VICTORY.
LET it be written down, while still the wound
Festers and there is horror in the world
At what was done and suffered, while unfurled
The wings of death are dark upon the ground.
Let it be written “Death we have not found
The worst, though death is evil, nor the curled
Fangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurled
The tracery of old cities, when no sound
Festers and there is horror in the world
At what was done and suffered, while unfurled
The wings of death are dark upon the ground.
Let it be written “Death we have not found
The worst, though death is evil, nor the curled
Fangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurled
The tracery of old cities, when no sound
Is in their broken streets. But there’s an ape
Out of the slime into the spirit creeping,
That twists mankind back, back into the shape
That mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping.
Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rust
As their flame dies and smoulders into lust.”
Out of the slime into the spirit creeping,
That twists mankind back, back into the shape
That mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping.
Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rust
As their flame dies and smoulders into lust.”
CLEOPATRA.
WHY should I care for love? The urgent rose—
What does she promise the heart and what fulfill?
“Delight, delight” she whispers, and she goes ...
But love the rose outbidding is falser still.
What does she promise the heart and what fulfill?
“Delight, delight” she whispers, and she goes ...
But love the rose outbidding is falser still.
Why should I care for love? But hush, oh hush!
What bird is singing in the dawn “Forget
The spring,” and, you,—have you forgotten, thrush?...
But love the thrush outsinging is falser yet.
What bird is singing in the dawn “Forget
The spring,” and, you,—have you forgotten, thrush?...
But love the thrush outsinging is falser yet.
Why should I care for love? Love does not care
Whether you care or do not care, says she!
But ask your lips how the rose smells in my hair,
If the thrush beats at my heart—here—Anthony!
Whether you care or do not care, says she!
But ask your lips how the rose smells in my hair,
If the thrush beats at my heart—here—Anthony!
MEDUSA.
IN your black hair are there not nightingales
Singing in the dark, and when you let it down
Is there no stir in the air of tiniest sails
That ever on lost seas of song were blown?
Singing in the dark, and when you let it down
Is there no stir in the air of tiniest sails
That ever on lost seas of song were blown?
In your black hair the heart of Hyacinth
Laments the daylight he shall see no more,
And flowers are red as in the labyrinth
The red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.
Laments the daylight he shall see no more,
And flowers are red as in the labyrinth
The red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.
THE JUNGLE.
TRUTH is the fourth dimension. By her grace
Motion, the idiot of time and space,
Grows reasonable, so that the spirit sees
Behind the aimless drag of categories
The moving centuries, whose gestures mirror
And dissipate the cloudy shapes of error.
O there’s the long way back, the dawns that scatter
Like startled birds about the spirit, and chatter
Of animal voices seeking lucid speech
In colonies of darkness. Truth can stretch,
Though motionless, and set a hatchet blazing
A path through the jungle where an ape is gazing
At the edge of a little light, with dripping muzzle,
Black writhing palms, and eyes a drowsy puzzle
Of fears and beastlike hopes. Then the light reaches
His pelt and holds him fast. In vain he snatches
At the sheltering trees, in vain the leafy dance
Down the long avenues of ignorance.
Knowledge and the pain of knowledge fly beside him,
And, where the leaves are darkest, clutch and ride him
Until he sloughs the shape of beast and can
Stand in the dawn upon his feet a man.
Motion, the idiot of time and space,
Grows reasonable, so that the spirit sees
Behind the aimless drag of categories
The moving centuries, whose gestures mirror
And dissipate the cloudy shapes of error.
O there’s the long way back, the dawns that scatter
Like startled birds about the spirit, and chatter
Of animal voices seeking lucid speech
In colonies of darkness. Truth can stretch,
Though motionless, and set a hatchet blazing
A path through the jungle where an ape is gazing
At the edge of a little light, with dripping muzzle,
Black writhing palms, and eyes a drowsy puzzle
Of fears and beastlike hopes. Then the light reaches
His pelt and holds him fast. In vain he snatches
At the sheltering trees, in vain the leafy dance
Down the long avenues of ignorance.
Knowledge and the pain of knowledge fly beside him,
And, where the leaves are darkest, clutch and ride him
Until he sloughs the shape of beast and can
Stand in the dawn upon his feet a man.
THE PENCIL.
WITH this golden pencil—write
“Written words must serve for sight.
For the broken lights that stirred
Wedded eyes the complete word.
“Written words must serve for sight.
For the broken lights that stirred
Wedded eyes the complete word.
Written words the trembling nerve
Of the lover’s ear must serve.
Laughter’s done and tears are over—
Written words, instead, my lover.
Of the lover’s ear must serve.
Laughter’s done and tears are over—
Written words, instead, my lover.
Words that have no scent must tell
How the secret jonquils smell
In your hair, and words protest
There are jonquils at your breast.
How the secret jonquils smell
In your hair, and words protest
There are jonquils at your breast.
Written words the gift must waste,
When the very air hath taste
Of your lip, the sweets that part
Love’s soft mouth and reach the heart.
When the very air hath taste
Of your lip, the sweets that part
Love’s soft mouth and reach the heart.
Separable these await
For the fifth to consummate,
That are nothing, each alone,
But all heaven joined in one.
For the fifth to consummate,
That are nothing, each alone,
But all heaven joined in one.
This, being lost, had hurt too much,
Here are words instead of touch.”
Here are words instead of touch.”
Therefore write and break the lead
“Love that was alive is dead.”
“Love that was alive is dead.”
COLUMBINE.
IF any ask, O tell them that the moon
Was lit in heaven when Queen Ashtaroth
Beat at her lamp and fell upon the swoon
Of love that soars in fire to fall a moth.
Was lit in heaven when Queen Ashtaroth
Beat at her lamp and fell upon the swoon
Of love that soars in fire to fall a moth.
If any ask, O tell them that for this
Priam’s great city of Troy was sacrificed,
For love that is as bitter as the kiss
Of Judas the Iscariot, slaying Christ.
Priam’s great city of Troy was sacrificed,
For love that is as bitter as the kiss
Of Judas the Iscariot, slaying Christ.
THE CROWDER’S TUNE.
THE crowder’s tune
Down a street in Babylon—
His fiddle to the moon
With notes like stars that one by one
Glittered upon the empty street,
Glittered and laughed and went
(But there was a lisp of ghostly feet)
To build a firmament.
Down a street in Babylon—
His fiddle to the moon
With notes like stars that one by one
Glittered upon the empty street,
Glittered and laughed and went
(But there was a lisp of ghostly feet)
To build a firmament.
“Who walks by night in Babylon?
‘I,’ said a lady, ‘because
Of the wonderful thing I was,
And the beautiful things all done,
I walk in Babylon.’
‘I,’ said a lady, ‘because
Of the wonderful thing I was,
And the beautiful things all done,
I walk in Babylon.’
Who seeks for a lady by night?
‘I,’ said a king, ‘My throne
Is empty in Babylon.
She fled from the light to the light,
I seek for a lady by night.’
‘I,’ said a king, ‘My throne
Is empty in Babylon.
She fled from the light to the light,
I seek for a lady by night.’
Who calls by night in Babylon?
‘They,’ answered love, ‘Yes over and over
She calls to her God, but he to his lover,
And each of them walks by night alone,
And they will not meet in Babylon.’”
‘They,’ answered love, ‘Yes over and over
She calls to her God, but he to his lover,
And each of them walks by night alone,
And they will not meet in Babylon.’”
The crowder played
His little tune, almost
As though he were afraid
Of some forgotten ghost
Awakening,
And crying on the string
Of what was lost
And would not come
Again.
He feared in vain.
For the ghost, the ghost is dumb
Of love that is past over,
And the merciless laughter of the moon
Pursues the ghostly lover,
Till in the empty street
There’s an end of the lisp of feet,
And the crowder breaks his fiddle and the tune,
And all the stars are gone
In Babylon.
His little tune, almost
As though he were afraid
Of some forgotten ghost
Awakening,
And crying on the string
Of what was lost
And would not come
Again.
He feared in vain.
For the ghost, the ghost is dumb
Of love that is past over,
And the merciless laughter of the moon
Pursues the ghostly lover,
Till in the empty street
There’s an end of the lisp of feet,
And the crowder breaks his fiddle and the tune,
And all the stars are gone
In Babylon.
ENVOI.
PAST Buckhurst Hill the motor-bus
Takes and shakes the three of us.
When first we went, there were but two
In Epping Forest, I and you.
Takes and shakes the three of us.
When first we went, there were but two
In Epping Forest, I and you.
That summer as I understand
A forester from fairyland
Set a notice up, “No road,”
By the ways our feet had trod.
A forester from fairyland
Set a notice up, “No road,”
By the ways our feet had trod.
No one came and no one knew,
When the spring returned and blue
Flowers burned, how deep behind
Burned the blossoms of the mind.
When the spring returned and blue
Flowers burned, how deep behind
Burned the blossoms of the mind.
No one guessed and no one heard
How beyond the singing bird,
Some one sang in solitude
In the wood within the wood.
How beyond the singing bird,
Some one sang in solitude
In the wood within the wood.
No one watched the years go by
(Not even you, not even I),
In the wood alone apart
Green and waiting in the heart.
(Not even you, not even I),
In the wood alone apart
Green and waiting in the heart.
Till last week the forester
Heard a little footstep stir,
Took his notice down and smiled
At the coming of a child.
Heard a little footstep stir,
Took his notice down and smiled
At the coming of a child.
Conquering the solitude
A child is laughing in the wood.
Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-bus
Takes us back the three of us.
A child is laughing in the wood.
Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-bus
Takes us back the three of us.
Printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford.