Bring unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the heart of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
For us no splendid apparel of pageantry,
Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets
Sounding exultantly.
But the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen,
Decked them with suffering,
Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness,
Strong with the pride of love.
Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets
Sounding exultantly.
But the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen,
Decked them with suffering,
Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness,
Strong with the pride of love.
Yea, tho’ our praise of thee slayeth us,
Yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant,
Dying, that these live:
And the earth again be beautiful with orchards,
Yellow with wheatfields,
And the lips of others praise thee, tho’ our lips
Be stopped with earth, and songless.
Yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant,
Dying, that these live:
And the earth again be beautiful with orchards,
Yellow with wheatfields,
And the lips of others praise thee, tho’ our lips
Be stopped with earth, and songless.
But we shall have brought thee their praises,
Brought unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the lips of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
Brought unto thee the perfect prayer:
For the lips of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
O God of sorrows,
Whose feet come softly thro’ the dews,
Stoop thou unto us,
For we die so thou livest,
Our hearts the cups of thy vintage:
And the lips of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
Whose feet come softly thro’ the dews,
Stoop thou unto us,
For we die so thou livest,
Our hearts the cups of thy vintage:
And the lips of no man uttereth love,
Suffering even for love’s sake.
RELIEVED
For S. J. Kimm
We are weary and silent,
There is only the rhythm of marching feet;
Tho’ we move tranced, we keep it
As clock-work toys.
There is only the rhythm of marching feet;
Tho’ we move tranced, we keep it
As clock-work toys.
But each man is alone in this multitude;
We know not the world in which we move,
Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy,
Level lands of tenuous grays and greens;
For our eye-balls have been seared with fire.
We know not the world in which we move,
Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy,
Level lands of tenuous grays and greens;
For our eye-balls have been seared with fire.
Only we have our secret thoughts,
Our sense floats out from us, delicately apprehensive,
To the very fringes of our being,
Where light drowns.
Our sense floats out from us, delicately apprehensive,
To the very fringes of our being,
Where light drowns.
REACTION
What make you here, Aphrodite,
Lady of the Golden Cymbals,
Would you dance to awaken earth again
As of old on Ida?
Here are no threshing-floors....
Lady of the Golden Cymbals,
Would you dance to awaken earth again
As of old on Ida?
Here are no threshing-floors....
Men call you delicate, a lover of softness:
Making thine images of ivory, stained with sanguine;
Strewing frail petals of roses before you;
Bringing you soft stuffs of sea-dyes,
Vermilion and saffron sandals,
Floating wimples of filmy webs, that veil you,
As clear water the glittering limbs
Of a nymph beloved of Pan.
Making thine images of ivory, stained with sanguine;
Strewing frail petals of roses before you;
Bringing you soft stuffs of sea-dyes,
Vermilion and saffron sandals,
Floating wimples of filmy webs, that veil you,
As clear water the glittering limbs
Of a nymph beloved of Pan.
But you come among us,
With sleepy eyelids, and a sleep-soft smile,
Ere we have scraped our boots of the mud
That is half human....
You come, tho’ we are killing the lice in our shirts,
To fill our eyes with the wine of your vision,
Tho’ we are weary, and our hearts
Emptied of the old jests.
With sleepy eyelids, and a sleep-soft smile,
Ere we have scraped our boots of the mud
That is half human....
You come, tho’ we are killing the lice in our shirts,
To fill our eyes with the wine of your vision,
Tho’ we are weary, and our hearts
Emptied of the old jests.
Satia te sanguine
You come among men; laughing
At the ramp of the strange beasts
Roaring our songs in estaminets,
With our hands hungry for life again.
You are come curious of our crude intoxications,
The savage pleasures and the gross lusts,
Being weary of the veiled lights, the whispers,
The languid colours, and rare spiced meats
That of old delighted you
In Paphos.
You come among men; laughing
At the ramp of the strange beasts
Roaring our songs in estaminets,
With our hands hungry for life again.
You are come curious of our crude intoxications,
The savage pleasures and the gross lusts,
Being weary of the veiled lights, the whispers,
The languid colours, and rare spiced meats
That of old delighted you
In Paphos.
You would couch with us in the golden straw
Of these great Gothic barns,
With curious curved beams arching, as in shadowy aisles;
While through the broken mud-wall
Light rays,
Like the golden dust
On Danae poured.
Of these great Gothic barns,
With curious curved beams arching, as in shadowy aisles;
While through the broken mud-wall
Light rays,
Like the golden dust
On Danae poured.
And we turn from the harshness of swords,
Hungering for you....
And know not that your breasts,
Carven delicately of ivory and gold,
The lips, red and subtile,
Are born of the bitter sea-foam and bright blood.
Hungering for you....
And know not that your breasts,
Carven delicately of ivory and gold,
The lips, red and subtile,
Are born of the bitter sea-foam and bright blood.
THE OLD CALVARY
To the Rev. D. L. Prosser
It is propped in a corner of the yard,
Where vines wreathe it
With leaves and delicate tendrils;
A mutilated trunk,
Worn, and gray with weather stains;
Lichens cling to its flesh as a leprosy.
Where vines wreathe it
With leaves and delicate tendrils;
A mutilated trunk,
Worn, and gray with weather stains;
Lichens cling to its flesh as a leprosy.
But for a moment I stood in adoration,
Reverent, as the sun-rays
Struck between the glistening leaves;
Lighting the frail, lean form,
The shrunken flanks,
That knew more suffering than held
The agonies of Laocoon.
Reverent, as the sun-rays
Struck between the glistening leaves;
Lighting the frail, lean form,
The shrunken flanks,
That knew more suffering than held
The agonies of Laocoon.
For the memory of many prayers clung to it,
Tenderly, and glistening,
Even as the delicate vine
To the sacred flesh.
Tenderly, and glistening,
Even as the delicate vine
To the sacred flesh.
THE GUNS
Menace, hidden, but pulsing in the air of night:
Then a throbbing thunder, split and seared
With the scarlet flashes of innumerable shells,
And against it, suddenly, a shell, closer;
A purr that changes to a whine
Like a beast of prey that has missed its kill,
And again, closer.
Then a throbbing thunder, split and seared
With the scarlet flashes of innumerable shells,
And against it, suddenly, a shell, closer;
A purr that changes to a whine
Like a beast of prey that has missed its kill,
And again, closer.
But even in the thunder of the guns
There is a silence: and the soul groweth still.
Yea, it is cloaked in stillness:
And it is not fear.
There is a silence: and the soul groweth still.
Yea, it is cloaked in stillness:
And it is not fear.
THE SIGN
We are here in a wood of little beeches:
And the leaves are like black lace
Against a sky of nacre.
And the leaves are like black lace
Against a sky of nacre.
One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.
Across the moon.
It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me.
He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh,
Stilling it in an eternal peace.
Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands
Toward him;
And is eased of its hunger.
He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh,
Stilling it in an eternal peace.
Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands
Toward him;
And is eased of its hunger.
And I know that this passes:
This implacable fury and torment of men,
As a thing insensate and vain:
And the stillness hath said unto me,
Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame,
Out of the terrible beauty of wrath,
I alone am eternal.
This implacable fury and torment of men,
As a thing insensate and vain:
And the stillness hath said unto me,
Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame,
Out of the terrible beauty of wrath,
I alone am eternal.
One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.
Across the moon.
A SHELL
Here we are all, naked as Greeks,
Killing the lice in our shirts:
Suddenly the air is torn asunder,
Ripped as coarse silk,
Then a dull thud....
We are all squatting.
Killing the lice in our shirts:
Suddenly the air is torn asunder,
Ripped as coarse silk,
Then a dull thud....
We are all squatting.
THE FACE
Out of the smoke of men’s wrath,
The red mist of anger,
Suddenly,
As a wraith of sleep,
A boy’s face, white and tense,
Convulsed with terror and hate,
The lips trembling....
The red mist of anger,
Suddenly,
As a wraith of sleep,
A boy’s face, white and tense,
Convulsed with terror and hate,
The lips trembling....
Then a red smear, falling....
I thrust aside the cloud, as it were tangible,
Blinded with a mist of blood.
The face cometh again
As a wraith of sleep:
A boy’s face delicate and blonde,
The very mask of God,
Broken.
I thrust aside the cloud, as it were tangible,
Blinded with a mist of blood.
The face cometh again
As a wraith of sleep:
A boy’s face delicate and blonde,
The very mask of God,
Broken.
WIND
Blow, wind! Strip the great trees
That are like ebony against a sky of jade,
Ebony fretted and contorted.
Blow, hunt the piled clouds that lash the earth with rain;
Roar among the swayed branches; sing shrilly in the grass,
Burdening the pines with the music of pain;
For mine eyes desire the stars.
That are like ebony against a sky of jade,
Ebony fretted and contorted.
Blow, hunt the piled clouds that lash the earth with rain;
Roar among the swayed branches; sing shrilly in the grass,
Burdening the pines with the music of pain;
For mine eyes desire the stars.
Drown the senseless thunder of the guns,
Stream on the ways of air hurrying before thee
The yellow leaves, and the tawny, and scarlet,
Till my soul dance with them,
Dance delightedly as a child or a kitten
Catching at the gay leaves laughingly,
For I would forget, I would forget and laugh again.
Stream on the ways of air hurrying before thee
The yellow leaves, and the tawny, and scarlet,
Till my soul dance with them,
Dance delightedly as a child or a kitten
Catching at the gay leaves laughingly,
For I would forget, I would forget and laugh again.
Sing, thou great wind; smite the harp of the wood,
For in thee the souls of slain men are singing exultant,
Now free of the air, feather-footed! Yea, they swim therein
Toward the green twilight, surging
Naked and beautiful with playing muscles,
Yea, even the naked souls of men
Whose beauty is a fierce thing, and slayeth us
Like the terrible majesty of the gods;
Blow, thou great wind, scatter the yellowing leaves.
For in thee the souls of slain men are singing exultant,
Now free of the air, feather-footed! Yea, they swim therein
Toward the green twilight, surging
Naked and beautiful with playing muscles,
Yea, even the naked souls of men
Whose beauty is a fierce thing, and slayeth us
Like the terrible majesty of the gods;
Blow, thou great wind, scatter the yellowing leaves.
BOIS DE MAMETZ
For H. L.
Men have marred thee, O Mother:
Autumn hath now no tawny and gilded leaves;
Nor murmuring among sleepy boughs;
But stark and writhen as a woman ravished,
With twisted tortured limbs,
Are Mametz’ woods.
Autumn hath now no tawny and gilded leaves;
Nor murmuring among sleepy boughs;
But stark and writhen as a woman ravished,
With twisted tortured limbs,
Are Mametz’ woods.
Hath not thy child, Persephone, tall men,
Yea, even all the children of the earth,
Bringing her tribute?
But the reapers sing not in thy wheatfields:
Tall sheaves wait ungarnered,
Though swallows are shrilling in the skies.
Yea, even all the children of the earth,
Bringing her tribute?
But the reapers sing not in thy wheatfields:
Tall sheaves wait ungarnered,
Though swallows are shrilling in the skies.
We are reaped, who were thy reapers, and slain our songs;
We are torn as Iason, beloved of thee, Mother:
Heavy the clay upon our lips,
The gray rats fear us not, but pass quickly, sated,
Over prone trunks, rent limbs, dead faces,
That are ashen under the moon.
We are torn as Iason, beloved of thee, Mother:
Heavy the clay upon our lips,
The gray rats fear us not, but pass quickly, sated,
Over prone trunks, rent limbs, dead faces,
That are ashen under the moon.
Love, who begat us, shall Love slay us utterly?
Shall we not mingle with earth, as with sleep,
Dream into grasses, leafage, flowers,
Such being our very flesh; and shudder
In the glitter of thin shivering poplars,
That tremble like slim girls shaken
At a caress,
Bowed in a clear, keen wind?
Shall we not mingle with earth, as with sleep,
Dream into grasses, leafage, flowers,
Such being our very flesh; and shudder
In the glitter of thin shivering poplars,
That tremble like slim girls shaken
At a caress,
Bowed in a clear, keen wind?
Lo, in us the glory of a new being,
A wonder, a terror, an exultation,
Even in the filth of our shambles,
Loosened as lightnings upon us, devouring us;
Till we be but a shaken wrath of flames,
A many-tongued music of thunder,
Beyond the thunder of guns.
And we fail beneath it,
Sink into our ashes, cower as dogs;
While the glory of many shaken flames
Drowns in the gray of thy dawns,
That reveal unto us
Earth wasted and riven with iron and fire.
Desolate!
A wonder, a terror, an exultation,
Even in the filth of our shambles,
Loosened as lightnings upon us, devouring us;
Till we be but a shaken wrath of flames,
A many-tongued music of thunder,
Beyond the thunder of guns.
And we fail beneath it,
Sink into our ashes, cower as dogs;
While the glory of many shaken flames
Drowns in the gray of thy dawns,
That reveal unto us
Earth wasted and riven with iron and fire.
Desolate!
Thou hast turned from us....
Even so thou art lovely,
As a woman grown old in sorrows,
With patient kindly eyes,
From whom hath passed the shadow of desire;
And her ears keep the whispers of many lovers,
As things heard in sleep.
But thou heed’st not our prayers, our strivings,
The moans of our anguish,
Our mute agonies;
Though thy loins bare us in travail,
Though thou art the bride of our desiring,
Yea, and the child of our desire,
In triple deity;
Knowing things past, and things to come, when both
Meet on the instant, rounding to a who
This intense keen edge of flame
Consuming our poor dust.
Even so thou art lovely,
As a woman grown old in sorrows,
With patient kindly eyes,
From whom hath passed the shadow of desire;
And her ears keep the whispers of many lovers,
As things heard in sleep.
But thou heed’st not our prayers, our strivings,
The moans of our anguish,
Our mute agonies;
Though thy loins bare us in travail,
Though thou art the bride of our desiring,
Yea, and the child of our desire,
In triple deity;
Knowing things past, and things to come, when both
Meet on the instant, rounding to a who
This intense keen edge of flame
Consuming our poor dust.
Sit’st thou thus wisely silent,
With subtile and inviolate eyes,
Knowing us but the shadow of thy substance,
As transitory as the leaves?
With subtile and inviolate eyes,
Knowing us but the shadow of thy substance,
As transitory as the leaves?
Wiselier even....
Knowing us from the matter of our lives:
Not the sweet leaves the wind stirs,
But the wind,
Whose passage the leaves shadoweth.
Knowing us from the matter of our lives:
Not the sweet leaves the wind stirs,
But the wind,
Whose passage the leaves shadoweth.
There are no leaves now in thy woods, Mametz.
THE TRENCHES
Endless lanes sunken in the clay,
Bays, and traverses, fringed with wasted herbage,
Seed-pods of blue scabious, and some lingering blooms;
And the sky, seen as from a well,
Brilliant with frosty stars.
We stumble, cursing, on the slippery duck-boards,
Goaded like the damned by some invisible wrath,
A will stronger than weariness, stronger than animal fear,
Implacable and monotonous.
Bays, and traverses, fringed with wasted herbage,
Seed-pods of blue scabious, and some lingering blooms;
And the sky, seen as from a well,
Brilliant with frosty stars.
We stumble, cursing, on the slippery duck-boards,
Goaded like the damned by some invisible wrath,
A will stronger than weariness, stronger than animal fear,
Implacable and monotonous.
Here a shaft, slanting, and below
A dusty and flickering light from one feeble candle
And prone figures sleeping uneasily,
Murmuring,
And men who cannot sleep,
With faces impassive as masks,
Bright, feverish eyes, and drawn lips,
Sad, pitiless, terrible faces,
Each an incarnate curse.
A dusty and flickering light from one feeble candle
And prone figures sleeping uneasily,
Murmuring,
And men who cannot sleep,
With faces impassive as masks,
Bright, feverish eyes, and drawn lips,
Sad, pitiless, terrible faces,
Each an incarnate curse.
Here in a bay, a helmeted sentry
Silent and motionless, watching while two sleep,
And he sees before him
With indifferent eyes the blasted and torn land
Peopled with stiff prone forms, stupidly rigid,
As tho’ they had not been men.
Silent and motionless, watching while two sleep,
And he sees before him
With indifferent eyes the blasted and torn land
Peopled with stiff prone forms, stupidly rigid,
As tho’ they had not been men.
Dead are the lips where love laughed or sang,
The hands of youth eager to lay hold of life,
Eyes that have laughed to eyes,
And these were begotten,
O love, and lived lightly, and burnt
With the lust of a man’s first strength: ere they were rent,
Almost at unawares, savagely; and strewn
In bloody fragments, to be the carrion
Of rats and crows.
The hands of youth eager to lay hold of life,
Eyes that have laughed to eyes,
And these were begotten,
O love, and lived lightly, and burnt
With the lust of a man’s first strength: ere they were rent,
Almost at unawares, savagely; and strewn
In bloody fragments, to be the carrion
Of rats and crows.
And the sentry moves not, searching
Night for menace with weary eyes.
Night for menace with weary eyes.
LEAVES
A frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches;
Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough;
Pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars;
Steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys,
Brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep.
Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough;
Pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars;
Steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys,
Brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep.
But afar on the horizon rise great pulses of light,
The hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict
Like brute, stone gods of old struggling confusedly;
Then overhead purrs a shell, and our heavies
Answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound,
Loosening our shells that stream whining and whimpering precipitately,
Hounding through air athirst for blood.
The hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict
Like brute, stone gods of old struggling confusedly;
Then overhead purrs a shell, and our heavies
Answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound,
Loosening our shells that stream whining and whimpering precipitately,
Hounding through air athirst for blood.
And the little gilt leaves
Flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame.
Flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame.
TRANSPORT
The moon swims in milkiness,
The road glimmers curving down into the wooded valley
And with a clashing and creaking of tackle and axles
The train of limbers passes me, and the mules
Splash me with mud, thrusting me from the road into puddles,
Straining at the tackle with a bitter patience,
Passing me....
And into a patch of moonlight,
With beautiful curved necks and manes,
Heads reined back, and nostrils dilated,
Impatient of restraint,
Pass two gray stallions,
Such as Oenetia bred;
Beautiful as the horses of Hippolytus
Carven on some antique frieze.
And my heart rejoices seeing their strength in play,
The mere animal life of them,
Lusting,
As a thing passionate and proud.
The road glimmers curving down into the wooded valley
And with a clashing and creaking of tackle and axles
The train of limbers passes me, and the mules
Splash me with mud, thrusting me from the road into puddles,
Straining at the tackle with a bitter patience,
Passing me....
And into a patch of moonlight,
With beautiful curved necks and manes,
Heads reined back, and nostrils dilated,
Impatient of restraint,
Pass two gray stallions,
Such as Oenetia bred;
Beautiful as the horses of Hippolytus
Carven on some antique frieze.
And my heart rejoices seeing their strength in play,
The mere animal life of them,
Lusting,
As a thing passionate and proud.
Then again the limbers and grotesque mules.
αὑτἁρκεια
I am alone: even ranked with multitudes:
And they alone, each man.
So are we free.
For some few friends of me, some earth of mine,
Some shrines, some dreams I dream, some hopes that emerge
From the rude stone of life vaguely, and tend
Toward form in me: the progeny of dreams
I father; even this England which is mine
Whereof no man has seen the loveliness
As with mine eyes: and even too, my God
Whom none have known as I: for these I fight,
For mine own self, that thus in giving self
Prodigally, as a mere breath in the air,
I may possess myself, and spend me so
Mingling with earth, and dreams, and God: and being
In them the master of all these in me,
Perfected thus.
Fight for your own dreams, you.
And they alone, each man.
So are we free.
For some few friends of me, some earth of mine,
Some shrines, some dreams I dream, some hopes that emerge
From the rude stone of life vaguely, and tend
Toward form in me: the progeny of dreams
I father; even this England which is mine
Whereof no man has seen the loveliness
As with mine eyes: and even too, my God
Whom none have known as I: for these I fight,
For mine own self, that thus in giving self
Prodigally, as a mere breath in the air,
I may possess myself, and spend me so
Mingling with earth, and dreams, and God: and being
In them the master of all these in me,
Perfected thus.
Fight for your own dreams, you.
EPIGRAM, R. B.
Earth held thee not, whom now the gray seas hold,
By the blue Cyclades, and even the sea
Palls but the mortal, for men’s hearts enfold,
Inviolate, the untamed youth of thee.
By the blue Cyclades, and even the sea
Palls but the mortal, for men’s hearts enfold,
Inviolate, the untamed youth of thee.
NOW
I praise ye for the noble and prodigal virtues,
That are spendthrift of all,
Giving and taking with a light hand;
For this moment only is ours:
That are spendthrift of all,
Giving and taking with a light hand;
For this moment only is ours:
Of old ye were provident, and frugal,
With the parsimony of peace.
Now ye will jeopard your lives for a song,
For a mere breath, the shadow of a desire;
Cloaking your valour with a jest,
Veiling its holiness,
Lest wisdom deem ye fools;
The vain wisdom of peace.
With the parsimony of peace.
Now ye will jeopard your lives for a song,
For a mere breath, the shadow of a desire;
Cloaking your valour with a jest,
Veiling its holiness,
Lest wisdom deem ye fools;
The vain wisdom of peace.
The old and hoary craft,
That seeth not the brightness of the sun,
That hideth in the earths of foxes,
That weigheth love, and delight, and laughter,
Against minted gold.
The wise ...
These but traffic in our gems,
They are but the merchants of our pleasure
Miserly!
That seeth not the brightness of the sun,
That hideth in the earths of foxes,
That weigheth love, and delight, and laughter,
Against minted gold.
The wise ...
These but traffic in our gems,
They are but the merchants of our pleasure
Miserly!
Who shall hoard up life
As it were but a heap of golden discs?
For it hath the lightest of light feet,
This quarry of our chase:
As it were Proteus,
Flowing from shape to shape under our hands....
Who shall spread a net to entoil it
Or snare it as a bird?
As it were but a heap of golden discs?
For it hath the lightest of light feet,
This quarry of our chase:
As it were Proteus,
Flowing from shape to shape under our hands....
Who shall spread a net to entoil it
Or snare it as a bird?
Ye play with life as with a gamester,
Full of doubles and shifts,
And ye laugh at each turn of the game,
Your hearts hawking at a chance
With a keen-edged zest.
Ye know not what ye seek,
Having it always.
Full of doubles and shifts,
And ye laugh at each turn of the game,
Your hearts hawking at a chance
With a keen-edged zest.
Ye know not what ye seek,
Having it always.
Ye have stolen of my riches;
But ye have given me of your dearth
The last fragment of your broken bread
And gone hungry yourselves:
Despising the matter of our lives,
The faults and incompleteness
Of the crude earth,
From which we are moulding,
With cunning and nimble fingers,
Images of desire.
But ye have given me of your dearth
The last fragment of your broken bread
And gone hungry yourselves:
Despising the matter of our lives,
The faults and incompleteness
Of the crude earth,
From which we are moulding,
With cunning and nimble fingers,
Images of desire.
Let us laugh and understand each other,
For how could I blame you, my friends,
When ye are so generous
With the fruit of your thefts?
For how could I blame you, my friends,
When ye are so generous
With the fruit of your thefts?
Yea, this moment is sufficient:
And being artists, after our diverse manners,
When each white dawn cometh
Build we the earth anew:
Repenting not
Yesterdays now drowned in dark, nor desiring
The hastening to-morrows.
And being artists, after our diverse manners,
When each white dawn cometh
Build we the earth anew:
Repenting not
Yesterdays now drowned in dark, nor desiring
The hastening to-morrows.
GROTESQUE
These are the damned circles Dante trod,
Terrible in hopelessness,
But even skulls have their humour,
An eyeless and sardonic mockery:
And we,
Sitting with streaming eyes in the acrid smoke,
That murks our foul, damp billet,
Chant bitterly, with raucous voices
As a choir of frogs
In hideous irony, our patriotic songs.
Terrible in hopelessness,
But even skulls have their humour,
An eyeless and sardonic mockery:
And we,
Sitting with streaming eyes in the acrid smoke,
That murks our foul, damp billet,
Chant bitterly, with raucous voices
As a choir of frogs
In hideous irony, our patriotic songs.