The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton, and other poems This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton, and other poems Author: Humbert Wolfe Release date: February 18, 2020 [eBook #61440] Language: English Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON, AND OTHER POEMS *** Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON AND OTHER POEMS BY HUMBERT WOLFE Author of “LONDON SONNETS.” OXFORD BASIL BLACKWELL MDCCCCXX DEDICATION. Only this--that when I’ve done with wearing Gold words upon my heart and reaching after My immortality, I shall be hearing Then, and long afterwards (be sure!) your laughter. Only this--that when I come to sleeping And later men appraise me in the quarrels Of poets and the bays, tell them I’m keeping No bays, but at my heart a lover’s laurels. Some of these poems have appeared in “The Saturday Review,” “The Westminster Gazette,” and “The Saturday Westminster Gazette.” They are republished by the courtesy of the editors of those journals. CONTENTS. [Illustration] Page PERSONALITIES. Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton 7 The Unknown God: I. Pheidias 12 II. Paul 16 Cassio hears Othello 22 The First Airman 23 Mary 24 The Sicilian Expedition 27 Caesar and Anthony 30 The Dancers 31 Battersea 32 The Woodcutters of Hütteldorf 33 Heine’s Last Song 37 IMPERSONALITIES. The Satyr 39 Balder’s Song 40 Mary the Mother 42 Apples 43 The Skies 44 Three Epitaphs: I. Flecker 45 II. Edith Cavell 45 III. The Little Sleeper 45 To him whom the cap fits 46 France 47 Alchemy 48 Orpheus 49 The Wind 50 Gabriel 51 Opals and Amber 52 After Battle 53 Mademoiselle de Maupin 54 Du Bist wie eine Blume 54 Cambridge 55 A Room in Bohemia 55 Victory 56 Cleopatra 56 Medusa 57 The Jungle 58 The Pencil 59 Columbine 60 The Crowder’s Tune 61 ENVOI 63 PERSONALITIES. SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON. Jew-baiting still! Two thousand years are run And still, it seems, good Master Chesterton, Nothing’s abated of the old offence. Changing its shape, it never changes tense. Other things were, this only was and is. And whether Judas murder with a kiss, Or Shylock catch a Christian with a gin, All all’s the same--the first enormous sin Traps Judas in the moneylender’s mesh And cuts from Jesus’ side the pound of flesh. Nor is this all the punishment. For still Through centuries to suffer were no ill If we in human axes and the rod Discerned the high pro-consulate of God Chastening his people. But we are not chastened. Age after age upon our hearts is fastened The same cold malice, and for all they bleed They burn for ever with unchanging greed. Grosser with suffering we grow, and one Calls to another “If in Babylon Are gold and silver, be content with them, Better found gold than lost Jerusalem.” They forget Zion; in the market place Rebuild the Temple for the Jewish race, And thus from age to age do Jews like me Have their revenge on Christianity, Since thus from age to age Christians like you Unchristian grow in hounding down the Jew. And thus from age to age His will is done, And Shylock’s sins produce a Chesterton. But since we both must suffer and both are Bound in the orb of one outrageous star, Hater and hated, for a little while Let us together watch how mile on mile The heavenly moon, all milky white, regains Her gentle empery, and smooths the stains Of red our star left in her heaven, thus Bringing a respite even unto us Before the red star strikes again. The riot Of the heart for a moment sinks, and in the quiet Like a cool bandage on the forehead be Content a second with tranquillity. And from your lips the secular taunt of dog Banish, to hear what in the synagogue We heard once at Barmitzvah (as we call The confirmation, when the praying shawl Is for the first time worn, and the boy waits For law and manhood at the altar gates). Whether ’tis true or no, it shall be true just long enough to build a bridge to you, That hangs a shining second till your laughter Reminds me of my ducats and my daughter. It happened thus. When the last “adonoi” Had faltered into silence of some boy Whose voice was all a silver miracle Of water, a voice echoed “Israel,” A sweeter voice than even his, but broken With a sorrowful thrill, as though the heart had spoken Of countless generations doomed to pain And none to ease them found. It cried again, Or so we thought who listened, “Ye do well To let the children come, O Israel, But even these are lost and unforgiven, Since not of these His kingdom and His heaven Who at their fathers’ fathers’ hands was sold In Calvary; and not their voice, though gold, Nor innocent eyes, nor ways that children have Of magic in their reaching hands, can save. For, though ye offer these as sacrifice, A nation’s childhood is too small a price To pay the interest upon the debt That all your sorrows cannot liquidate. O what a usury our God has made On thirty pieces that the high priest paid! Profit was none, but from the first the loss That grew of the fourth ghost upon the Cross. Two on the Cross were seen at Jesus’ side, The fourth, the fourth unseen and crucified With piercéd hands and feet, and heart as well, The ghost betrayed of traitor Israel. Yourselves ye bought and sold, yourselves decreed To the end of the world your doom. For who will heed The prayer or utter mercy on a child, However sweet he call? The heart is wild Of your own ghost, and not the softest lamb Of God escapes his sentence. For I am The wraith of all your children from the first Long ere their birth inexorably cursed.” None saw the ghost. Some said it was the boy That spoke. Yet someone answered “adonoi, Thy will be done” and it was finished. All Closer about their foreheads drew the shawl Fearing to see, and as the darkness grows Deeper save where above the altar glows One lamp, in hearts that Pharoah would unharden For pity rises not a cry for pardon, But to the Mills of God a bitter call “Grind quickly, since ye grind exceeding small!” That is the tale. But mark, the moon in heaven Is hid with clouds. This little time was given To peace and to remembering one another Who might have been (God knows) brother with brother. But since ’tis over and the peace is done Shylock returns and with him Chesterton. THE UNKNOWN GOD. “Whom you ignorantly worship, him I declare unto you.” I. PHEIDIAS. Pheidias, the sculptor, dying bade them set His last-cut marble near lest he forget, Travelling, where beauty ends, what beauty is In the world and the light no longer his. And while they brought it, women, as they use, Sang in the house the litany of Zeus That is the god of gods, yet could not save His own beloved lady from the grave. “The dearest head” they sung, “yea even her’s, Whose hair was like a harp, when the wind stirs Upon the strings and wakes them, golden hair, Must droop upon the ground and perish there-- Even her hair (the women sung), alas For loveliness! wherein Olympus was Lost for a god and found, when he, with mist About him of its glory twist on twist, Found on her mouth, more passionate for this, Mortality, that trembled in the kiss --Even that hair, for all a high god’s art, Long since is dust, and dust that was her heart.” This song of ending in the darkness came To Pheidias in the courtyard, where the flame Of torches threw a final light and shewed Two pillars of the house, a turn of road That led (he thought) beyond all sight, and he Must walk it with a quiet company --The cold imagined gods, no prayer might cozen To help him on the way, immortal, frozen Glimpses of deity his hand, creating In marble out of his heart where they were waiting For life, had carved, and given them instead Of life the eternal gesture of the dead. He with those gods must walk, since he had grown Into their silence, and had made his own Their longings thus imprisoned, and their heart On one beat fixed for ever. He must start To follow, but before his striving spirit Steps out upon the road or falters near it, One god, that guards the passage, waiting stands-- His latest marble, made like those, with hands, Fashioned, like those, of a man’s dreams, but overstepping His maker’s mind, and into a glory sweeping No man might share. For the great forehead lifted Out of the shade of life, and light had shifted Her quality, whose radiant indecision Found, though the eyes were closed, consummate vision. This was the god that dying Pheidias Had beaten out of marble. This he was, And would not share with other gods their death In beauty, but was living with the breath Of his creator, who with death at strife Laid down his own to give his creature life. This god they brought to Pheidias, for whom The whole great world had been a little room, Which he had used, as others use, but he Looked through the window on eternity. And seeing his god, upon his mind the cloud Faded an instant, and he cried aloud, As though all Hellas heard him, “O be proud Of beauty, Hellas, nor be curious Of what the secret is that haunted us Your poets, who had strained to it, and after Lay down to sleep, sealing their lips with laughter. For laughter is the judgment of the wise, Who measure equally with level eyes What the world is, what gods, and what are men, And twixt too great a joy, too sharp a pain, Strikes on a balance, so that tears are shot With laughter, laughter with tears, and these are not Themselves, but greater than themselves, and each From other learns and doth to other teach. We are content with beauty thus, who find That when all’s done--sculpture or song--behind What we have carved or sung, a greater thing Startles the heart with movement of a wing We neither see nor dare see. For our thought Is larger than we know, and what we sought Passes and has forgotten; what we do, The truth we did not guess at pierces through, If what was done was well done. This last bust Of mine not as I willed but as I must I carved, and now, at the end of all, I can See that the dream he does not dream is man. The earlier gods I carved and knew, they wait My coming as their master at the gate Of death, for what I knew is mine to have, Live with my life, and wither in my grave. Thus beauty known is fading, known love fades, And the truth we know a shadow in the shades, And only that which lies beyond our hands, Beauty, no earth-bound spirit understands, But guesses at and faints for in desire; And love, that does not burn, because the fire Is lit beyond the world, and truth that dies Beyond our thoughts in unimagined lies That are the truth beyond truth, only these Are lasting and outwit our memories. But the familiar gods that I have made-- With those I will not walk. O be afraid Of beauty attainable and love attained And limited immortality. Unchained The greatest soul must walk and walk alone With what it has not seen and has not known!” Thus Pheidias spoke and presently the flame Of torches died, his god that had no name --His latest statue--watched his spirit pass And the dawn came that knew not Pheidias. II. PAUL. Paul the apostle, on the sacred hill Of Mars at Athens, felt a hidden will Working against his gospel. That was old (It seemed), yet had the thrust of boyhood cold, Yet tempered in wild fires, and sensing this He prayed in silence. The Acropolis, Making a final bid for beauty, took The dying sun to her heart with the wild look As of a woman yielding to her lover; And he in flame confederate leaning over With armfuls of clouded roses, blossom on blossom, Rifled the sweets of evening, and for her bosom Dismantling heaven’s high pavilion With tumbled beauties wooed her thus and won. This Paul from prayer rising saw, nor cared, Watching a Cross in the East, if these had snared The West with meshes trailing from the wrist Of Venus, also an Evangelist. “So little is the conquest of the flesh, So like a spinner, weaving her small mesh --And a boy tears it as he passes by-- Embroiders fruitlessly her tapestry The Paphian woman, and the threads are thin And ghostly as the new light enters in-- The tapestry that was the world and all The curtain Jesus tears aside” says Paul: “What is there worshipful here? These skies are fleeting, This beauty made by hands of the sun is beating Into the night that swallows her, and none Is warm, when night has fallen, with the sun; And the whole frame of the celestial Firmament, though dusted with the stars, must fall As being under death, and change in Hell, When death is conquered, her corruptible Beauty, and at the trumpet’s sound put on, As ye must also, incorruption.” And while he spoke the curtain of the sky Night fretted with the cool embroidery Of stars, and the moon upon her silent spindle Did all the velvet warp to silver kindle. But a young man of the philosophers, Who stood about him, said “The moonlight stirs With beauty in the heart, and in the mind The things that seem do such a glory find Lit with this wonder of the moon and star, As almost to persuade us that they are, But these we know are broken images Of patterns laid-up in heaven. Socrates, A citizen of Athens, was betrayed To death for teaching this, and smiling laid His cup of hemlock down, because his heart Already of eternity was part, And death for such is freedom. Yet for this He did surrender the Acropolis, That had all Hellas for a coronet About her forehead radiantly set, Island on island, and for this forsook The friendship of his friends, his dreams, the look Of hesitating spring that dare not stay Yet will not leave the hills of Attica. For this all gifts, all memories, he gave Freely believing that the narrow grave Was the end of all. Thus he passed out alone, Content to face the gods no man had known Because they beggar knowledge, and persuaded It was enough, that, when for him had faded The light, for us his death a light had lit Would shew a path and we might walk by it. ‘This is the spirit of man; in vain it reaches Beyond the limits ordained and vainly stretches To where truth, beauty, goodness, three in one, Find each in all supreme communion. For what is greater than we know,’ he said ‘It is well to die,’ and smiling he was dead. This he believed, all this he sacrificed. Did he teach better, Jew, whom you call Christ?” A cloud passed by the moon, and no one spoke, Till suddenly her silver spear-head broke The cloudy targe, and leaning from the place She has in heaven struck with light the face Of Pheidias’ god. And Paul cried “Even thus Ye have your answer, superstitious Who set this idol up, and worshipped it In darkness, and behold the face is lit With fire from on high. A period Is set to ignorance and to the god Ye ignorantly worship, and the stone Or marble of the god ye have not known, Changes beneath my hand and in my speech Unto the living god I know and preach. Do you rejoice because that Socrates Died facing death and dark? I tell you these In Christ are conquered. Death has lost her sting, The dark her victory, and angels sing At the empty mouth of the grave, because my king Has made the grave a refuge and protection From the pain of living by His resurrection. Socrates sleeps; the god he did not know Sleeps with him, and long since the grasses grow Above their resting place, but flowers reach In vain their roots to find Him whom I preach. He is not there, but though we darkly see, As in a glass, his immortality Waits for us all, and beckons in the place Where we who find Him see Him face to face. Socrates, to death a prisoner, did well, But death was all; Christ by the miracle Of the open grave, his deity forsaken, For all the world has death a prisoner taken. Nor Socrates in vain all sacrificed If here his fruitless death has pled for Christ.” Dionysius the Areopagite Cried loudly unto Paul “Were it not right To shatter on his marble pedestal This idol that has stood for death?” and Paul Answered “What say ye brethren, for His sake Who vanquished death shall we the idol break?” But even as Paul raised his hand the light Faded upon the sculptured face. The night Cloaked it, and, though Paul pressed, the threatened blow Hung in the air and fell not. For a low Strange glory changed upon the face, and seemed A face that Paul had seen before or dreamed To see when near Damascus, and instead Of Pheidias’ god unknown another Head Sorrowful-sweet on Paul astonished shone And, ere his threatening hand could fall, was gone. But a voice whispered “Art thou after all Thine unknown God still persecuting, Saul?” CASSIO HEARS OTHELLO. Thus for the last last time with the first kiss! O my white bird, here is the precipice! I throw you like a homing carrier Into the footless spaces of the air! And your spread wings, set free, beat up and out In mounting circles, storming death’s redoubt And the cloudy fortress of Avilion. Gone, my white bird, beyond all dreaming, gone! And my hands warm that held her. Cassio It was well done! Always to let her go In the grave they shall be open thus, and yet Feeling the half-poised wings--poor hands! Forget My madness, Cassio, and think of me As of a man who set his sea-bird free From the prison of his heart to see her win The deep blue floors of heaven and enter in. O I am glad, I am glad, I dared this thing. Even now my bird is home, awakening Among her shining sisters, far--so far, Not even the thoughts I have can trouble her. So carve upon the stone that marks my grave: “All that he had to death Othello gave, And has kept nothing back but the sweet wound Of life, that grew so dear, because he found The mortal knife, that stabbed him, slit the strings That gave his bird the guerdon of her wings.” THE FIRST AIRMAN. Give me the wings, magician. I will know What blooms on airy precipices grow That no hand plucks, large unexpected blossoms, Scentless, with cry of curlews in their bosoms, And the great winds like grasses where their stems Spangle the universe with diadems. I will pluck those flowers and those grasses, I, Icarus, drowning upwards through the sky With air that closes underneath my feet As water above the diver. I will meet Life with the dawn in heaven, and my fingers Dipped in the golden floss of hair that lingers Across the unveiled spaces and makes them colder, As a woman’s hair across her naked shoulder. Death with the powdered stars will walk and pass Like a man’s breath upon a looking-glass, For a suspended heart-beat making dim Heaven brighter afterwards because of him. Give me the wings, magician. So their tune Mix with the silver trumpets of the moon And, beyond music mounting, clean outrun The golden diapason of the sun. There is a secret that the birds are learning Where the long lanes in heaven have a turning And no man yet has followed; therefore these Laugh hauntingly across our usual seas. I’ll not be mocked by curlews in the sky; Give me the wings magician, or I die. His call for wings or death was heard and thus Came both to the first airman, Icarus. MARY. (Sister of Martha.) There was no star in the East the night I came With spikenard in hushed Jerusalem-- But a light in an upper chamber dimly lit Was star enough--I would have followed it Through lonelier streets unto the smaller room Where afterwards it blossomed in the tomb. Light of the world, but how much more to me The light that other women also see! No choiring angels in gold groups adored Their king that night, but searching for my Lord Unchoired, uncrowned, whose Kingdom had not come, I heard none call, but dumb, as death is dumb, The night misled his angels, or may be Night and the angels made a way for me. My footfalls in the street rang very clear As I drew on. It seemed that all must hear My coming, eyes that peered behind the grating, Cloaked hands to hold me at each corner waiting. But nothing stirred till suddenly there ran The flame of the moon in heaven for a span Less than a heart-beat, and I saw a man Steal out of Simon’s house, and pass me by With such a horror on his lips that I, Also a traitor, shrunk and knew him not-- Him that was Judas called Iscariot. Also a traitor I, because I came Not worshipping the Master in that Name That his disciples called him, not the Christ Of God for me that night. I sought a tryst With a man of men, and if my heart had won The Son of God had died in Mary’s son, And he, who, knowing the appointed evil, Sent forth Iscariot to his task, a devil, Also accepted, though this was more hard, The sweet betrayal of the spikenard. He knew me what I meant and in his eyes, That for a moment smiled, was Paradise Lost unto love, that for the greater sin Than even Judas’ might not enter in. And when the disciples would have stayed my hands, “She does but good” He said “she understands.” And I who poured the unguent understood, But good it was not, as a man means good. For I forget the Master, I but see (A woman taken in adultery With a dream and a dream) his human face I would have saved from God, and in the place Of Gospel and of resurrection I Hear him say “Mary” and behold him die. Judas, to death who sold him for a kiss, Sinned less than I, who’d buy him back for this. And Christ forgave me--How shall I forgive Jesus, my love, the man who would not live? THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. To-day the Triremes sailed for Sicily With no wind stirring on a soundless sea; But a great crying of birds beat up and filled The empty caverns of the air and stilled The thrashing of the oars. The level sun Unto himself, it seemed, drew one by one With strings of gold the ships that no one heard Move on the waters, till at last one bird (Of all the wings past knowledge and past counting) Wheeled upwards on the air and mounting, mounting, Rose out of human sight, but all the rest Passed with the passing fleet into the West. To-day the Triremes sailed--and will their sailing Prosper or fail because a gull was wailing For crumbs about the prows? Who but a fool Would find a message in a screaming gull? For if gods use such messengers as these The less gods they (or so says Socrates). They are not gods (he says) of fear and hate, A swollen type of man degenerate, Catching at flattery, at sorrow fleering And every spiteful whisper overhearing; But largely on their mountain they attend Unflinchingly the one appointed end, When what was nobly done and finely striven Will find the archetype laid up in heaven. Not these by gulls pronounce or suffer doom, Nor cries among the ships (and yet the gloom Settles about Athene’s temple. If An injured god used his prerogative Of anger, might not Hermes?)--that’s the gull Stirring the superstition of a fool! What if a week ago we, waking, found The Hermae spoiled or fallen to the ground? Shall Fate be altered or a doom be spoken Because an image was in malice broken? Or Athens, that remembers Marathon, Rock in her empire for a splintered stone? How dear she is--was never city else So loved, or lovely in her strength; like bells Pealed in the brain her beauty. This is she, Athens, whose sweeter name is liberty. To-day the Triremes sailed--as Zeus decrees All shall be done; but hardly Socrates, As Westward in the dark our captains wear, Would frown if an Athenian spoke a prayer Even to Hermes, (even though it seem We fear the flight of birds and cries in him), Thus saying simply for the love of her-- Athens--“O Hermes, called the Messenger, God of the wings, since now the sails are set, If aught was evil, evil now forget! If aught was left undone, think not of this But her remember, Hermes, what she is, A city leaning to the sea, and shod With freedom on her feet, as thou a god With wings art poised for flight--O, if the gull Were bird of thine, Hermes, be merciful.” CAESAR AND ANTHONY. Augustus Caesar, aging by the sea, Remembered, musingly, dead Anthony, And wondered as he thought upon his days Which had been better, laurel leaves or bays. “Bays for the victor, when his fight is over, But laurels” thought Augustus “for the lover. That brown Egyptian woman, the fierce queen Who with a serpent died--she came between Him and the world’s dominion, whispering ‘Does empire burn so, has thy crown the sting These lips have when they touch thee--thus and thus? Choose then!’ ‘I choose!’ replied Antonius.” “I wonder” thought Augustus as he lay Watching the menial clouds of conquered day Applaud with vehement reflection The cold triumphant ending of the sun. “The sun’s an emperor, and all the sky Burns to a flame for his nativity, And not less beautiful nor unattended By conquered flocks of cloud he passes splendid, Throwing his slaves this laminated gold. Master in death, but in his death how cold! But to have died astonished on a kiss Had heat to the end and Anthony had this.” THE DANCERS. This was the way of it, or I forget How visions end. The flaming sun was set Or setting in a sky as green as grass, Stained here and there like a window, where there was A martyr-cloud with halo dipped in gold Or red as the Sacred Heart is. From the old Low house--a country house not built with hands And of that country where the poplar stands Whose leaves have shivered in our dreams--there came With the rising moon the dancers to the same Tune we have heard we scarce remember when, Nor care so only that it sound again. Each dancer wears a fancy for a dress, This one with starlike tears is gemmed no less Than that is crowned with roses as of lips That kissed and do not kiss. There also trips Pierrot, because we all have lost, and thin, Cruelly swift, victorious Harlequin, Because some find and keep, but both entwine, Because she needs them both, with Columbine. Then lanterns on the trees to radiant fruit Burn till dawn plucks them, and the light pursuit Of dancers on the lawn is done, and laughter Of those who fled and those who followed after Dies; to a little wind the darkened trees Bend gravely and resume their silences. BATTERSEA. I have always known just where the river ends (Or seems to end) that I shall find my friends, Who are my friends no longer, being dead, And hear the ordinary things they said, That now seem wonderful, some evening when I take the Number Nineteen bus again To Battersea. It will, I think, be clear With stars behind the four great chimneys. Dear In the moon, young and unchanging, they Will cry me welcome in the boyish way They had before they went to France, but I, A boy no more, will greet them silently. THE WOODCUTTERS OF HÜTTELDORF. “The plan by which individual Viennese are allowed to obtain their own wood supplies has already been described by more than one observer. It will, however, in time to come appear so incredible, and it so completely sums up the misery of the people and the breakdown of civilization and administration, that no excuse is needed for placing it once more formally and definitely on record. In the immediate neighbourhood of Vienna lies a forest known as the Wienerwald, the nearest point being on hills to the north, two or three miles from the centre of the city. The two chief centres of wood collection are the suburbs of Hütteldorf and Dorhbach. The prevalence of women and children among the collectors is the most painful feature of the proceedings.” _From_ “Peace in Austria,” _by Sir W. Beveridge_. Nous n’irons plus au bois: the woods are shut: Les lauriers sont coupés: the laurels cut. Thus love, when still his pitiful sweet cry For youth and spring, his play-boys, sensibly Touched at the heart. But now he does not care What woods, what trees are standing anywhere. For there’s no wood in the world to be found That does not stab his feet, and the trees wound His eyes with thorns--the eyes which did not see In joy, but find their sight in misery. There is a wood they named the Wienerwald. There when the spring was new the throstle called Spring to her ball-room, and the Viennese Heard her light foot provoking the grave trees, Half willingly at first, young leaves to stir, That later passionately danced with her. And here the cannon-fodder used to feed The altar-fire of the older need, And sweeter than the need of death. In spring The Austrian boys saw love awakening Here, and as English boys in English wood Have given all to love, all that they could These gave--their childhood, dawn’s relentless star That is put out with kisses. These they gave And buried childhood lightly in her grave So that a man might hear her calling yet, “Primrose farewell, good-morrow violet!”-- Might yet have heard her, but the woods are shut To those who would return: the laurels cut. There are many go to-day to Wienerwald, But love does not go with them. He has failed In the Great War, who had so little skill In the Will to Murder, love who was the Will To live and make live, but the War has shewn His Will is treachery, and love’s alone In a great wilderness. For if he cries Aloud, they mock him in their Paradise-- The Angels of Armageddon. “This is he Who ruled us, being blind, now let him see” They say, “a prisoner, what we have done, The priests of mankind’s last religion. Let him look deep and celebrate in Hell How we reverse the Christian miracle, Stealing their spirits from the sullen swine And consecrating them as yours and mine, So that we rush together suddenly Down a steep place, where by an empty sea Our worshippers pile on a flaming wharf The trees that were the woods at Hütteldorf.” Ares, the god of battles, has prevailed. At Hütteldorf, deep in the Wienerwald, They go to the woods for fuel, and one sees A child that beats upon the laurel trees With starved small hands that hold an axe, and how The spring returns to find a hooded crow Waiting and waiting, as the thrush once waited For childhood’s end. But this, it seems, was fated That all should change, save only that these seem Still unsubstantial as the lover’s dream, As unsubstantial, but with blossoms set That have no traffic with the violet And primrose. Here the purple flowers of Dis Burn their young foreheads and they fade with this, Who find a different end and different haven, Where the hooded crow is waiting with the raven. In Wienerwald the starving Viennese Have spoiled the woods and cut the laurel trees, Nous n’irons plus au bois: oh love, oh love! Will you not go the more because they prove So shattered, the poor woods? and will you shut Your heart, O love, because the trees are cut? Les lauriers sont coupés, but you can heal Even the broken laurel, and reveal Where in the valley of death the children falter That, though all else doth change, love does not alter, And, though the woods were dead, there is a tree You know of, love, planted in Calvary. Go back to the woods; replant the laurel trees. Still love than war hath greater victories, And while the devils beat the warlike drum Into their kingdom of peace the children come. HEINE’S LAST SONG. Life’s a blonde of whom I’m tired (Being fair is just a knack Women learn to be desired By a Jew--who answers back). Blonde, oh blonde, ye lost princesses With the shadow in your eyes As of bodiless caresses Known ere birth in Paradise. Little ears of alabaster, Where like ocean in a shell Gentle murmurs drown the vaster Voice of rapture or of Hell. Tender bodies--ah too tender To be given or be lent Unto love the money-lender Who demands his cent per cent. Thus you took a man and tricked him, Life and ladies, to a will In your favour, but the victim Cheats you with a codicil. All I had, you thought, was given-- Life and ladies, you were wrong: In a poet’s secret heaven There is always one last song. Even he is half afraid of, Even he but hears in part, For the stuff that it is made of, Ladies, is the poet’s heart. Not for you, oh blonde princesses Is that final tune, but I Sing it drowning in the tresses Of a darker Lorelei. For her hair than yours is stranger; Wilder lights are lost in hers Where the heart’s immortal danger, That you cannot know of, stirs. Life and ladies, it is over: Blonde asks all, gives nothing back; You must find another lover, For the poet chooses black. Where death’s raven marriage blossom Falls in clouds about her breast, On his dark beloved’s bosom Heinrick Heine is at rest. IMPERSONALITIES. THE SATYR. “Hollow” he cries and “hollow, hollow.” Mark how the creeping moon is yellow On the cold stones, enmeshing feet That are not soft, with blood not sweet. Though in the night one cry his Name The shuddering air shrinks from the aim; And failing eddies will not stir To let him through to Lucifer. What answers where no echoes fly? None where the moon looks balefully. Unheard, far-off “O hollow, hollow” The satyr crieth to his fellow. BALDER’S SONG. It may be raining now, that first warm rain That melts the heart of earth beneath the snows, Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s pain Who catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flows Shuddering back into the frozen vein). And did ye think I should not come again At the long last in spring-time with the rain? Or may be there is singing in the air At building-time where the tall windy trees, By sap and young leaves hurt, can hardly bear The spring’s reiterated urgencies That at the woods with actual fingers tear. And did ye, when these songs are everywhere, Of Balder, who first taught them song, despair? Or it may be where once my altar stood And where my worshipped name in prayer ascended, Blue, like a trumpet, in the solitude Harebells, that ring before the winter’s ended, Have with the wind my litanies renewed. Did ye forget (alas! that any could) That I, the god of flowers, found these good? And may be where the dog-rose remedies With her wild flush the hedge, and spring begins, Born of all these there trembles the first kiss That from Valhalla brings the Paladins And ladies, who for all the immortal bliss Of heaven, have no joy as sharp as this. Did ye not know in your own memories That where are love and spring there Balder is? It may be raining now, that first warm rain That melts the heart of earth beneath the snows, Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s pain Who catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flows Shuddering back into the frozen vein). And did ye think I should not come again At the long last in spring-time with the rain? MARY THE MOTHER. (Cradle Song.) So great a lady, so dear is she, Princess in heaven, but mother to me! When little Jesus lay in her arm It was enough for him that he was warm. When the small head at her bosom did nod Did she remember that He was the God? Or when she sang to Him low in His ear, Did she say “Master” or did she sob “Dear”? Was it the star on the manger that shone Crowned her an empress, or was it her Son? So great a lady to lie in a stall-- But only a mother (she thought) after all. So great a lady, so dear is she, Princess in heaven! but who does not see How against Godhead, in spite of the Cross, She holds to her bosom her Jesus that was? APPLES. When there is no more sea and no more sailing Will God go vintaging the wine-dark seas, Reaping gold apples of the storm and trailing To harvest home the lost Hesperides? Will God, the gates that guard the river breaking, Annul the blinding gesture of the sword, And find the Tree, all other dreams forsaking, Whose apples are the knowledge of the Lord? Forsaking dreams--forgiveness and salvation, Sins that were needless needlessly forgiven, Hell where he knew vicarious damnation And ghosts of rapture in a ghost of heaven? No longer from self-knowledge then exempted Shall God the apple tasting Eve repeat Thus altered, saying, “By the devil tempted Through all these years I could and did not eat.” Thus at the last shall Man and Maker pardon Eve’s ancient wrong, seeing that, though He cursed, Knowledge, alone of those who used the Garden God was afraid of apples from the first. Thereafter as it was in the beginning, Before the spirit moved upon the deep, There shall be no more sea and no more sinning And God will share with his beloved sleep. THE SKIES. Though the world tumble tier by tier, Down, down the broken galleries, By day the sun would shine as clear By night the moon would ride her seas. Though man and all was meant by men Upon the empty air were spent, Irrevocably Charles’s Wain Would swing across the firmament. So large they are and cool the skies; God’s frozen breath in dreams, or worse: Beautiful unsupported lies That simulate a universe. THREE EPITAPHS. I. FLECKER. You have made the golden journey. Samarkand Is all about you, Flecker, and where you lie How youth and her beauty perish in the sand They are singing in the caravanserai. II. EDITH CAVELL. Who died for love, we use to nourish hate: Who was all tenderness, our hearts to harden; And who of mercy had the high estate By us escheated of her right of pardon. III. THE LITTLE SLEEPER. This little sleeper, who was overtaken By death, as one child overtakes another, Dreams by his side all night and will not waken Till the dawn comes in heaven with his mother. TO HIM WHOM THE CAP FITS. _“What sword is left?” sighs England. Answer her_ _(For you must answer) “This--Excalibur.”_ I. That is the sword of England. Arthur drew The blade at that last battle when he failed, (Shadow among the shadows, who prevailed Victorious in disaster). Harold knew Its point in his heart at Hastings, and it flew Out of the scabbard when King Richard sailed And did not reach Jerusalem. It wailed In the false hand that on the scaffold slew Charles, and proud Balliol saw the light on it Shining for Ridley through the flame; was seen When Mary, Queen of Scotland, was a queen On earth no longer, and when William Pitt “England! O how I leave thee,” failing cried, The sword, the sword, was with him when he died. II. The line at Mons were privy to the blade, When God and England seemed together lost, And riding by the far Pacific coast Admiral Cradock took its accolade. These are its victories--to be afraid, To hear thin bugles sounding “The Last Post,” Until the blood creeps noiseless as a ghost And cold, and all we cherished is betrayed. That is the sword’s way. Those who lose shall have; And only those who in defeat have known The bitterness of death, and stood alone In darkness, shall have worship in the grave. Swordsman, go into battle, and record How one more English knight has found his sword! FRANCE. To-day you’ll find by field and ditch The small invasion of the vetch: And where they sleep rest-harrow will Follow upon the daffodil. These in their soft disordered ranks Withstand and overcome the Tanks; And the small unconsidered grass Cries to the gunner “On ne passe.” The corn outlasts the bayonet, Whose blades no blood nor rust can fret, Or only the immortal rust Of poppies failing in their thrust. The line these hold no force can break, Nor their platoons advancing shake, Whose wide offensive wave on wave Doth make a garden of a grave. These with the singing lark conspire To veil with loveliness the wire, While he ascending cleans the stain In heaven of the aeroplane. These in the fields and open sky Reverse the errors of Versailles, Who with a natural increase From year to year establish peace. For all the living these will cloak The things they spoiled, the hearts they broke; And where these heal the earth will be For all the dead indemnity. ALCHEMY. When Kew found spring, and we found Kew, Gold was the London that we knew-- The gold of gold whose metal is As yellow as the primroses. London’s Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington, In heaven heard the carillon “Turn again;” London after all Is paved with gold by Chiswick Mall. But afterwards the town was sold To a mad alchemist for gold, Who used his art to change, instead Of lead to gold, the gold to lead. If where the streets to Hampstead twist You meet a doting alchemist Seeking lost gold, refuse him pity; He changed us when he changed the city! ORPHEUS. What Orpheus whistled for Eurydice (While all the shades were silent, achingly Holding out hands, and hands stretched evermore In a vain longing for the further shore). The blue smoke floats Lazily in the dawn above the white Flat roof you knew, and somewhere out of sight A child is singing the old Linus song, Sweeter because the baby voice goes wrong --The little goatherd calling to her goats. There’s a small hill On which the olive trees you used to call Athene’s little sisters, now grown tall, Watch all day long the coming of the child, And you’ll remember how the brook, else wild, About these pastures suddenly grows still. There’s such a peace, Save where a wandering beast shakes on its bell, You’d almost think the trees had learned a spell From their wise sister (or from you) to bless A baby frightened of the loneliness, Tending her herd and waiting by the trees. Ah! certainly There are two things are stronger than the fates-- A lover’s song in Hell, a child that waits. The shadows lengthen. Ere the night descend On earth, O sweetheart, Mother, friend Win out of Hell! Return Eurydice! THE WIND. What is there left? The wind makes answer “I saw the green leaves grow brown and fall; I danced with the shadows, I the dancer Among bare branches. For I,” he saith, “Hear the thin music whistle and call, Music, horn-music, the music of death.” “There stands at the edge of the wood the player Dark in the darkness, but I have seen, Ere my feet were lifted, the branches stir. Darker than dark, than light more fair, Before I have come he slips between; But I, the dancer,” wind saith, “do not care.” “The leaves have fallen and who shall discover What there is left in the blackened tree? And who will know when the years are over, Among bare branches if I,” wind saith, “Dance where the shadows and music be, Music, horn-music, the music of death?” GABRIEL. Suppose I gave you what my heart has given-- A door to dreams, a little road to heaven. Would you pass through the door, my dreams forgetting, And turn the corner when my sun is setting? So I should only have (as I have only) Your hair remembered, eyes that left me lonely, A mouth as cold as roses, and the kiss Of Gabriel, sealing love’s defeat with this! OPALS AND AMBER. Call it an age, call it a day, What’s in the world with love away? The sun a round and golden ghost, The moon the shadow he has lost; And spring herself for all her green The bare and brown a pause between. Call it an age, call it a day, When love is gone, what’s there to say? Opal or gold, amber or gray, What’s in the world with love away? Opal a pool of changeling fires, Where the gold angel stirs desires That do not heal Bethesda way But only turn the amber gray. Call it an age, call it a day, When love is gone, what’s there to say? Call it a dream, call it a play, What’s in the world with love away? With love away can a man clamber To heaven by a rope of amber? Or can an opal stretch a wire To lead a girl to her desire? Amber and opal--but I remember Love that was better than opal or amber. Call it an age, call it a day, What’s in the world with love away? AFTER BATTLE. After the fighting Comes not sudden peace, but weariness; A gloom no lighting Of little lamps of jest or speech unravels, But for the brain and body endless travels, Twisting and turning like the lovers hurled For punishment athwart the underworld, Twisting and turning and no respite sighting. After the living Comes not relief, but a grey level gloom, When the heart beats as in a padded room With wild shapes moving-- Silence imploring and from silence flying, Praying to life and all athirst for dying. Tearing lost dreams and for the torn dreams weeping, Fearing to wake, tumultuously sleeping. * * * * * Death’s a poor leech with worn-out simples striving To heal in vain the malady of living. MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. When the stir and the movement are over, When you that had the lightness of a wind Or the poise of some swift bird Burn no longer in any man’s mind, And your voice in no man’s heart is heard, Who in the world will dare to be a lover? Would any being hurt in the night be crying “O God! her little mouth that with a kiss Drank all a man; and--God! her weaving fingers!” Would any of another dare say this? Will there be other women, other singers? I wish with you and me love might be dying. DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME. (Version.) You have the way of a blossom, Cold petal with April green, And you melt the heart in the bosom As your beauty enters in. I will fold my hands together, Asking of God for you Always in April weather Cold petal and colder dew. CAMBRIDGE. All that I know of Cambridge-- The colleges and that indulgent air Of a great gentleman who is content That lesser men should make experiment With life, for which he does not vastly care-- Is that you tell me you were happy there. All that I’ll say of Cambridge-- Though in her courts Apollo lose the art Of immortality to find it where Rupert was used to walk at Grantchester-- Is that for me Cambridge is but a part Of greater beauties than inform your heart. A ROOM IN BOHEMIA. The sun is shining in the August weather In the little room and, I suppose, Gilding the painted parrot on the wall, The truckle-bed, the table and the rose Of the poor carpet that we bought together. And from the street the muted voices call As though we saw, as though we heard it all. 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 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.” 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. 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. 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! 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? 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. In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakes That twine themselves about Laocoon, How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaks Before they strike and turn it into stone. 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. But the jungle is not cleared, and still the shapes Of time and space and error move like apes. 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 the trembling nerve 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. 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. Separable these await 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.” Therefore write and break the lead “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. 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. If any ask, O tell them it is well, Though love comes like the swallow and flies as soon: Who has not found his heaven in the Hell Of love unsatisfied beneath the moon? 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. “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.’ 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.’ 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.’” 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. 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. That summer as I understand 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. No one guessed and no one heard 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. Till last week the forester 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. _Printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford._ *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON, AND OTHER POEMS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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