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We are not sudden haters; but by dint Of many horrors all our hearts are quick. We are not ready writers, with the trick Of rhyming just to see our words in print. Nor are we fast forgetters: there remain Bitter and shameful in our memory Old murders that made horrible the sea And tinged clean water with a red, red stain. Titanic: she went down for love of speed; The Eastland—curse her!—just for dirty greed; But there are ships whose names are yet more rank. The years have passed, but still our hearts are sick To think of the cool cruelty that sank The Lusitania and the Arabic. |
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O England, England ... that July How placidly the days went by! Two years ago (how long it seems) In that dear England of my dreams I loved and smoked and laughed amain And rode to Cambridge in the rain. A careless godlike life was there! To spin the roads with Shotover, To dream while punting on the Cam, To lie, and never give a damn For anything but comradeship And books to read and ale to sip, And shandygaff at every inn When The Gorilla rode to Lynn! O world of wheel and pipe and oar In those old days before the War. O poignant echoes of that time! I hear the Oxford towers chime, The throbbing of those mellow bells And all the sweet old English smells— The Deben water, quick with salt, The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt; The Suffolk villages, serene With lads at cricket on the green, And Wytham strawberries, so ripe, And Murray's Mixture in my pipe! In those dear days, in those dear days, All pleasant lay the country ways; The echoes of our stalwart mirth Went echoing wide around the earth And in an endless bliss of sun We lay and watched the river run. And you by Cam and I by Isis Were happy with our own devices. Ah, can we ever know again Such friends as were those chosen men, Such men to drink, to bike, to smoke with, To worship with, or lie and joke with? Never again, my lads, we'll see The life we led at twenty-three. Never again, perhaps, shall I Go flashing bravely down the High To see, in that transcendent hour, The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower. Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recall Those endless afternoons, and all Your Cambridge—which I loved as one Who was her grandson, not her son. O ripples where the river slacks In greening eddies round the "backs"; Where men have dreamed such gallant things Under the old stone bridge at King's, Or leaned to feed the silver swans By the tennis meads at John's. O Granta's water, cold and fresh, Kissing the warm and eager flesh Under the willow's breathing stir— The bathing pool at Grantchester.... What words can tell, what words can praise The burly savour of those days! Dear singing lad, those days are dead And gone for aye your golden head; And many other well-loved men Will never dine in Hall again. I too have lived remembered hours In Cambridge; heard the summer showers Make music on old Heffer's pane While I was reading Pepys or Taine. Through Trumpington and Grantchester I used to roll on Shotover; At Hauxton Bridge my lamp would light And sleep in Royston, for the night. Or to Five Miles from Anywhere I used to scull; and sit and swear While wasps attacked my bread and jam Those summer evenings on the Cam. (O crispy English cottage-loaves Baked in ovens, not in stoves! O white unsalted English butter O satisfaction none can utter!) ... To think that while those joys I knew In Cambridge, I did not know you. July 1915. |
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Often, on afternoons grey and sombre, When clouds lie low and dark with rain, A random bell strikes a chord familiar And I hear the Oxford chimes again. Never I see a swift stream running Cold and full from shore to shore, But I think of Isis, and remember The leaping boat and the throbbing oar. O my brothers, my more than brothers— Lost and gone are those days indeed: Where are the bells, the gowns, the voices, All that made us one blood and breed? Gone—and in many an unknown pitfall You have swinked, and died like men— And here I sit in a quiet chamber Writing on paper with a pen. O my brothers, my more than brothers— Big, intolerant, gallant boys! Going to war as into a boatrace, Full of laughter and fond of noise! I can imagine your smile: how eager, Nervous for the suspense to be done— And I remember the Iffley meadows, The crew alert for the starting gun. Old grey city, O dear grey city, How young we were, and how close to Truth! We envied no one, we hated no one, All was magical to our youth. Still, in the hall of the Triple Roses, The cannel casts its ruddy span, And still the garden gate discloses The message Manners Makyth Man. Then I recall that an Oxford college, Setting a stone for those who have died, Nobly remembered all her children— Even those on the German side. That was Oxford! and that was England! Fight your enemy, fight him square; But in justice, honour, and pity Even the enemy has his share. November 1916. |
| "If the trumpet speak with an uncertain sound, Who shall prepare himself for the battle?" |
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In all this time of agony How does this mighty nation drift: Our blood is red upon the sea, The foe is merciless and swift. We doubt, we sway, And day by day Our hearts are thicker with distrust.... We would, should, could, can, may—we must! So many divers voices call, And cloud our souls with dull dismay: O when shall cry, clear over all, The Voice that none can disobey? My country, speak! In no oblique Uncertain tone; be this our cry: If Honour is not ours, we die. My country, speak! They lie who say That we are soft with love of home; For still, in all the ancient way, Our ships shall kiss the perilled foam. Yea, slow to wrath, But lo, our path Leads straight at last, and blithe to tread: We shall live better, having bled. March 1917. |
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Dynamo of strength uncurbed, Boundless might, undisciplined; Energies still undisturbed, Power, unharnessed as the wind— Huge, inchoate commonweal, Lo, at last we catch the thrill: Now we found and forge the steel, Scoop a channel for the will. Here we stand; and destiny Now admits us no retreat: Hearts are braced from sea to sea, Hark! I hear the marching feet! Hills are moved; streams faster run; Plumper kernels fill the wheat, Now we dream and do as one.... Hark! I hear the marching feet! March 1917. |
| "The Stars and Stripes went into battle at Vimy Ridge on the bayonet of a young Texan, fighting with a Canadian regiment."—News item. |
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On Vimy Ridge the Flag renewed Her youth: the thunder of the guns Recalled the crimson plenitude Shed by her ancient sons. Once more her white and scarlet bands Were new-baptized with battle sweat: She felt the clutch of desperate hands, The push of bayonet. Across that bloody snarl of wire Her colors blossomed clean as flame: The Bride of Glory, in desire To meet her groom she came. The lightning in her folds she kept, The sky, the stars, the dew— Impassioned, in her youth she swept On Vimy, born anew! |
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If you can face a ragweed without sneezing And walk undaunted past a stack of hay; If you can find a field of daisies pleasing, And not require ten handkerchiefs a day; If you can stroll in meadowland and orchard And greet the goldenrod with gay surprise, And not be most abominably tortured By swollen nose and bloodshot, flaming eyes; If you can go on sneezing like a geyser And never utter one unmeasured curse; If you can squeeze the useless atomiser Nor look with envy on each passing hearse; If you can still be merry in September, And not lay plans to drown yourself in drink, Then your career is something to remember, And you deserve an Iron Cross, I think! |
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Far away In the third-floor-back of my skull I feel a light, airy, prurient, menacing tickling, Dainty as the pattering toes of nautch girls On a polished cabaret floor. Suddenly, With a crescendo like an approaching express train, The fury bursts upon me.... My brain explodes. Pinwheels of violet fire Whirl and spin before my bloodshot eyes— Violet, puce, ochre, nacre, euchre ... all the other Colours, Including jade, umber and sienna. My ears ring, my soul reels. I tingle with agony. Who invented goldenrod? I wish I were dead. Aaaaaaarrrrrrhhhaashoooo! |
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With this handkerchief and this nose Seven million separate blows Neighed I, brayed I, sobbed I, blew I, Snorted I, wept I, mopped I, crew I, Tickled I, prickled I, groaned and moaned I, And for all my sins atoned I; Raged I, sniffled I, and exploded, And a speedy death foreboded, Swayed I, prayed I, shook I, shouted I, To expensive doctors touted I, Gobbled I, hobbled I, atomised I, Cursed I and philosophised I, Worked I, shirked I, lay and lurked I, And in horrid spasms jerked I, Camphored, menthol'd, and cold creamed I And asthmatic nightmares dreamed I, Those who hate me highly pleased I, And—I'll not conceal it— SNEEZED I! |
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Ed Grimes always did hate me Because I wrote better poetry than he did. In the hay fever season I used to walk Along the river bank, to keep as far as possible Away from pollen. One day Ed and his brother crept up behind me While I was writing a sonnet, Tied my hands and feet, And carried me into a hayfield and left me. I sneezed myself to death. At the funeral the church was full of goldenrod, And I think it must have been Ed Who sowed that ragweed all round my grave. |
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Sweetly solemn see them stand, Spinning churns on either hand, Neatly capped and aproned white— Airy fairy dairy sight! Jersey priestesses they seem Miracleing milk to cream. Cream solidifies to cheese By Pasteural mysteries, And they give, within their shrine, Their communion in kine. Incantations pure they mutter O'er the golden minted butter And (no layman hand can pen it) See them gloat above their rennet! By that hillside window pane Rugged teamsters draw the rein, Doff the battered hat and bow To these acolytes of cow. Genuflect, ye passersby! Muse upon their ritual high— Milk to cream, yea, cream to cheese White lacteal mysteries! Let adorers sing the word Of the smoothly flowing curd. Yea, we sing with bells and fife This is the Whey, this is the Life! |
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Much have I travelled, a commuter bold, And many goodly excavations seen; Round many miles of planking have I been Which wops in fealty to contractors hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told Where dynamite had swept the traffic clean, And every passer-by must duck his bean Or flying rocks would lay him stiff and cold. As I was crossing Broadway, with surprise I held my breath and improvised a prayer: I saw the solid street before me rise And men and trolleys leap into the air. I gazed into the pit with doubtful eyes, Silent upon a peak in Herald Square. |
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There are no bowls on Bowling Green, No maids in Maiden lane; The river path to Greenwich No longer doth remain. No longer in the Bouwerie Stands Peter Stuyvesant his tree! And yet the Dutchmen built their dorp With sturdy wit and will; In Nassau street their spectral feet Are heard to echo still. In many places sure I am New York is still Nieuw Amsterdam. Sometimes at night in Bowling Green There comes a rumbling sound, Which literal minds are wont to think The Subway. But I found That still the Dutchmen ease their souls By playing ghostly games of bowls! |
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A well-sharp'd pencil leads one on to write: When guns are cocked, the shot is guaranteed; The primed occasion puts the deed in sight: Who steals a book who knows not how to read? Seeing a pulpit, who can silence keep? A maid, who would not dream her ta'en to wife? Men looking down from some sheer dizzy steep Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life. |
A representation of what happens when Mr. Dunraven Dulcet, the gifted poet, reads some of his verses to an audience of two hundred ladies and one man. After Mr. Dulcet has been introduced, and after he has expressed his mortification (or is it gratification?) at Madam Chairman's kind remarks, he proceeds as follows. The comments of his audience are indicated in italics.
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Romance abides in humble things:— How commonplace the precious ore! The shining vision sometimes springs |
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| The one man: | |
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From too much cheese the night before! |
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The man who seeks the True Romance Among the high aristocrats, Forgets the crowning circumstance |
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| Mrs. Smith: | |
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My dear, he wears the sweetest spats! |
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Some little gutter-dabbling child, Some shabby clerk whom all despise— On him Olympus may have smiled |
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| Mrs. Brown: | |
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He has those dark romantic eyes! |
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Some shimmer from the lustred dawn Of hitherto unguessed to-morrows, Imperishable laurels drawn |
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| Mrs. Jones: | |
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I think he must have secret sorrows! |
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Immeasurable arcs of sky, Vast spaces where the great winds shout, His eye must pierce, his hand must try.... |
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| Mrs. Robinson: | |
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Too bad that he is growing stout! |
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His heart is like a parchment scroll Whereon the beautiful, the true, Are registered; and in his soul |
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| Mrs. Smith: | |
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I do love poetry, don't you? |
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Romance abides in humble things, And humble people understand That feathers from an angel's wings |
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| Mrs. Brown: | |
| I must just go and shake his hand! | |
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The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam, The coal supply is virtually done, And at this price, indeed it does not seem As though we could afford another ton. Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite; The radiators lose their temperature: How ill avail, on such a frosty night, The "short and simple flannels of the poor." Though in the ice-box, fresh and newly laid, The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep, No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid: We cannot cook again till coal is cheap. Can Morris-chair or papier-maché bust Revivify the failing pressure-gauge? Chop up the grand piano if you must, And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage! Full many a can of purest kerosene The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean To bring my morning coffee to a boil. The village collier (flinty-hearted beast) Who tried to hold me up in such a pinch May soon be numbered with the dear deceased: I give him to the mercy of Judge Lynch. |
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August casts her burning spell: One vast sapphire is the sky; Woods still have their musky smell, By the pool the dragon fly Like a jewelled scarf-pin glows. Doris, Vera, and Kathleen— Where are they? and where are those Moons we saw at seventeen? Bright as amber, and as round As a new engagement ring— (So we murmured, gently bound To some flapper's leading string.) Sweet and witless repartee: Perilous canoes careen— Telescopes would split, to see MOONS we saw at seventeen! |
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Long and grey and gaunt he lies, A Lincoln among dogs; his eyes, Deep and clear of sight, appraise The meaningless and shuffling ways Of human folk that stop to stare. One witless woman seeing there How tired, how contemptuous He is of all the smell and fuss Asks him, "Poor fellow, are you sick?" Yea, sick, and weary to the quick Of heat and noise from dawn to dark. He will not even stoop to bark His protest, like the lesser bred. Would he might know, one gazer read The wistful longing in his face, The thirst for wind and open space And stretch of limbs to him begrudged. There came a little, dapper, fat And bustling man, with cane and spat And pearl-grey vest and derby hat— Such were the judger and the judged! |
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I often wander on the beach Where once, so brown of limb, The biting air, the roaring surf Summoned me to swim. I see my old abundant youth Where combers lean and spill, And though I taste the foam no more Other swimmers will. Oh, good exultant strength to meet The arching wall of green, To break the crystal, swirl, emerge Dripping, taut, and clean. To climb the moving hilly blue, To dive in ecstasy And feel the salty chill embrace Arm and rib and knee. What brave and vanished laughter then And tingling thighs to run, What warm and comfortable sands Dreaming in the sun. The crumbling water spreads in snow, The surf is hissing still, And though I kiss the salt no more Other swimmers will. |
| "There's nothing worth the wear of winning But laughter and the love of friends." |
| —Hilaire Belloc. |
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If those who have been kind to me Should ever chance these rhymes to see; Then let them know, upon the spot, Their kindnesses are not forgot! If any worthy task was done, The acts were never mine, not one: For parent, teacher, wife or friend Inspired the will, foresaw the end. What sorrows do our friends avert! How loyal, far beyond desert! And yet how churlish, dumb and crude Are all our words of gratitude. Then O remember, you and YOU, My old familiars, leal and true— The love that bonded you and me Is not forgot, will never be! |
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O noble gracious English tongue Whose fibres we so sadly twist, For caitiff measures he has sung Have pardon on the journalist. For mumbled metre, leaden pun, For slipshod rhyme, and lazy word, Have pity on this graceless one— Thy mercy on Thy servant, Lord! The metaphors and tropes depart, Our little clippings fade and bleach: There is no virtue and no art Save in straightforward Saxon speech. Yet not in ignorance or spite, Nor with Thy noble past forgot We sinned: indeed we had to write To keep a fire beneath the pot. Then grant that in the coming time, With inky hand and polished sleeve, In lucid prose or honest rhyme Some worthy task we may achieve— Some pinnacled and marbled phrase, Some lyric, breaking like the sea, That we may learn, not hoping praise, The gift of Thy simplicity. |