“Beauty dwindles into shadow,
 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.”
“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.”
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.
I deny to Space the sorrow;
 No leagues measure love from me;
 Turning boldly from her arms,
 Into her arms I shall come certainly.
Time and Space, folly’s wonder,
 Three-card shufflers, magic-men!
 True love is, that none shall say
 It ever was, or ever flowers again.

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.
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.
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.
Crusading ivy Southward breaks
 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....
For bloom of quince yet caps the may,
 The briar is held by Sharon’s rose,
 Monsters of thought through earth we stray,
 And how remission comes, God knows.

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.
“But, many-fathered little one,” she said,
 “Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough,
 Here is your mother whom you brought to bed.
 Acknowledge only me, be this enough,
 For such as worship after shall be told
 A white dove sired you or a rain of gold.”

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,
“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.
“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgive
 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
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.
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.”
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.”
He then enraged with one so meek,
 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,
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.
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.
But oh, their sweats, their secret fears
 Lest clod-souled witnesses may rise
 To set a tingling at their ears
 And bar the approach to Paradise!

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.
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.
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.

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

Death, kindly eager to pretend
 Himself my servant in the land of spears,
 Humble allegiance at the end
 Broke where the homeward track your castle nears,
 Let his white steed before my red steed press
 And rapt you from me into quietness.

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.
The bearded lips writhed ever more
 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.
Nebuchadnezzar’s duke enticed
 To pay a megrim’s fee?
 Assyrian valour sacrificed
 For a boudoir dignity?
“Only for this, that some tall knave
 Had scorned her welcoming bed,
 For this, the assault, the stroke, the grave,”
 Groaned Holofernes’ head.

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”?
Yet, ancient, since you borrow
 From youth the strength and speed,
 Seducing as an equal
 His playmates in the night,
 He, robbed, assumes your sceptre,
 He overgoes your rede,
 And with his brown and lively hairs
 Out-prophesies your white.

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.
The Poet being divine
 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.
Let parents, children, wife,
 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,
By the gross and rootling hog
 Who grunts nor lifts his head,
 By jealous dog
 Or old ass thistle-fed.
By so much less their praise,
 By so much more our glory.
 Grim pride outweighs
 The anguish of our story.
We strain our strings thus tight,
 Our voices pitch thus high,
 To enforce our right
 Over futurity.

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.

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!”

DEDICATORY

Dolon, analyst of souls,
 To the Graces hangs up here
 His shrimp-net rotting into holes
 And oozy from the infernal mere;
 He wreathes his gift around with cress,
 Lush harvest of the public cess.

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?

“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.

MOTTO TO A BOOK OF EMBLEMS

Though you read these, but understand not, curse not!
 Or though you read and understand, yet praise not!
 What poet weaves a better knot or worse knot
 Untangling which, your own lives you unbrace not?

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.
When four years passed and five and six,
 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.
Together.
Man-like he lived, but God-like died,
 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.
“Love all men as thyself,” said He.
 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.
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,
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,
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,
Together.
But like a God He will have died,
 All hatred from His thought removed,
 Imperfect until crucified,
 In crucifixion well-beloved.

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.
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.
He of his song then wearying ceased,
 But was not yet released;
 The Queen’s request was More,
 And her behest was More.
 He played of random notes some score,
 He found his rhymes at least—
 Then suddenly let his twangling harp down fall
 And fled in tears from King and 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.
“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.”
The eye could not resign, restless in grief,
 But darting forward to a later leaf
 Found Him she loved and He alone of men.
 Oh, who this He was, being a second He
 Confused the plan; the book spoke sternly then,
 “Read page by page and see!”

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.”

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.
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.
So angered by your undefeat,
 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,
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.
Oh, not less violent, not less keen
 And barbèd more than murder’s blade!
 “The brook,” you sigh, “that washes clean,
 The flower of love that will not fade!”

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.
But why should man in God’s Name stress
 The dewdrop’s inconspicuousness
 When to lakes, woods, the estuary,
 Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea,
 This dewdrop falling from its leaf
 Can spread amazement near to grief,
 As it were a world distinct in mould
 Lost with its beauty ages old?

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.

Made and Printed in Great Britain. Richard Clay & Sons, Ltd.
Printers, Bungay, Suffolk.