“Beauty dwindles into shadow,
Beauty dies, preferred by Fate,
Past the rescue of bold thought.
Sentries drowsed,” they say, “at Beauty’s gate.”
Beauty dies, preferred by Fate,
Past the rescue of bold thought.
Sentries drowsed,” they say, “at Beauty’s gate.”
“Time duteous to his hour-glass,
Time with unerring sickle,
Garners to a land remote
Where your vows of true love are proved fickle.”
Time with unerring sickle,
Garners to a land remote
Where your vows of true love are proved fickle.”
“Love chill upon her forehead,
Love fading from her cheek,
Love dulled in either eye,
With voice of love,” they say, “no more to speak.”
Love fading from her cheek,
Love dulled in either eye,
With voice of love,” they say, “no more to speak.”
I deny to Time his terror;
Come-and-go prevails not here;
Spring is constant, loveless winter
Looms, but elsewhere, for he comes not near.
Come-and-go prevails not here;
Spring is constant, loveless winter
Looms, but elsewhere, for he comes not near.
I deny to Space the sorrow;
No leagues measure love from me;
Turning boldly from her arms,
Into her arms I shall come certainly.
No leagues measure love from me;
Turning boldly from her arms,
Into her arms I shall come certainly.
THE AVENGERS
Who grafted quince on Western may,
Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar?
In loathing since that Gospel day
The two saps flame, the tree’s on fire.
Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar?
In loathing since that Gospel day
The two saps flame, the tree’s on fire.
The briar-rose weeps for injured right,
May sprouts up red to choke the quince.
With angry throb of equal spite
Our wood leaps maddened ever since.
May sprouts up red to choke the quince.
With angry throb of equal spite
Our wood leaps maddened ever since.
Then mistletoe, of gods not least,
Kindler of warfare since the Flood,
Against green things of South and East
Voices the vengeance of our blood.
Kindler of warfare since the Flood,
Against green things of South and East
Voices the vengeance of our blood.
Crusading ivy Southward breaks
And sucks your lordly palms upon,
Our island oak the water takes
To outrage cedared Lebanon.
And sucks your lordly palms upon,
Our island oak the water takes
To outrage cedared Lebanon.
Our slender ash-twigs feathered fly
Against your vines; bold buttercup
Pours down his legions; malt of rye
Inflames and burns your lentils up....
Against your vines; bold buttercup
Pours down his legions; malt of rye
Inflames and burns your lentils up....
ON THE POET’S BIRTH
A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God,
Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety,
Equally claiming the sole parenthood
Of him the perfect crown of their variety.
Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell;
That always was her fate, she loved too well.
Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety,
Equally claiming the sole parenthood
Of him the perfect crown of their variety.
Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell;
That always was her fate, she loved too well.
THE TECHNIQUE OF PERFECTION
Said hermit monk to hermit monk,
“Friend, in this island anchorage
Our life has tranquilly been sunk
From pious youth to pious age,
“Friend, in this island anchorage
Our life has tranquilly been sunk
From pious youth to pious age,
“In such clear waves of quietness,
Such peace from argument or brawl
That one prime virtue I confess
Has never touched our hearts at all.
Such peace from argument or brawl
That one prime virtue I confess
Has never touched our hearts at all.
“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgive
But after anger or dissent?
This never-pardoning life we live
May earn God’s blackest punishment.”
But after anger or dissent?
This never-pardoning life we live
May earn God’s blackest punishment.”
His friend, resolved to find a ground
For rough dispute between the two
That mutual pardons might abound,
With cunning from his wallet drew
For rough dispute between the two
That mutual pardons might abound,
With cunning from his wallet drew
A curious pebble of the beach
And scowled, “This treasure is my own:”
He hoped for sharp unfriendly speech
Or angry snatching at the stone.
And scowled, “This treasure is my own:”
He hoped for sharp unfriendly speech
Or angry snatching at the stone.
But honeyed words his friend outpours,
“Keep it, dear heart, you surely know
Even were it mine it still were yours,
This trifle that delights you so.”
“Keep it, dear heart, you surely know
Even were it mine it still were yours,
This trifle that delights you so.”
The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother,
What’s this? Are my deserts so small
You’d give me trifles?” But the other
Smiles, “Brother, you may take my all.”
What’s this? Are my deserts so small
You’d give me trifles?” But the other
Smiles, “Brother, you may take my all.”
He then enraged with one so meek,
So unresponsive to his mood,
Most soundly smites the martyr cheek
And rends the island quietude.
So unresponsive to his mood,
Most soundly smites the martyr cheek
And rends the island quietude.
The martyr, who till now has feigned
In third degree of craftiness
That meekness is so deep ingrained
No taunt or slight can make it less,
In third degree of craftiness
That meekness is so deep ingrained
No taunt or slight can make it less,
Spits out the tooth in honest wrath,
“You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he.
They grapple on the rocky path
That zigzags downward to the sea.
“You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he.
They grapple on the rocky path
That zigzags downward to the sea.
In rising fury strained and stiff
They lunge across the narrow ground;
They topple headlong from the cliff
And murderously embraced are drowned.
. . . . . . . . . .
Here Peter sits: two spirits reach
To sound the knocker at his Gate.
They shower forgiveness each on each,
Beaming triumphant and elate.
They lunge across the narrow ground;
They topple headlong from the cliff
And murderously embraced are drowned.
. . . . . . . . . .
Here Peter sits: two spirits reach
To sound the knocker at his Gate.
They shower forgiveness each on each,
Beaming triumphant and elate.
THE SIBYL
Her hand falls helpless: thought amazements fly
Far overhead, they leave no record mark—
Wild swans urged whistling across dazzled sky,
Or Gabriel hounds in chorus through the dark.
Far overhead, they leave no record mark—
Wild swans urged whistling across dazzled sky,
Or Gabriel hounds in chorus through the dark.
Yet when she prophesies, each spirit swan,
Each spectral hound from memory’s windy zones,
Flies back to inspire one limb-strewn skeleton
Of thousands in her valley of dry bones.
Each spectral hound from memory’s windy zones,
Flies back to inspire one limb-strewn skeleton
Of thousands in her valley of dry bones.
There as those life-restored battalions shout,
Succession flags and Time goes maimed in flight:
From each live gullet twenty swans glide out
With hell-packs loathlier yet to amaze the night.
Succession flags and Time goes maimed in flight:
From each live gullet twenty swans glide out
With hell-packs loathlier yet to amaze the night.
Gabriel hounds, a spectral pack hunting the souls of the damned through the air at night: the origin of this belief some find in the strange noise made by the passage of flocks of wild geese or swans.
A CRUSADER
A NEW PORTRAIT OF JUDITH OF BETHULIA
She trod the grasses grey with dew,
She hugged the unlikely head;
Avenging where the warrior Jew
Incontinent had fled.
She hugged the unlikely head;
Avenging where the warrior Jew
Incontinent had fled.
The bearded lips writhed ever more
At this increase of shame—
Killed by a girl, pretending whore,
Gone scatheless as she came!
At this increase of shame—
Killed by a girl, pretending whore,
Gone scatheless as she came!
His doom yet loathlier that he knew
Hers was no nation-pride,
No high religion snatched and slew
Where he lay stupefied.
Hers was no nation-pride,
No high religion snatched and slew
Where he lay stupefied.
Nebuchadnezzar’s duke enticed
To pay a megrim’s fee?
Assyrian valour sacrificed
For a boudoir dignity?
To pay a megrim’s fee?
Assyrian valour sacrificed
For a boudoir dignity?
A REVERSAL
The old man in his fast car
Leaves Achilles lagging,
The old man with his long gun
Outshoots Ulysses’ bow,
Nestor in his botched old age
Rivals Ajax bragging,
To Nestor’s honeyed courtship
Could Helen say “No”?
Leaves Achilles lagging,
The old man with his long gun
Outshoots Ulysses’ bow,
Nestor in his botched old age
Rivals Ajax bragging,
To Nestor’s honeyed courtship
Could Helen say “No”?
THE MARTYRED DECADENTS: A SYMPATHETIC SATIRE
We strain our strings thus tight,
Our voices pitch thus high,
A song to indite
That nevermore shall die.
Our voices pitch thus high,
A song to indite
That nevermore shall die.
The Poet being divine
Admits no social sin,
Spurring with wine
And lust the Muse within.
Admits no social sin,
Spurring with wine
And lust the Muse within.
Finding no use at all
In arms or civic deeds,
Perched on a wall
Fulfilling fancy’s needs.
In arms or civic deeds,
Perched on a wall
Fulfilling fancy’s needs.
Let parents, children, wife,
Be ghosts beside his art,
Be this his life
To hug the snake to his heart.
Be ghosts beside his art,
Be this his life
To hug the snake to his heart.
Sad souls, the more we stress
The advantage of our crown,
So much the less
Our welcome by the Town,
The advantage of our crown,
So much the less
Our welcome by the Town,
By so much less their praise,
By so much more our glory.
Grim pride outweighs
The anguish of our story.
By so much more our glory.
Grim pride outweighs
The anguish of our story.
EPIGRAMS
ON CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Here ranted Isaac’s elder son,
The proud shag-breasted godless one,
From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stole
Birthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.
The proud shag-breasted godless one,
From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stole
Birthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.
A VILLAGE CONFLICT
The cottage damson laden as could be
Scowls at the Manor House magnolia tree
That year by year within its thoughtless powers
Yields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers,
While the Magnolia shudders as in fear,
“Figurez-vous! two sackfuls every year!”
Scowls at the Manor House magnolia tree
That year by year within its thoughtless powers
Yields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers,
While the Magnolia shudders as in fear,
“Figurez-vous! two sackfuls every year!”
DEDICATORY
TO MY COLLATERAL ANCESTOR, REV. R. GRAVES, THE FRIEND OF THE POET SHENSTONE AND AUTHOR OF THE SPIRITUAL QUIXOTE: ON RECEIPT OF A PRESS-CUTTING INTENDED FOR HIM.
O friend of Shenstone, do you frown
In realms remote from me
When Messrs Durrant send you down
By inadvertency
Clippings identifying you
With some dim man in the moon,
A Spiritual Quixote, true,
But friend of S. Sassoon?
In realms remote from me
When Messrs Durrant send you down
By inadvertency
Clippings identifying you
With some dim man in the moon,
A Spiritual Quixote, true,
But friend of S. Sassoon?
“A VEHICLE, TO WIT, A BICYCLE.”
(Dedicated, without permission, to my friend P. C. Flowers)
“My front-lamp, constable? Why, man, the moon!
My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me,
Warm parlour lamplight of The Dish and Spoon!”
But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me,
Had I not set a rather sly half-crown
Winking under the rays of my front lamp:
Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown,
My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.
My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me,
Warm parlour lamplight of The Dish and Spoon!”
But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me,
Had I not set a rather sly half-crown
Winking under the rays of my front lamp:
Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown,
My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.
MOTTO TO A BOOK OF EMBLEMS
THE BOWL AND RIM
The bearded rabbi, the meek friar,
Linked by their ankles in one cell,
Through joint distress of dungeon mire
Learned each to love his neighbour well.
Linked by their ankles in one cell,
Through joint distress of dungeon mire
Learned each to love his neighbour well.
When four years passed and five and six,
When seven years brought them no release,
The Jew embraced the crucifix,
The friar assumed phylacteries.
When seven years brought them no release,
The Jew embraced the crucifix,
The friar assumed phylacteries.
Then every Sunday, keeping score,
And every Sabbath in this hymn
They reconciled an age-long war
Between the platter’s bowl and rim.
And every Sabbath in this hymn
They reconciled an age-long war
Between the platter’s bowl and rim.
Together.
Man-like he lived, but God-like died,
All hatred from His thought removed,
Imperfect until crucified,
In crucifixion well-beloved.
All hatred from His thought removed,
Imperfect until crucified,
In crucifixion well-beloved.
The Friar.
If they did wrong, He too did wrong,
(For Love admits no contraries)
In blind religion rooted strong
Both Jesus and the Pharisees.
(For Love admits no contraries)
In blind religion rooted strong
Both Jesus and the Pharisees.
“Love all men as thyself,” said He.
Said they, “Be just with man or dog,”
“But only loathe a Pharisee,”
“But crucify this demagogue.”
Said they, “Be just with man or dog,”
“But only loathe a Pharisee,”
“But crucify this demagogue.”
He died forgiving on the Tree
To make amends for earlier spite,
They raised him up their God to be,
And black with black accomplished white.
To make amends for earlier spite,
They raised him up their God to be,
And black with black accomplished white.
The Rabbi.
When He again descends on man
As chief of Scribes and Pharisees,
With loathing for the Publican,
The maimed and halt His enemies,
As chief of Scribes and Pharisees,
With loathing for the Publican,
The maimed and halt His enemies,
And when a not less formal fate
Than Pilate’s justice and the Rood,
His righteous angers expiate
To make men think Him wholly good,
Than Pilate’s justice and the Rood,
His righteous angers expiate
To make men think Him wholly good,
Then He again will have done wrong,
If God be Love for every man,
For lewd and lettered, weak and strong,
For Pharisee or Publican,
If God be Love for every man,
For lewd and lettered, weak and strong,
For Pharisee or Publican,
Together.
A FORCED MUSIC
Of Love he sang, full-hearted one.
But when the song was done
The King demanded more,
Ay, and commanded more.
The boy found nothing for encore,
Words, melodies, none:
Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fall
Had so charmed King and Queen and all.
But when the song was done
The King demanded more,
Ay, and commanded more.
The boy found nothing for encore,
Words, melodies, none:
Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fall
Had so charmed King and Queen and all.
He sang the same verse once again,
But urging less Love’s pain,
With altered time and key
He showed variety,
Seemed to refresh the harmony
Of his only strain,
So still the glad rise and the plaintive fall
Could charm the King, the Queen, and all.
But urging less Love’s pain,
With altered time and key
He showed variety,
Seemed to refresh the harmony
Of his only strain,
So still the glad rise and the plaintive fall
Could charm the King, the Queen, and all.
THE TURN OF A PAGE
He suddenly, the page read as it turned,
Died.
The indignant eye discerned
No sense. “Good page, turn back,” it cried
(Happily evermore was cheated).
After these things he suddenly died,
The truthful page repeated.
Died.
The indignant eye discerned
No sense. “Good page, turn back,” it cried
(Happily evermore was cheated).
After these things he suddenly died,
The truthful page repeated.
“Turn back yon earlier pages, nine or ten,
To Him she loved and He alone of men.
Now change the sentence, page!” But still it read
He suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss.
“Read on, ungentle reader,” the book said,
“Resign your hopes to this.”
To Him she loved and He alone of men.
Now change the sentence, page!” But still it read
He suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss.
“Read on, ungentle reader,” the book said,
“Resign your hopes to this.”
THE MANIFESTATION IN THE TEMPLE
On the High Feast Day in that reverent space
Between the Sacrifice and the word of Grace,
I, come to town with a merry-making throng
To pay my tithes and join in the season’s song,
Closing my eyes, there prayed—and was hurried far
Beyond what ages I know not, or what star,
To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glint
And the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint,
Then, in this movement, being not I but part
In the fellowship of the universal heart, 10
I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength,
I thought and worked omnipotence. At length
Hit in my high flight by some sorry thought
Back to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caught
And asked in pique what enemy had worked this,
What folly or anger thrust against my bliss?
Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-wood
With noise of a distant fluting, and one who stood
Nudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!”
The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously, 20
They fling them down on their faces every one,
Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan.
Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar niche
Wavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch.
Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod.
The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood.
The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wings
Distresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings,
And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears,
A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears. 30
It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleads
Prompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs,
Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath,
A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth,
A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain,
And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintain
Lest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain!
With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in Spring
To such as perform the will of the Jealous King.
To his priestly servants hearken!
The syllables die. 40
Now up from the congregation issues a sigh
As of stopped breath slow released. But here stands one
Who has kept his feet though the others fell like stone,
Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone,
To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch,
By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuch
Do I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest.
Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least,
An honest citizen of this honest town
May preach these nightmare apparitions down, 50
These blundering, perfumed noises come to tell
No more than a priest-instructed folk knows well.
Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be,
Break not true prayer between my God and me.”
Between the Sacrifice and the word of Grace,
I, come to town with a merry-making throng
To pay my tithes and join in the season’s song,
Closing my eyes, there prayed—and was hurried far
Beyond what ages I know not, or what star,
To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glint
And the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint,
Then, in this movement, being not I but part
In the fellowship of the universal heart, 10
I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength,
I thought and worked omnipotence. At length
Hit in my high flight by some sorry thought
Back to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caught
And asked in pique what enemy had worked this,
What folly or anger thrust against my bliss?
Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-wood
With noise of a distant fluting, and one who stood
Nudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!”
The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously, 20
They fling them down on their faces every one,
Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan.
Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar niche
Wavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch.
Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod.
The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood.
The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wings
Distresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings,
And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears,
A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears. 30
It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleads
Prompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs,
Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath,
A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth,
A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain,
And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintain
Lest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain!
With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in Spring
To such as perform the will of the Jealous King.
To his priestly servants hearken!
The syllables die. 40
Now up from the congregation issues a sigh
As of stopped breath slow released. But here stands one
Who has kept his feet though the others fell like stone,
Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone,
To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch,
By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuch
Do I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest.
Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least,
An honest citizen of this honest town
May preach these nightmare apparitions down, 50
These blundering, perfumed noises come to tell
No more than a priest-instructed folk knows well.
Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be,
Break not true prayer between my God and me.”
TO ANY SAINT
You turn the unsmitten other cheek,
In silence welcoming God’s grace,
Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak,
Smiling forgiveness face to face.
In silence welcoming God’s grace,
Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak,
Smiling forgiveness face to face.
You plunge your arms in tyrant flame,
From ravening beasts you do not fly,
Calling aloud on one sweet Name,
Hosannah-singing till you die.
From ravening beasts you do not fly,
Calling aloud on one sweet Name,
Hosannah-singing till you die.
So angered by your undefeat,
Revenge through Christ they meditate,
Disciples at the bishop’s feet
They learn this newer sort of hate,
Revenge through Christ they meditate,
Disciples at the bishop’s feet
They learn this newer sort of hate,
This unresisting meek assault
On furious foe or stubborn friend,
This virtue purged of every fault
By furtherance of the martyr’s end,
On furious foe or stubborn friend,
This virtue purged of every fault
By furtherance of the martyr’s end,
This baffling stroke of naked pride,
When satires fail and curses fail
To pierce the justice’s tough hide,
To abash the cynics of the jail.
When satires fail and curses fail
To pierce the justice’s tough hide,
To abash the cynics of the jail.
A DEWDROP
The dewdrop carries in its eye
Snowdon and Hebog, sea and sky,
Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors,
And half a county’s out-of-doors:
Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shield
In this remote and rocky field.
Snowdon and Hebog, sea and sky,
Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors,
And half a county’s out-of-doors:
Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shield
In this remote and rocky field.
A VALENTINE
The hunter to the husbandman
Pays tribute since our love began,
And to love-loyalty dedicates
The phantom kills he meditates.
Let me embrace, embracing you,
Beauty of other shape and hue,
Odd glinting graces of which none
Shone more than candle to your sun,
Your well-kissed hand was beckoning me
In unfamiliar imagery—
Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghost
Dives in love’s glory and is lost,
Yielding your comprehensive pride
A homage, even to suicide.
Pays tribute since our love began,
And to love-loyalty dedicates
The phantom kills he meditates.
Let me embrace, embracing you,
Beauty of other shape and hue,
Odd glinting graces of which none
Shone more than candle to your sun,
Your well-kissed hand was beckoning me
In unfamiliar imagery—
Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghost
Dives in love’s glory and is lost,
Yielding your comprehensive pride
A homage, even to suicide.
Made and Printed in Great Britain. Richard Clay & Sons, Ltd.
Printers, Bungay, Suffolk.