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Title: London Sonnets
Author: Humbert Wolfe
Release date: March 11, 2020 [eBook #61598]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONDON SONNETS ***
“ADVENTURERS ALL” SERIES
No. XXVII.
Adventurers
All.
A SERIES OF YOUNG POETS
UNKNOWN
TO FAME.
Come my friends.... ’Tis not too late to seek a
newer world. It may be that the gulfs will wash
us down.... It may be we shall touch the happy isles.
Yet our purpose holds ... to sail beyond the sunset.
Ulysses
newer world. It may be that the gulfs will wash
us down.... It may be we shall touch the happy isles.
Yet our purpose holds ... to sail beyond the sunset.
Ulysses
LONDON SONNETS
BY
HUMBERT WOLFE
Oxford
Basil Blackwell, Broad Street,
1920
DEDICATION.
CONTENTS.
TO J.
LONDON PSEUDO-SONNETS.
Some of these verses have appeared in The Saturday Review, The Spectator, The Westminster Gazette, and are republished by the courtesy of the editors of these journals.
THE OLD CLOTHES DEALER.
IT’S not my fault, now is it? I’m a Jew.
I’d a been born a Christian quick enough
If only so I could have sold my stuff
Double the price, and not be called a screw.
There’s half-day Saturday at Synagogue,
And when Atonement comes a whole day lost.
O, I don’t grumble; still one counts the cost
When on the top I’m treated like a dog.
And, though a Jew should’nt by rights complain
Bein’ the chosen, can’t a man have dreams?
Clothes’ dealing’s not the desert, still it seems
We all of us are wandering again.
I often think when the Shemah begins
“O God o’ Jacob ain’t we paid our sins?”
I’d a been born a Christian quick enough
If only so I could have sold my stuff
Double the price, and not be called a screw.
There’s half-day Saturday at Synagogue,
And when Atonement comes a whole day lost.
O, I don’t grumble; still one counts the cost
When on the top I’m treated like a dog.
And, though a Jew should’nt by rights complain
Bein’ the chosen, can’t a man have dreams?
Clothes’ dealing’s not the desert, still it seems
We all of us are wandering again.
I often think when the Shemah begins
“O God o’ Jacob ain’t we paid our sins?”
COVES AT HAMPTON COURT.
YOU go by motor-bus from Hammersmith
And come back loud and cheerful after dark
Adorned with twigs you’ve plucked in Bushey Park,
Eating the sandwiches you started with.
And you don’t care, why should you? when you’re brought
Into the grimy streets out of the green,
That, if you’d had the luck, you might have been
The sort of cove who lives at Hampton Court.
And come back loud and cheerful after dark
Adorned with twigs you’ve plucked in Bushey Park,
Eating the sandwiches you started with.
And you don’t care, why should you? when you’re brought
Into the grimy streets out of the green,
That, if you’d had the luck, you might have been
The sort of cove who lives at Hampton Court.
ONE MAN RETURNS.
HE wanted me to tear me ’ands to bits
Along o’ the box-makers, ’stead of which
I took and bought a basket, struck a pitch
To sell me flowers by the Hotel Ritz.
I like ’is cheek. It isn’t ’im wot sits
Working in darkness till your fingers itch
And ’arf your side is broken with a stitch—
’Im swanking in ’is blessed epaulittes!
Nor I don’t care, not what you might say care
If ’e’s gone orf. Not that I’d reely mind
If, ’earing that I’d got a bit to spare,
He come back sudden. I should act refined,
Pin ’im ’is flower in with me ’and quite steady
And then say proud-like, “Why if it ain’t Freddy.”
Along o’ the box-makers, ’stead of which
I took and bought a basket, struck a pitch
To sell me flowers by the Hotel Ritz.
I like ’is cheek. It isn’t ’im wot sits
Working in darkness till your fingers itch
And ’arf your side is broken with a stitch—
’Im swanking in ’is blessed epaulittes!
Nor I don’t care, not what you might say care
If ’e’s gone orf. Not that I’d reely mind
If, ’earing that I’d got a bit to spare,
He come back sudden. I should act refined,
Pin ’im ’is flower in with me ’and quite steady
And then say proud-like, “Why if it ain’t Freddy.”
THE BUN-SHOP.
O DAMN those marble tables: makes me larf
To think I’ve finished with them. I believe
If you rubbed hard on each one with your sleeve,
You’d find cut on them some gel’s epitaph.
They look like tombstones, don’t they? in a row
Quietly waiting in a mason’s yard.
Seein’ them there cruel and white and hard
One might ha’ guessed, I think, how things would go.
But we don’t heed no warning, gels like me,
And so I stayed, and now they’ve got my name
Carved deep, with something written about shame
For the next gel (when her turn comes) to see.
One comfort though, if God damns us who fell
He can’t find worse to ’urt us, not in ’Ell.
To think I’ve finished with them. I believe
If you rubbed hard on each one with your sleeve,
You’d find cut on them some gel’s epitaph.
They look like tombstones, don’t they? in a row
Quietly waiting in a mason’s yard.
Seein’ them there cruel and white and hard
One might ha’ guessed, I think, how things would go.
But we don’t heed no warning, gels like me,
And so I stayed, and now they’ve got my name
Carved deep, with something written about shame
For the next gel (when her turn comes) to see.
One comfort though, if God damns us who fell
He can’t find worse to ’urt us, not in ’Ell.
THE FRIED FISH-SHOP.
THE upper clawses they don’t like the smell
Nor they don’t need to. They can pay for food,
But we who sometimes cawn’t, it does us good.
Lord, what a life to ’ave fried fish to sell!
Warm all day long and nuthin’ much to do
And always a hot bit if you’re inclined.
Shut all day Sundays and if you’ve a mind
Always go out and pitch into a Jew.
But wanting won’t mend ’oles up in your socks
Nor cure that ’ungry feeling when you stands
Clappin’ your stummick with your empty ’ands
And thinking gently of a wooden box
Where they will lay you at the parish charge
Straight if you’re small and doubled if you’re large.
Nor they don’t need to. They can pay for food,
But we who sometimes cawn’t, it does us good.
Lord, what a life to ’ave fried fish to sell!
Warm all day long and nuthin’ much to do
And always a hot bit if you’re inclined.
Shut all day Sundays and if you’ve a mind
Always go out and pitch into a Jew.
But wanting won’t mend ’oles up in your socks
Nor cure that ’ungry feeling when you stands
Clappin’ your stummick with your empty ’ands
And thinking gently of a wooden box
Where they will lay you at the parish charge
Straight if you’re small and doubled if you’re large.
THE STREETS BEHIND THE TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.
THE quiet folk who live in Kensington
Mothers of pleasant girls and worthy wives
Living at ease their comfortable lives
Don’t think what roots their homes are built upon,
Don’t think, or wouldn’t listen if you shewed
That beyond cure by love or change by hate
Like hooded lepers at each corner wait,
The streets behind the Tottenham Court Road.
Row upon row the phantom houses stain
The sweetness of the air and not a day
Dies, but some woman’s child turns down that way
Along those streets and is not seen again.
And only God can in his mercy say
Which is more cruel, Kensington or they.
Mothers of pleasant girls and worthy wives
Living at ease their comfortable lives
Don’t think what roots their homes are built upon,
Don’t think, or wouldn’t listen if you shewed
That beyond cure by love or change by hate
Like hooded lepers at each corner wait,
The streets behind the Tottenham Court Road.
Row upon row the phantom houses stain
The sweetness of the air and not a day
Dies, but some woman’s child turns down that way
Along those streets and is not seen again.
And only God can in his mercy say
Which is more cruel, Kensington or they.
THE YORKSHIRE GREY.
THE Yorkshire Grey like any other pub,
Quietly blazes till the final shout
“Time’s-up” sends the companions tumbling out,
Giving their lips a last reluctant rub.
And if you’re passing by on any day
You’ll hear a woman with a barrel organ,
Sing in a high cracked voice what sounds like “Morgen,
Morgen kommt nie und heute is mir weh,”
And every day whether its rain or shine
She holds an old umbrella with a handle
Of curiously carved silver. Whether scandal
Or tragedy, its no affair of mine.
Why should I care then when some drunken feller
Sends her to blazes, her and her umbrella.
Quietly blazes till the final shout
“Time’s-up” sends the companions tumbling out,
Giving their lips a last reluctant rub.
And if you’re passing by on any day
You’ll hear a woman with a barrel organ,
Sing in a high cracked voice what sounds like “Morgen,
Morgen kommt nie und heute is mir weh,”
And every day whether its rain or shine
She holds an old umbrella with a handle
Of curiously carved silver. Whether scandal
Or tragedy, its no affair of mine.
Why should I care then when some drunken feller
Sends her to blazes, her and her umbrella.
WARDOUR STREET.
THERE’S a small cafe off the Avenue
Where Alphonse, that old sinner, used to fix
A five-course dinner up at one and six,
And trust to luck and youth to pull him through.
I can’t remember much about the wine
Except that it was ninepence for the quart
Called claret and was nothing of the sort,
Cheap like the rest and like the rest divine.
But Alphonse, I suppose, is long since sped
And madame’s knitting needles rusted through
And even Marguerite, like us she flew
To wait on, waited on by death instead.
Well Alphonse, well Madame, well Marguerite
They’ve no more use for us in Wardour Street.
Where Alphonse, that old sinner, used to fix
A five-course dinner up at one and six,
And trust to luck and youth to pull him through.
I can’t remember much about the wine
Except that it was ninepence for the quart
Called claret and was nothing of the sort,
Cheap like the rest and like the rest divine.
But Alphonse, I suppose, is long since sped
And madame’s knitting needles rusted through
And even Marguerite, like us she flew
To wait on, waited on by death instead.
Well Alphonse, well Madame, well Marguerite
They’ve no more use for us in Wardour Street.
THE SUBURBS.
BECAUSE they are so many and the same,
The little houses row on weary row;
Because they are so loveless and so lame
It were a bitter thing to tell them so.
And ill to laugh at those who hither came
Not without hope and not without a glow,
And who, perchance, by sorrow struck or shame
Not without tears look back before they go.
The little houses row on weary row;
Because they are so loveless and so lame
It were a bitter thing to tell them so.
And ill to laugh at those who hither came
Not without hope and not without a glow,
And who, perchance, by sorrow struck or shame
Not without tears look back before they go.
THE LAST LONDON SONNET.
ALL roads in London lead the one last way,
Like little streams that find a flowing river
They find the one great road that runs for ever,
Yet has no London name. They know it, they
Who when the lamps in Oxford Street are lighted
And star-strewn Thames through all his bridges moving,
Velvet assumes, see not for all their loving
These things they loved, hear not, as uninvited,
To London revel calling Piccadilly.
They have gone over to the bitter stranger
Light-foot and heavy, hug-the-hearth and ranger
Our streets desert. And under rose and lily
(Even through Kew were unto lilac setting)
Sleeping they pass forgotten and forgetting.
Like little streams that find a flowing river
They find the one great road that runs for ever,
Yet has no London name. They know it, they
Who when the lamps in Oxford Street are lighted
And star-strewn Thames through all his bridges moving,
Velvet assumes, see not for all their loving
These things they loved, hear not, as uninvited,
To London revel calling Piccadilly.
They have gone over to the bitter stranger
Light-foot and heavy, hug-the-hearth and ranger
Our streets desert. And under rose and lily
(Even through Kew were unto lilac setting)
Sleeping they pass forgotten and forgetting.
OTHER VERSE.
“SOMETIMES WHEN I THINK OF LOVE.”
I.
SOMETIMES when I think of love
I think of Mimi singing in Boheme,
Just as the tune across the footlights came
When we were young, my dear, at Covent Garden!
Poor music, but before the senses harden
Puccini’s made for boys and girls to wear
Spite of sham passion and a poitrinaire.
For if they looked and didn’t find the key
At least they found the hearts of you and me.
That sort of love age thinks of with a smile
How innocent it was of truth and guile,
How young perhaps and yet how half-divine
And how imperishably yours and mine.
You will not wonder nor will you reprove
My thoughts of Mimi when I think of love.
I think of Mimi singing in Boheme,
Just as the tune across the footlights came
When we were young, my dear, at Covent Garden!
Poor music, but before the senses harden
Puccini’s made for boys and girls to wear
Spite of sham passion and a poitrinaire.
For if they looked and didn’t find the key
At least they found the hearts of you and me.
That sort of love age thinks of with a smile
How innocent it was of truth and guile,
How young perhaps and yet how half-divine
And how imperishably yours and mine.
You will not wonder nor will you reprove
My thoughts of Mimi when I think of love.
II.
SOMETIMES when I think of love
I see a boat upon a river,
And the rushes suddenly shiver,
Because of a perilous foot that treads
The reeds and the flowers into their beds.
Because of a music that shakes and begins
A different music and conscious of sins
A tune was old at the birth of the river
A tune is asleep in the blood for ever
Asleep in the blood and loving and hating
The time and the hour for which it is waiting.
Puccini yields to a sob in the throat
A hand round the heart as note answers note
With the music that wrenches and melts and grips
The hands hot on hands, the lips close on lips
Cruelly volleying clearer and stronger
Till we are a boy and a girl no longer.
And we struggle in vain as long as we can
Hating and loving and welcoming Pan,
And you are a woman and I am a man.
And you will not wonder and cannot reprove
If I hear Pan’s pipes when I think of love.
I see a boat upon a river,
And the rushes suddenly shiver,
Because of a perilous foot that treads
The reeds and the flowers into their beds.
Because of a music that shakes and begins
A different music and conscious of sins
A tune was old at the birth of the river
A tune is asleep in the blood for ever
Asleep in the blood and loving and hating
The time and the hour for which it is waiting.
Puccini yields to a sob in the throat
A hand round the heart as note answers note
With the music that wrenches and melts and grips
The hands hot on hands, the lips close on lips
Cruelly volleying clearer and stronger
Till we are a boy and a girl no longer.
And we struggle in vain as long as we can
Hating and loving and welcoming Pan,
And you are a woman and I am a man.
And you will not wonder and cannot reprove
If I hear Pan’s pipes when I think of love.
III.
SOMETIMES when I think of love
I hear a heavy voice repeat
“There’s a good doctor up the street.”
And either it seems I am hard at hearing
Or stupid perhaps or terribly fearing.
For its late of a winter night and raining
With cry of wind; or is something complaining?
One lamp in the street and a leafless tree
And a thing is moving that frightens me,
With fingers that hover about my nape
A shape like a hand and yet not a shape.
Now all that we had in the past is over
Each lover’s alone, the love from the lover.
No comforting hand for me in the gloom,
No voice of mine in the darkened room.
Where is the music and where are the songs?
For love has crept off ashamed of his wrongs.
Poor love has gone off to rail at passion,
And he will not wait for the night to fashion
Out of pain and fear and anguish and danger,
A lover strange with his love a stranger,
And yet, as they were at the opera
Incredibly close and familiar,
Incredibly close as once on the river
When each is a gift and each is a giver.
Incredibly close and all they have hoarded
Of life and of love in this moment rewarded.
Rewarded! Has love in the darkness heard
Of the little lost shadow, the small lost third?
Love is returning—to find them alone,
And if love be a sinner, who casts a stone?
Shattered and beaten and blindingly sure
Of love and themselves and strong to endure
He finds them, by pain more lastingly crowned
Than ever by joy and by laughter were bound
Happier lovers and lovers untaunted
By the shameful cries these lovers have haunted.
If this be their love, who out of the pit
Being a devil challenges it?
In heaven assayed, in hell-fire priced
Who casts the first stone? Not I, says Christ.
You will not wonder nor will you reprove
If I think of this, when I think of love.
I hear a heavy voice repeat
“There’s a good doctor up the street.”
And either it seems I am hard at hearing
Or stupid perhaps or terribly fearing.
For its late of a winter night and raining
With cry of wind; or is something complaining?
One lamp in the street and a leafless tree
And a thing is moving that frightens me,
With fingers that hover about my nape
A shape like a hand and yet not a shape.
Now all that we had in the past is over
Each lover’s alone, the love from the lover.
No comforting hand for me in the gloom,
No voice of mine in the darkened room.
Where is the music and where are the songs?
For love has crept off ashamed of his wrongs.
Poor love has gone off to rail at passion,
And he will not wait for the night to fashion
Out of pain and fear and anguish and danger,
A lover strange with his love a stranger,
And yet, as they were at the opera
Incredibly close and familiar,
Incredibly close as once on the river
When each is a gift and each is a giver.
Incredibly close and all they have hoarded
Of life and of love in this moment rewarded.
Rewarded! Has love in the darkness heard
Of the little lost shadow, the small lost third?
Love is returning—to find them alone,
And if love be a sinner, who casts a stone?
Shattered and beaten and blindingly sure
Of love and themselves and strong to endure
He finds them, by pain more lastingly crowned
Than ever by joy and by laughter were bound
Happier lovers and lovers untaunted
By the shameful cries these lovers have haunted.
If this be their love, who out of the pit
Being a devil challenges it?
In heaven assayed, in hell-fire priced
Who casts the first stone? Not I, says Christ.
You will not wonder nor will you reprove
If I think of this, when I think of love.
IV.
SOMETIMES when I think of love
I remember how you stooped down from heaven,
Because they had told you I was unforgiven,
To take half of the storm, and share the stripe
An angel in hell with her guttersnipe.
I am thinking then of your lighted face
And your hands and the way your fingers lace
As you sit quietly reading a book.
Perhaps I move and you suddenly look
Across the room and the soul in your eyes
Is bright as it looks with the old surprise
Changing for ever, for ever the same
And you break my heart as you speak my name.
You must not wonder, you will not reprove
If sometimes I dare not think of love.
I remember how you stooped down from heaven,
Because they had told you I was unforgiven,
To take half of the storm, and share the stripe
An angel in hell with her guttersnipe.
I am thinking then of your lighted face
And your hands and the way your fingers lace
As you sit quietly reading a book.
Perhaps I move and you suddenly look
Across the room and the soul in your eyes
Is bright as it looks with the old surprise
Changing for ever, for ever the same
And you break my heart as you speak my name.
You must not wonder, you will not reprove
If sometimes I dare not think of love.
OLD.
SO old, so changed, and odd
Even as God,
I am, so odd and old,
That I am bitter cold
In heart and limb
Like him.
Even as God,
I am, so odd and old,
That I am bitter cold
In heart and limb
Like him.
I might in heaven be,
Even as He.
So lonely and so rare
Beyond the utmost prayer
My spirit weighs,
Dead days.
Even as He.
So lonely and so rare
Beyond the utmost prayer
My spirit weighs,
Dead days.
Or I might work in hell
His miracle.
Changing from joy to tears,
To quiet all the years,
With icy rod,
Like God.
His miracle.
Changing from joy to tears,
To quiet all the years,
With icy rod,
Like God.
I might immortal be
Even as He.
Saying, as heaven saith,
What Victory, Oh death,
What sting can save,
Oh grave?
Even as He.
Saying, as heaven saith,
What Victory, Oh death,
What sting can save,
Oh grave?
THE SONG OF THE GAMBUCINOS.
THE little houses in the street
And the warm blinds at night,
Outside the copper on his beat
And the moon so white, so white.
And the warm blinds at night,
Outside the copper on his beat
And the moon so white, so white.
They know what we shall never know,
See what we cannot see,
The steady lamplit ways that go
To the quiet cemetery.
See what we cannot see,
The steady lamplit ways that go
To the quiet cemetery.
They have not any fear at all
Of life and of its end.
They hear church bells, their children call,
Their wife and death their friend.
Of life and of its end.
They hear church bells, their children call,
Their wife and death their friend.
FEBRUARY 14.
LET’S be done with talking,
Words are half a snare,
That fools use for stalking
What was never there.
Words are half a snare,
That fools use for stalking
What was never there.
Let’s be done with weeping,
Tears are but a sign
That a doom is creeping
On what was divine.
Tears are but a sign
That a doom is creeping
On what was divine.
Why be broken-hearted?
Time to break the heart
If we should be parted
And not care we part.
Time to break the heart
If we should be parted
And not care we part.
Dear, the wind is over
In the world outside.
I was once your lover,
You were once my bride.
In the world outside.
I was once your lover,
You were once my bride.
PIERROT.
MY friend Pierrot your sleeves are far too long.
Look! I can hardly find at all your hands.
And all your cotton tunic is cut wrong,
And what your eyes mean no one understands.
Look! I can hardly find at all your hands.
And all your cotton tunic is cut wrong,
And what your eyes mean no one understands.
Ah yes, Pierrette, my sleeves are far too long.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot find my hands,
But better so than Pierrot did you wrong
By telling you what no one understands.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot find my hands,
But better so than Pierrot did you wrong
By telling you what no one understands.
My friend Pierrot you fear to take the light,
Look! I can hardly see at all your face.
And what I see, Pierrot is very white.
Are you afraid? Ashamed? or in disgrace?
Look! I can hardly see at all your face.
And what I see, Pierrot is very white.
Are you afraid? Ashamed? or in disgrace?
Ah yes, Pierrette, I dare not take the light.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot see my face.
My candle died with love, and in the night
Oh! Harlequin, Pierrette, is my disgrace.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot see my face.
My candle died with love, and in the night
Oh! Harlequin, Pierrette, is my disgrace.
My friend Pierrot it seems that things go ill
With you. Look! I can hardly hear your word,
And the dark shadow round grows darker still,
And a new voice which is not yours is heard.
With you. Look! I can hardly hear your word,
And the dark shadow round grows darker still,
And a new voice which is not yours is heard.
THE DEAD MAN IN THE POOL.
ONLY a glance it was,
Only a word!
What a romance it was
All but absurd!
Only a word!
What a romance it was
All but absurd!
All but absurd, you see,
Yes but not quite.
There’s one more word you see
“Death” we must write!
Yes but not quite.
There’s one more word you see
“Death” we must write!
She had the knack of it
—Less than a kiss,
And for the lack of it
Look he is this.
—Less than a kiss,
And for the lack of it
Look he is this.
While all the rest of us
Struggle to fame,
Here is the best of us
Dead with his shame.
Struggle to fame,
Here is the best of us
Dead with his shame.
Shame? Oh I wonder now.
What do you say?
If you should blunder now
Choose me your way!
What do you say?
If you should blunder now
Choose me your way!
If you’d thrown hope away;
Well would you care
Through life to grope a way?
Or would you dare
Well would you care
Through life to grope a way?
Or would you dare
Take up the lot of it
Life, love and fame,
Make a clean shot of it
Into the flame?
Life, love and fame,
Make a clean shot of it
Into the flame?
Was she worth trying for?
He thought her so.
Was she worth dying for?
Yes, and then no.
He thought her so.
Was she worth dying for?
Yes, and then no.
“No,” for a wiser man.
“No,” for a less.
But the heart cries “Amen,”
When he says “yes.”
“No,” for a less.
But the heart cries “Amen,”
When he says “yes.”
DEAD LOVER.
TELL me, dead lover, you who broke my heart
(O dead indeed, since love himself is dead).
Need I remember that we came to part,
May I forget to whom and why you fled?
(O dead indeed, since love himself is dead).
Need I remember that we came to part,
May I forget to whom and why you fled?
Tell me, dead lover, since the grave is strong,
And those who sleep are cured of joy and pain,
And now no love may reach you, do I wrong
If I begin to love you all again?
And those who sleep are cured of joy and pain,
And now no love may reach you, do I wrong
If I begin to love you all again?
And see, dead lover, since the shadows fall
And nothing now is false and nothing true.
Might I not dream (you would not know at all)
That I, O love, was loved once more by you.
And nothing now is false and nothing true.
Might I not dream (you would not know at all)
That I, O love, was loved once more by you.