POEMS BY
                            ISAAC ROSENBERG




 SONGS IN CAPTIVITY
     _By R. H. Sauter_

 BALLAD OF THE “ROYAL ANN”
     _By Crosbie Garston_

 DOWN HERE THE HAWTHORN
     _By Thomas Moult_


LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

[Illustration:

  ISAAC ROSENBERG.
]




                                POEMS BY
                            ISAAC ROSENBERG


                         SELECTED AND EDITED BY
                            GORDON BOTTOMLEY

                     WITH AN INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR BY
                            LAURENCE BINYON

[Illustration: 1922]

                       LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN




_Youth is still childhood: when we cast off every cloudy vesture, and
our thoughts are clear and mature; when every act is a conscious
thought, every thought an attempt to arrest feeling; our feelings strong
and overwhelming, our sensitiveness awakened by insignificant things in
life; when the skies race tumultuously with our blood, and the earth
shines and laughs; when our blood hangs suspended at the rustling of a
gown. Our vanity loves to subdue—battle, aggressive. How we despise
those older and duller—we want life, newness, excitement._


(_Circa 1916._)




                                CONTENTS


                                                             PAGE
       INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR                                      1
       †MOSES: A PLAY                                          51

       POEMS FROM CAMP AND TRENCH:
       DAUGHTERS OF WAR                                        81
       ON RECEIVING THE FIRST NEWS OF THE WAR                  84
       †SPRING, 1916                                           86
       THE TROOP SHIP                                          87
       †MARCHING                                               88
       BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES                            89
       KILLED IN ACTION                                        91
       RETURNING, WE HEAR THE LARKS                            92
       THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY THE BABYLONIAN HORDES   93
       THE BURNING OF THE TEMPLE                               95
       HOME-THOUGHTS FROM FRANCE                               96
       THE IMMORTALS                                           97
       LOUSE HUNTING                                           98
       GIRL TO SOLDIER ON LEAVE                               100
       SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY                             102
       THE JEW                                                103
       THE DYING SOLDIER                                      104
       DEAD MAN’S DUMP                                        105
       IN WAR                                                 109
       §THE DEAD HEROES                                       112

       FRAGMENTS OF “THE UNICORN”:
       I. THE AMULET                                          117
       II. THE SONG OF TEL THE NUBIAN                         129
       III. THE TOWER OF SKULLS                               130

       EARLIER POEMS:
       §EXPRESSION                                            135
       *FROM “NIGHT AND DAY”                                  137
       ZION                                                   140
       *SPIRITUAL ISOLATION: A FRAGMENT                       142
       FAR AWAY                                               144
       SPRING                                                 145
       SONG                                                   146
       *HEART’S FIRST WORD. I.                                147
       †HEART’S FIRST WORD. II.                               149
       *LADY, YOU ARE MY GOD                                  150
       §IF YOU ARE FIRE                                       151
       IN THE UNDERWORLD                                      152
       *O, IN A WORLD OF MEN AND WOMEN                        153
       §A GIRL’S THOUGHTS                                     154
       A BALLAD OF WHITECHAPEL                                155
       *TESS                                                  159
       THE NUN                                                160
       §IN PICCADILLY                                         161
       §A MOOD                                                162
       †FIRST FRUIT                                           163
       A CARELESS HEART                                       164
       DAWN                                                   165
       AT NIGHT                                               166
       CREATION                                               168
       OF ANY OLD MAN                                         170
       THE ONE LOST                                           171
       §WEDDED                                                172
       DON JUAN’S SONG                                        173
       ON A LADY SINGING                                      174
       BEAUTY                                                 175
       A QUESTION                                             176
       †CHAGRIN                                               177
       THE BLIND GOD                                          179
       THE FEMALE GOD                                         180
       †GOD                                                   182
       †SLEEP                                                 184
       MY DAYS                                                186




                          BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


The poems whose titles are marked * appeared in a privately issued
pamphlet, “Night and Day. By Isaac Rosenberg. 1912” (pp. 24); those
marked § in “Youth. By Isaac Rosenberg. London, I. Narodiczky, Printer,
48 Mile End Road, E. 1915” (pp. 18); and those marked † in “Moses. A
Play. By Isaac Rosenberg. London, Printed By The Paragon Printing Works,
8 Ocean Street, Stepney Green, E. 1916” (pp. ii + 26).

These pamphlets were the only work issued by the author, in addition to
the following single pieces which appeared in various periodicals:


“In the Workshop,” in _A Piece of Mosaic_ (for a Jewish Bazaar).

“Our Dead Heroes,” in _South African Women in Council_, December, 1914.

“Essay on Art,” Part I. (prose), prefaced by a poem, “Beauty,” in _South
African Women in Council_, December, 1914.

“Essay on Art,” Part II., _South African Women in Council_, January,
1915.

“Marching,” and “Break of Day in the Trenches,” in _Poetry_ (Chicago),
December, 1916.


The following pieces have appeared posthumously:


“In Piccadilly,” “If You are Fire,” “Heart’s First Word, II.,” “Wedded,”
“I Did Not Pluck at All,” in _Art and Letters_, Summer, 1919; with an
“In Memoriam” notice by Annie Rosenberg.

“Killed in Action,” in _Colour_, October, 1919.

“Savage Song” (“A Naked African” from “Moses”), “God,” in _Rainbow_ (New
York), October, 1920; with an “In Memoriam” notice by Horace Brodzky.

“I Mingle with Your Bones”; with an article by Samuel Roth, in _Voices_,
Summer, 1921.




                          INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR


                                   I

Of the many young poets who gave their lives in the war, Isaac Rosenberg
was not the least gifted. Adverse circumstances, imperfect education,
want of opportunity, impeded and obscured his genius; but whatever
criticism be made of his poetry, its faults are plainly those of excess
rather than deficiency. His writing was often difficult and obscure,
because he instinctively thought in images and did not sufficiently
appreciate the limitations of language. Also, a continual fear of being
empty or thin led him to an over-intricate complexity. But there was no
incoherence in his mind. And the main object of these notes, beyond
recording the facts of his life, is to illustrate the growth and
workings of his mind from his own letters, which will be the best
commentary on his poems.

I cannot precisely fix the date, but it must have been some time in
1912, when one morning there came to me a letter in an untidy hand from
an address in Whitechapel, enclosing some pages of verse on which
criticism was asked, and signed “Isaac Rosenberg.” It was impossible not
to be struck by something unusual in the quality of the poems. Thoughts
and emotions of no common nature struggled for expression, and at times
there gushed forth a pure song which haunted the memory.

I answered at once, and the next day received another letter which told
me something about my unknown correspondent. In this letter, which, like
nearly all his letters, is undated, he wrote:

“I must thank you very much for your encouraging reply to my poetical
efforts.... As you are kind enough to ask about myself, I am sending a
sort of autobiography I wrote about a year ago.... You will see from
that that my circumstances have not been very favourable for artistic
production; but generally I am optimistic, I suppose because I am young
and do not properly realize the difficulties. I am now attending the
Slade, being sent there by some wealthy Jews who are kindly interested
in me, and, of course, I spend most of my time drawing. I find writing
interferes with drawing a good deal, and is far more exhausting.”

He went on to tell of his admirations, Rossetti coming first for him
among modern artists. He had seen very little of early Italian art, but
divined that theirs was the type of art which he thought the only kind
worth having—“expression through passionate colour and definite
design”—not “a moment frozen on to canvas,” but “the spontaneity of
un-selfconscious and childlike nature—infinity of suggestion—that is as
much part and voice of the artist’s soul as the song to the bird.” As to
modern poets, they were “difficult to get hold of” (their volumes being
expensive), but he had an immense admiration for Francis Thompson—“that
is the sort of poetry that appeals most to me.” He had done nothing yet
in painting which he would care to show. He aspired to do imaginative
work, but at present was practising portraiture, as it was necessary to
earn a living.

At my invitation Rosenberg came to see me. Small in stature, dark,
bright-eyed, thoroughly Jewish in type, he seemed a boy with an unusual
mixture of self-reliance and modesty. Indeed, no one could have had a
more independent nature. Obviously sensitive, he was not touchy or
aggressive. Possessed of vivid enthusiasms, he was shy in speech. One
found in talk how strangely little of second-hand (in one of his age)
there was in his opinions, how fresh a mind he brought to what he saw
and read. There was an odd kind of charm in his manner which came from
his earnest, transparent sincerity.

The “sort of autobiography,” which I have never seen since I returned it
to him, and has perhaps been destroyed, was the story of a youth,
mentally ambitious, introspective, dissatisfied with his surroundings,
consumed by secret desires for liberation and self-expression.

The external facts of his life are briefly told. For these I am mainly
indebted to his sister, Mrs. Wynick, whose devotion to her brother and
his work was at all times unwearied. She gave much of a scanty
leisure-time to typing copies of his poems, and many of them would have
been lost but for her care in preserving them.

Isaac Rosenberg was born at Bristol on the 25th of November, 1890. When
he was seven he came to London with his parents. The family settled in
the East End. The boy was sent to the Board School of St. George’s in
the East, and afterwards to the Stepney Board School. From childhood he
showed a natural gift both for drawing and for writing. While at the
Stepney school his promise appeared so remarkable that the headmaster
allowed him to spend all his time in these pursuits. Out of school he
would draw with chalks on the street pavement. Reading poetry was a
passion with him. At the age of fourteen he was reluctantly obliged to
leave school. His parents were poor; and though they took great pride in
his gifts, he was one of a family of eight, and he must now earn his
living. He was apprenticed, therefore, to the firm of Carl Hentschel, in
Fleet Street. A trade connected with art was chosen for him as a
stepping-stone to a painter’s career, and as something to fall back upon
in case his resources failed him. But he hated trade, and felt in
bondage. In his meal-times he consoled himself by writing poems; in the
evenings he went to classes at the Art School of Birkbeck College. He
worked hard and won many prizes. Mr. Frank Emanuel, the painter, who
befriended and encouraged him at this time, describes him as having been
made “bitter and despondent by his circumstances”; and his letters
reveal fits of the deepest dejection against which his will contended.

The uncongenial work came at last to an end. The sense of liberation was
at first intoxicating. Yet work had to be found, and Isaac was
determined to pursue art and nothing else. He met at first with
disappointment, and endured many privations. But before long he found
good friends. Mr. Amschewitz, an artist, and Mr. Samuels warmly
interested themselves in his behalf. Through them he made the
acquaintance of three ladies, Mrs. Josephs, Mrs. Herbert Cohen, and Mrs.
Lowy, who undertook to provide the means for his training at the Slade
School.

Through Mr. Emanuel’s friendship he had become a member of “The
Limners,” a club of artists and art teachers, which met at Mr. Emanuel’s
studio. Here he had the opportunity of meeting other artists and
exchanging ideas. Prizes were given, which young Rosenberg occasionally
won. In spite, therefore, of his poverty and unpropitious surroundings,
he had now won sympathetic friends, and received both encouragement and
material help from discerning compatriots. But with his sensitive
artist’s pride and jealous independence of spirit, he was not always
easy to understand; and those who, with the sole desire to help him,
advanced his circumstances sometimes felt that their efforts did not
seem to be appreciated. The case is not unfamiliar to readers of
artists’ biographies.

Rosenberg went to the Slade School in October, 1911, and remained till
March, 1914. He won prizes at the school and praise from his teachers.
Thrown among contemporaries, all occupied with the problems of art and
the discussion of them, he became tinged with the temper and the
prevalent ideas of his own generation of students. His natural bent, I
think, was in another direction. He showed me drawings and studies from
time to time, and I saw a few of his paintings when they were exhibited
one summer at the Whitechapel Gallery. He was full of ideas, was a
capable draughtsman, and could conceive an interesting design. Yet, to
judge from what I have seen of his work, it did not seem to be for him
the inevitable means of expression. He once showed me at his studio a
large, ambitious composition—an oil-painting—which I fancy was never
completed. I cannot recall the nominal subject, but it was saturated
with symbolism and required a good deal of explanation. I liked the
mysteriousness of it, and the ideas which inspired the painting had
suggested figures and groups and visionary glimpses of landscape which
had passages of real beauty, though the whole work had grown impossibly
complex with its convolutions of symbolic meaning. It reminded me of his
poetry; and I think that represented his natural bent in art. Had he
been born half a century earlier, he would have been an ardent disciple
of Rossetti. But he could not escape from the mental atmosphere of his
own generation, in which so “literary” a conception of painting was
bound to wither in discouragement. Later, he showed me some studies of
landscape and portrait which he had made in South Africa. These were in
a more “modern” vein of realism, but they seemed to fail in the quality
of force, to which all other qualities had been, in intention,
sacrificed. They had no personal savour. Like every generous and
ambitious youth, Rosenberg wished his own generation to do glorious
things, and wished to belong to it as a comrade. Whether he would have
emerged and found himself as a painter is a doubtful conjecture. I think
it possible that he would have abandoned painting. For his true vocation
was poetry, and he thought of himself as a poet rather than as a
painter.

He had begun to write verse at a very early age. Mr. Morley Dainow, who
was at the time librarian in the Whitechapel Public Library, was
approached one day by a Jewish girl who wanted advice and help for her
young brother. His aim in life, she said, was to be a poet. The next day
the boy was brought to the library. Isaac then seemed to be between ten
and twelve years of age. He had already determined to be a poet and a
painter. He interested and impressed Mr. Dainow, and in return for his
friendly encouragement sent him a poem called “David’s Harp.” These are
the earliest verses of Rosenberg’s that Mr. Bottomley or I have seen.
They are not printed in this book, but they are interesting because they
show how, even as a young boy, Rosenberg cherished the traditions of his
race and aspired to become a representative poet of his own nation.
Moses and Judas Maccabæus were intended to be themes of his maturer
poetry. “David’s Harp” is in fluent stanzas, and shows the passing
influence of Byron.

The pamphlet called “Night and Day,” printed in 1912, contains probably
all that Rosenberg cared to preserve of his early verse, though no doubt
it represented but a small selection from what he had written.

After leaving the Slade School, he found himself faced with a harder
struggle than ever. But he never admitted defeat. He sold a few pictures
and got a few poems into print, but his health was now a cause for
anxiety. His lungs were thought to be affected, and he was advised to
try a warmer climate. Having a married sister in Cape Town, he thought
of South Africa, and in June, 1914, he sailed for the Cape. Here he made
one or two friends, painted some pictures, taught a little, gave a few
lectures, and published some poems and articles. But the visit was not a
material success, and he returned disappointed and despondent. Soon
after his return, in 1915, he printed a second pamphlet of verse,
“Youth.” But he was restless and unhappy, and could not work. It was now
that he enlisted in the Army. From this date onward he had practically
no time for painting, but he continued to write till the end. “Moses”
was printed in 1916. He was first in a Bantam regiment, then in the
King’s Own Royal Lancasters, and after a period of training at Bury St.
Edmunds and at Farnborough went out, early in 1916, to France. No one
could have been less fitted for a military life. He suffered not only
from physical disability, bad health, and sensitiveness, but from the
absent-mindedness of one whose imagination was possessed by his poetic
schemes. “My mind will not relinquish its poetical yearnings,” he wrote,
“and concentration on alien things and dull has strained my memory.” But
he endured the inhuman horror of modern war with a great heart; he would
not have liked to be called a hero, but his fortitude was truly heroic.
On the first of April, 1918, he was killed in action.


                                   II

The poems collected in this volume speak for themselves. The
obscurities, the straining and tormenting of language in the effort to
find right expression, the immaturities of style and taste, are apparent
on the surface. The imaginative conceptions and the frequent gleam of
imaginative phrasing should be equally apparent. But what does not
appear on the surface is the fine intention, the ardent toil, and the
continual self-criticism which underlay his work. Rosenberg’s aim was,
in his own words, a kind of poetry “where an interesting complexity of
thought is kept in tone and right value to the dominating idea so that
it is understandable and still ungraspable.” The sentence occurs in one
of his letters, and from this point on I wish to let Rosenberg speak for
himself. His letters give a picture both of his mind and character, far
more vivid than anything one could write about him. He very rarely dated
a letter, but the address and internal evidence give a clue to the date.
The first extract is from a letter written, while he was still an
apprentice, to Miss Winifreda Seaton, a friend to whom Mr. Amschewitz
introduced him. Miss Seaton lent him books, encouraged him to write,
discussed art and literature with him, and criticized his poems.


“It is horrible to think that all these hours, when my days are full of
vigour and my hands and soul craving for self-expression, I am bound,
chained to this fiendish mangling-machine, without hope and almost
desire of deliverance, and the days of youth go by.... I have tried to
make some sort of self-adjustment to circumstances by saying, ‘It is all
_experience_’; but, good God! it is _all_ experience, and nothing
else.... I really would like to take up painting seriously; I think I
might do something at that; but poetry—I despair of ever writing
excellent poetry. I can’t look at things in the simple, large way that
great poets do. My mind is so cramped and dulled and fevered, there is
no consistency of purpose, no oneness of aim; the very fibres are torn
apart, and application deadened by the fiendish persistence of the coil
of circumstance.”


At last the apprenticeship is over and Rosenberg writes[1] exulting:


“Congratulate me! I’ve cleared out of the —— shop, I hope for good and
all. I’m free—free to do anything, hang myself or anything except
work.... I’m very optimistic, now that I don’t know what to do, and
everything seems topsy-turvy.”


Footnote 1:

  This and the following extracts are from letters to the same
  correspondent.

A little later comes the reaction:


“I am out of work. I doubt if I feel the better for it, much as the work
was distasteful, though I expect it’s the hankering thought of the
consequences, pecuniary, etc., that bothers me.... All one’s thoughts
seem to revolve round to one point—death. It is horrible, especially at
night, ‘in the silence of the midnight’; it seems to clutch at your
thought—you can’t breathe. Oh, I think, work, work, any work, only to
stop one thinking.”


But such moods are resisted. At another time he is writing:


“One conceives one’s lot (I suppose it’s the same with all people, no
matter what their condition) to be terribly tragic. You are the victim
of a horrible conspiracy; everything is unfair. The gods have either
forgotten you or made you a sort of scapegoat to bear all the
punishment. I believe, however hard one’s lot is, one ought to try and
accommodate oneself to the conditions; and except in a case of purely
physical pain, I think it can be done. Why not make the very utmost of
our lives?... I’m a practical economist in this respect. I endeavour to
waste nothing.... Waste words! Not to talk is to waste words....

“To most people life is a musical instrument on which they are unable to
play: but in the musician’s hands it becomes a living thing.... The
artist can see beauty everywhere, anywhere....”


In what is perhaps an earlier letter he excuses his neglect of serious
reading by his lack of leisure and the worries that make him crave for
amusing books as an antidote:


“You mustn’t forget the circumstances I have been brought up in, the
little education I have had. Nobody ever told me what to read, or ever
put poetry in my way. I don’t think I knew what real poetry was till I
read Keats a couple of years ago. True, I galloped through Byron when I
was about fourteen, but I fancy I read him more for the story than for
the poetry. I used to try to imitate him. Anyway, if I didn’t quite take
to Donne at first, you understand why. Poetical appreciation is only
newly bursting on me. I always enjoyed Shelley and Keats. The ‘Hyperion’
ravished me....

“Whenever I read anything in a great man’s life that pulls him down to
me, my heart always pleads for him, and my mind pictures extenuating
circumstances.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Have you ever picked up a book that looks like a Bible on the outside,
but is full of poetry or comic within? My Hood is like that, and, I am
afraid, so am I. Whenever I feel inclined to laugh, my visage assumes
the longitude and gravity of a church spire.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“I can’t say I have ever experienced the power of one spirit over
another, except in books, of course, at least in any intense way that
you mean. Unless you mean the interest one awakes in us, and we long to
know more, and none other. I suppose we are all influenced by everybody
we come in contact with, in a subconscious way, if not direct, and
everything that happens to us is experience; but only the few know it.
Most people can only see and hear the noisy sunsets, mountains and
waterfalls; but the delicate greys and hues, the star in the puddle, the
quiet sailing cloud, is nothing to them. Of course, I only mean this
metaphorically, as distinguishing between obvious experiences and the
almost imperceptible. I still have no work to do. I think, if nothing
turns up here, I will go to Africa. I could not endure to live upon my
people; and up till now I have been giving them from what I had managed
to save up when I was at work. It is nearly run out now, and if I am to
do nothing, I would rather do it somewhere else. Besides, I feel so
cramped up here, I can do no drawing, reading, or anything....

“Create our own experience! We can, but we don’t. Very often it’s only
the trouble of a word, and who knows what we miss through not having
spoken? It’s the man with impudence who has more experience than
anybody. He not only varies his own, but makes other people’s his own.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Do I like music, and what music I like best? I know nothing whatever
about music. Once I heard Schubert’s ‘Unfinished Symphony’ at the band;
and—well, I was in heaven. It was a blur of sounds—sweet, fading and
blending. It seemed to draw the sky down, the whole spirit out of me; it
was articulate feeling. The inexpressible in poetry, in painting, was
there expressed. But I have not heard much, and the sensation that gave
me I never had again. I should like very much to be one of the
initiated.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Some more confidences. I’ve discovered I’m a very bad talker: I find it
difficult to make myself intelligible at times; I can’t remember the
exact word I want, and I think I leave the impression of being a
rambling idiot.”


In 1910 he went to see the wonderful collection of Japanese paintings
lent by Japan to the Exhibition at Shepherd’s Bush.


“The thoroughness is astounding. No slipshod, tricky slickness, trusting
to chance effects, but a subtle suggestiveness, and accident that is the
consequence of intention.”


Here are a few sentences from some “Notes on Art”:


“Life stales and dulls; the mind demands noble excitement,
half-apprehended surmises, the eternal desire, the beautiful. It is a
vain belief that Art and Life go hand-in-hand; Art is, as it were,
another planet.

“Mere representation is unreal, is fragmentary. The bone taken from Adam
remains a bone. To create is to apply pulsating rhythmic principles to
the part; a unity, another nature, is created.”


                           _To Miss Seaton._

“Thanks so much for the Donne. I had just been reading Ben Jonson again,
and from his poem to Donne he must have thought him a giant. I have read
some of the Donne; I have certainly never come across anything so
choke-full of profound meaningful ideas. It would have been very
difficult for him to express something commonplace, if he had to.”


                           _To Miss Seaton._


“I forgot to ask you to return my poetry, as I mean to work on some [of
the poems]. I agree the emotions are not worth expressing, but I thought
the things had some force, and an idea or so I rather liked. Of course,
I know poetry is a far finer thing than that, but I don’t think the
failure was due to the subject—I had nothing to say about it, that’s
all. Crashaw, I think, is sometimes very sexual in his religious poems,
but it is always new and beautiful. I believe we are apt to fix a
standard (of subject) in poetry. We acknowledge the poetry in subjects
not generally taken as material, but I think we all (at least I do)
prefer the poetical subject—“Kubla Khan,” “The Mistress of Vision,”
“Dream-Tryst”; Poe, Verlaine. Here feeling is separated from intellect;
our senses are not interfered with by what we know of facts: we know
infinity through melody.”


After leaving the Slade School, at a loss for work and anxious about his
health, Rosenberg thought for a time of going to Russia. But it was
difficult for a Jew to get a passport, and he reverted to the African
journey which he had contemplated already some years before.


                           _To Miss Seaton._


“So I’ve decided on Africa, the climate being very good, and I believe
plenty to do.... I won’t be quite lost in Africa.... I dislike London
for the selfishness it instils into one, which is a reason of the
peculiar feeling of isolation I believe most people have in London. I
hardly know anybody whom I would regret leaving (except, of course, the
natural ties of sentiment with one’s own people); but whether it is that
my nature distrusts people, or is intolerant, or whether my pride or my
backwardness cools people, I have always been alone. Forgive this little
excursion into the forbidden lands of egotism.”


The next letter was written to Mr. Edward Marsh, in the midst of packing
for the voyage to the Cape. Mr. Marsh was interested in Rosenberg both
as an artist and as a poet; he printed one of his poems in “Georgian
Poetry, 1916–1917,” and befriended him in many ways. The letter throws
light on Rosenberg’s use of language in poetry. As the piece referred
to—“Midsummer Frost”—is not in the present selection, it may be given
here:

         A July ghost, aghast at the strange winter,
         Wonders, at burning noon, all summer-seeming,
         How, like a sad thought buried in light [woven] words,
         Winter, an alien presence, is ambushed here.
         See from the fire-fountained noon there creep
         Lazy yellow ardours towards pale evening,
         Dragging the sun across the shell of thought;
         A web threaded with fading fire;
         Futile and fragile lure, a July ghost
         Standing with feet of fire on banks of ice,
         My frozen heart, the summer cannot reach—
         Hidden as a root from air, or star from day,
         A frozen pool whereon mirth dances,
         Where the shining boys would fish.


                       _To Edward Marsh_ (1914).


“I believe that all poets who are personal see things genuinely—have
their place. One needn’t be a Shakespeare and yet be quite as
interesting. I have moods when Rossetti satisfies me more than
Shakespeare, and I am sure I have enjoyed some things of Francis
Thompson more than the best of Shakespeare. Yet I never meant to go as
high as these. I know I’ve come across things by people of far inferior
vision that were as important in their results to me. I am not going to
refute your criticisms; in literature I have no judgment, at least for
style. If in reading a thought has expressed itself to me in beautiful
words, my ignorance of grammar, etc., makes me accept that, I should
think you are right mostly, and I may yet work away your chief
objections. You are quite right in the way you read my poems, but I
thought I could use the ‘July Ghost’ to mean the summer, and also an
ambassador of the summer, without interfering with the sense. The ‘shell
of thought’ is man; you realize a shell has an opening, the ‘ardours’;
the sense of heat forms a web; this signifies a sense of summer; the web
again becomes another metaphor, a July Ghost. But, of course, I mean it
for summer right through. I think your suggestion of taking out ‘woven’
is very good.”


The next letter is from Cape Town.


                       _To Edward Marsh_ (1914).

“I should like you to do me a favour if it’s not putting you to too much
bother. I am in an infernal city by the sea. This city has men in it—and
these men have souls in them—or at least have the passages to souls.
Though they are millions of years behind time, they have yet reached the
stage of evolution that knows ears and eyes. But these passages are
dreadfully clogged up: gold dust, diamond dust, stocks and shares, and
Heaven knows what other flinty muck. Well, I’ve made up my mind to clear
through all this rubbish, but I want your help. Now, I’m going to give a
series of lectures on modern art (I’m sending you the first, which I
gave in great style. I was asked whether the Futurists exhibited at the
Royal Academy). But I want to make the lectures interesting and
intelligible by reproductions or slides. Now, I wonder whether you have
reproductions which you could lend me till I returned or was finished
with them. I want to talk about John, Cézanne, Van Gogh, Innes, the
early Picasso (not the cubistic one), Spencer, Gertler, Lamb, Puvis de
Chavannes, Degas. A book of reproductions of the P.-Impressionists would
do, and I could get them transferred on slides. I hope this would not
put you to any great trouble, but if you could manage to do it you don’t
know how you would help me. Stanley gave me a little job to paint two
babies, which helped me to pay my way for a bit. I expect to get pupils
and kick up a row with my lectures. But nobody seems to have money here,
and not an ounce of interest in Art. The climate’s fine, but the Sun is
a very changeable creature and I can’t come to any sort of understanding
with this golden beast. He pretends to keep quiet for half an hour, and
just as I think, ‘Now I’ve got it,’ the damned thing has frisked about.
There’s a lot of splendid stuff to paint. We are walled in by the sharp
upright mountain and the bay. Across the bay the piled-up mountains of
Africa look lovely and dangerous. It makes one think of savagery and
earthquakes—the elemental lawlessness.”


The next extract is from a letter written in 1915, just after hearing
the news of Rupert Brooke’s death.


                           _To Miss Seaton._

“Do you know Emerson’s poems? I think they are wonderful. ‘Each and All’
I think is deep and beautiful. There is always a kind of beaminess, like
a dancing of light in light, in his poems. I do think, though, that he
depends too much on inspiration; and though they always have a solid
texture of thought, they sometimes seem thin in colour or sensuousness.”


                           _To Miss Seaton._

“I saw Olive Schreiner last night. She’s an extraordinary woman—full of
life. I had a little picture for her from a dear friend of hers in
Africa I stayed with while I was there. She was so pleased with my
pictures of Kaffirs. Who is your best living English poet? I’ve found
somebody miles and miles above everybody—a young man, Lascelles
Abercrombie—a mighty poet and brother to Browning.”


Other references in letters show how deep at this time Mr. Abercrombie’s
influence was. Rosenberg calls his “Hymn of Love” the finest poem of our
time.

He has now joined the Army, and writes from Bury St. Edmunds.


                       _To Edward Marsh_ (1915).

“I have just joined the Bantams, and am down here amongst a horrible
rabble. Falstaff’s scarecrows were nothing to these. Three out of every
four have been scavengers, the fourth is a ticket-of-leave. But that is
nothing; though while I’m waiting for my kit I’m roughing it a bit,
having come down without even a towel. I dry myself with my
pocket-handkerchief. I don’t know whether I will be shifted as soon as I
get my rig-out.”


The next was written in hospital at Bury.


                           _To Edward Marsh._

“First, not to alarm you by this heading, I must tell you that while
running before the Colonel I started rather excitedly and tripped
myself, coming down pretty heavily in the wet grit, and am in hospital
with both my hands cut. I’ve been here since last Saturday, and expect
to be out by about the beginning of the week. It is a dull kind of life
in the hospital, and I’m very anxious to get out and be doing some rough
kind of work. Mr. Shiff sent me some water-colours, and I amuse myself
with drawing the other invalids. Of course, I must give them what I do,
but I can see heaps of material for pictures here. The landscape, too,
seems decent, though I haven’t seen anything but from the barracks, as
this accident happened pretty near at the start. I hope you were not
annoyed at that fib of mine, but I never dreamt they would trouble to
find out at home. I have managed to persuade my mother that I am for
home service only, though, of course, I have signed on for general
service. I left without saying anything because I was afraid it would
kill my mother or I would be too weak and not go. She seems to have got
over it, though, and as soon as I can get leave I’ll see her, and I hope
it will be well. It is very hard to write here, so you must not expect
interesting letters; there is always behind or through my object some
pressing sense of foreign matter, immediate and not personal, which
hinders and disjoints what would otherwise have coherence and perhaps
weight. I have left all my poems, including a short drama, with a
friend, and I will write to him for them, when I shall send them either
direct to Abercrombie or to you first. I believe in myself more as a
poet than a painter; I think I get more depth into my writing. I have
only taken Donne with me, and don’t feel for poetry much in this
wretched place. There is not a book or paper here; we are not allowed to
stir from the gate, have little to eat, and are not allowed to buy any
if we have money, and are utterly wretched. (I mean the hospital.) If
you could send me some novel or chocolates, you would make me very
happy.”


               _To Edward Marsh (from Bury St. Edmunds)._

“I received a letter to-day (sent over a week ago) from Abercrombie, and
I feel very flushed about it. He says no one who tries to write poetry
would help envying some of my writing. Since I wrote you I have had more
mishaps. My feet now are the trouble. Do you know what privates’
military boots are? You are given a whole armourer’s shop to wear; but,
by God! in a few hours my heels were all blistered, and I’ve been
marching and drilling in most horrible pain. I drew three weeks’ pay and
had some money sent me from home, and bought a pair of boots three or
four sizes too large for me, my feet had swelled so. Besides this
trouble I have a little impudent schoolboy pup for an officer, and he
has me marked; he has taken a dislike to me: I don’t know why.”


               _To Miss Seaton (from Bury St. Edmunds)._

“Thanks for your letter and your books which they sent me from home. It
is impossible to read as we are, and I don’t expect to get proper
leisure for reading till this rotten affair is over. My feet are pretty
nigh better, and my hands, and I am put down for a Lance-Corporal. The
advantage is, though you have a more responsible position, you are less
likely to be interfered with by the men, and you become an authority. I
expect to be home for four days shortly. I don’t know whether I told you
Lascelles Abercrombie sent me a fine letter about my work, which made me
very bucked. There is nobody living whose praise could have pleased me
so much. I have some pictures at the N.E.A.C., one of which is likely to
be sold.”


               _To Edward Marsh (from Bury St. Edmunds)._

“I suppose my troubles are really laughable, but they do irritate at the
moment. Doing coal fatigues and cookhouse work with a torn hand, and
marching ten miles with a clean hole about an inch round in your heel,
and bullies swearing at you, is not very natural. I think when my hands
and feet get better I’ll enjoy it. Nobody thinks of helping you—I mean
those who could. Not till I had been made a thorough cripple an officer
said it was absurd to think of wearing those boots, and told me to soak
them thoroughly in oil to soften them. Thank you for your note; we get
little enough, you know, and I allow half of that to my mother (I rather
fancy she is going to be swindled in this rat-trap affair), so it will
do to get to London with. You must now be the busiest man in England,
and I am sure would hardly have time to read my things; besides, you
won’t like the formlessness of the play. If you like you can send them
to Abercrombie, and read them when you have more time. I don’t think I
told you what he said: ‘A good many of your poems strike me as
experimental and not quite certain of themselves. But, on the other
hand, I always find a vivid and original impulse; and what I like most
in your songs is your ability to make the concealed poetic power in
words come flashing out. Some of your phrases are remarkable; no one who
tries to write poetry would help envying some of them.’ I have asked him
to sit for me—a poet to paint a poet. All this must seem to you like a
blur on the window, or hearing sounds without listening while you are
thinking.”


          _To Miss Seaton (from Blackdown Camp, Farnborough)._

“Thanks very much for the bread and biscuits, which I enjoyed very much.
I am in another regiment now, as the old one was smashed up on account
of most of the men being unfit. We that were left have been transferred
here. The food is much better, but conditions are most unsettling. Every
other person is a thief, and in the end you become one yourself, when
you see all your most essential belongings go, which you must replace
somehow. I also got into trouble here the first day. It’s not worth
while detailing what happened and exposing how ridiculous, idiotic, and
meaningless the Army is, and its dreadful bullyisms, and what puny minds
control it. I am trying to get our Passover off, which falls Easter. If
I do I’ll let you know. The bother is that we will be on our ball-firing
then, and also this before-mentioned affair may mess it up. This
ball-firing implies we will be ready for the front. I have been working
on ‘Moses’—in my mind, I mean—and it was through my absent-mindedness
while full of that that I forgot certain orders, and am now undergoing a
rotten and unjust punishment. I’m working a curious plot into it, and of
course, as I can’t work here, I jot little scraps down and will piece it
together the first chance I get.”


The remaining letters are all from France.


                        _To Miss Seaton_ (1916).

“We made straight for the trenches, but we’ve had vile weather, and I’ve
been wet through for four days and nights. I lost all my socks and
things before I left England, and hadn’t the chance to make it up again,
so I’ve been in trouble, particularly with bad heels; you can’t have the
slightest conception of what such an apparently trivial thing means.
We’ve had shells bursting two yards off, bullets whizzing all over the
show, but all you are aware of is the agony of your heels.... I had a
letter from R. C. Trevelyan, the poet.... He writes: ‘It is a long time
since I have read anything that has impressed me so much as your “Moses”
and some of your short poems....’ He confesses parts are difficult, and
he is not sure whether it’s my fault or his.”


The next letter is the first of a series to Mr. Bottomley, whom he was
only to know by correspondence. He was now for a time working with the
Salvage Corps.


            _To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, June 12, 1916)._

“If you really mean what you say in your letter, there is no need to
tell you how proud I am. I had to read your letter many times before I
could convince myself you were not ‘pulling my leg.’ People are always
telling me my work is promising—incomprehensible, but promising, and all
that sort of thing, and my meekness subsides before the patronizing
knowingness. The first thing I saw of yours was last year in the
Georgian Book, ‘The End of the World.’ I must have worried all London
about it—certainly everybody I know. I had never seen anything like it.
After that I got hold of ‘Chambers of Imagery.’ Mr. Marsh told me of
your plays, but I joined the Army and have never been able to get at
them. It is a great thing to me to be able to tell you now in this way
what marvellous pleasure your work has given me, and what pride that my
work pleases you. I had ideas for a play called ‘Adam and Lilith’ before
I came to France, but I must wait now.”


            _To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, July 23, 1916)._

“Your letter came to-day with Mr. Trevelyan’s, like two friends to take
me for a picnic. Or rather like friends come to release the convict from
his chains with his innocence in their hands, as one sees in the
twopenny picture palace. You might say, friends come to take you to
church, or the priest to the prisoner. Simple _poetry_,—that is where an
interesting complexity of thought is kept in tone and right value to the
dominating idea so that it is understandable and still ungraspable. I
know it is beyond my reach just now, except, perhaps, in bits. I am
always afraid of being empty. When I get more leisure in more settled
times I will work on a larger scale and give myself room; then I may be
less frustrated in my efforts to be clear, and satisfy myself too. I
think what you say about getting beauty by phrasing of passages rather
than the placing of individual words very fine and very true.”


             _To Miss Seaton (written in Hospital, 1916)._

“I was very glad to have your letter and know there is no longer a
mix-up about letters and suchlike. Always the best thing to do is to
answer at once, that is the likeliest way of catching one, for we shift
about so quickly; how long I will stay here I cannot say: it may be a
while or just a bit. I have some Shakespeare: the Comedies and also
‘Macbeth.’ Now I see your argument and cannot deny my treatment of your
criticisms, but have you ever asked yourself why I always am rude to
your criticisms? Now, I intended to show you ——’s letters and why I
value his criticisms. I think anybody can pick holes and find unsound
parts in any work of art; anyone can say Christ’s creed is a slave’s
creed, the Mosaic is a vindictive, savage creed, and so on. It is the
unique and superior, the illuminating qualities one wants to
find—discover the direction of the impulse. Whatever anybody thinks of a
poet he will always know himself: he knows that the most marvellously
expressed idea is still nothing; and it is stupid to think that praise
can do him harm. I know sometimes one cannot exactly define one’s
feelings nor explain reasons for liking and disliking; but there is then
the right of a suspicion that the thing has not been properly understood
or one is prejudiced. It is much my fault if I am not understood, I
know; but I also feel a kind of injustice if my idea is not grasped and
is ignored, and only petty cavilling at form, which I had known all
along was so, is continually knocked into me. I feel quite sure that
form is only a question of time. I am afraid I am more rude than ever,
but I have exaggerated here the difference between your criticisms and
——’s. Ideas of poetry can be very different too. Tennyson thought Burns’
love-songs important, but the ‘Cottar’s S. N.’ poor. Wordsworth thought
the opposite.”


       _To Miss Seaton (November 15, 1916; written in Hospital)._

“London may not be the place for poetry to keep healthy in, but
Shakespeare did most of his work there, and Donne, Keats, Milton,
Blake—I think nearly all our big poets. But, after all, that is a matter
of personal likings or otherwise. Most of the French country I have seen
has been devastated by war, torn up—even the woods look ghastly with
their shell-shattered trees; our only recollections of warm and
comfortable feelings are the rare times amongst human villages, which
happened about twice in a year; but who can tell what one will like or
do after the war? If the twentieth century is so awful, tell me what
period you believe most enviable. Even Pater points out the Renaissance
was not an outburst—it was no simultaneous marked impulse of minds
living in a certain period of time—but scattered and isolated.”


            _To Edward Marsh (Postmark, January 30, 1917)._

“I think with you that poetry should be definite thought and clear
expressions, however subtle; I don’t think there should be any vagueness
at all, but a sense of something hidden and felt to be there. Now, when
my things fail to be clear, I am sure it is because of the luckless
choice of a word or the failure to introduce a word that would flash my
idea plain, as it is to my own mind. I believe my Amazon poem to be my
best poem. If there is any difficulty, it must be in words here and
there, the changing or elimination of which may make the poem clear. It
has taken me about a year to write; for I have changed and rechanged it
and thought hard over that poem, and striven to get that sense of
inexorableness the human (or unhuman) side of this war has. It even
penetrates behind human life; for the ‘Amazon’ who speaks in the second
half of the poem is imagined to be without her lover yet, while all her
sisters have theirs, the released spirits of the slain earth-men; her
lover yet remains to be released.”


                        _To Miss Seaton (1916)._

“Many thanks for book and chocolate. Both are being devoured with equal
pleasure. I can’t get quite the delight in Whitman as from one poem of
his I know—‘Captain, my Captain.’ I admire the vigour and independence
of his mind, but his diction is so diffused. Emerson and not Whitman is
America’s poet. You will persist in refusing to see my side of our
little debate on criticism. Everybody has agreed with you about the
faults, and the reason is obvious; the faults are so glaring that nobody
can fail to see them. But how many have seen the beauties? And it is
here more than the other that the true critic shows himself. And I
absolutely disagree that it is blindness or carelessness; it is the
brain succumbing to the herculean attempt to enrich the world of ideas.”


                      _To Laurence Binyon (1916)._

“It is far, very far, to the British Museum from here (situated as I am,
Siberia is no further and certainly no colder), but not too far for that
tiny mite of myself, my letter, to reach there. Winter has found its way
into the trenches at last, but I will assure you, and leave to your
imagination, the transport of delight with which we welcomed its coming.
Winter is not the least of the horrors of war. I am determined that this
war, with all its powers for devastation, shall not master my poeting;
that is, if I am lucky enough to come through all right. I will not
leave a corner of my consciousness covered up, but saturate myself with
the strange and extraordinary new conditions of this life, and it will
all refine itself into poetry later on. I have thoughts of a play round
our Jewish hero, Judas Maccabeus. I have much real material here, and
also there is some parallel in the savagery of the invaders then to this
war. I am not decided whether truth of period is a good quality or a
negative one. Flaubert’s ‘Salambo’ proves, perhaps, that it is good. It
decides the tone of the work, though it makes it hard to give the human
side and make it more living. However, it is impossible now to work and
difficult even to think of poetry, one is so cramped intellectually.”


                _To Gordon Bottomley (February, 1917)._

“Your letters always give me a strange and large pleasure; and I shall
never think I have written poetry in vain, since it has brought your
friendliness in my way. Now, feeling as I am, cast away and used up, you
don’t know what a letter like yours is to me. Ever since November, when
we first started on our long marches, I have felt weak; but it seems to
be some inscrutable mysterious quality of weakness that defies all
doctors. I have been examined most thoroughly several times by our
doctor, and there seems to be nothing at all wrong with my lungs. I
believe I have strained my abdomen in some way, and I shall know of it
later on. We have had desperate weather, but the poor fellows in the
trenches where there are no dug-outs are the chaps to pity. I am sending
a very slight sketch of a louse-hunt. It may be a bit vague, as I could
not work it out here, but if you can keep it till I get back I can work
on it then. I do believe I could make a fine thing of Judas. Judas as a
character is more magnanimous than Moses, and I believe I could make it
very intense and write a lot from material out here. Thanks very much
for your joining in with me to rout the pest out, but I have tried all
kinds of stuff; if you can think of any preparation you believe
effective I’d be most grateful for it.”


The “louse-hunt” refers to a night scene in which Rosenberg took part,
and which forcibly struck his imagination as a subject for a Goya
picture or for a poem like the “Jolly Beggars”: a barn full of naked
soldiers—Scottish and others—singing, swearing, and laughing, in mad
antics as they pursued the chase.


            _To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, April 8, 1917)._

“All through this winter I have felt most crotchety, all kinds of small
things interfering with my fitness. My hands would get chilblains or bad
boots would make my feet sore; and this aggravating a general
run-down-ness, I have not felt too happy. I have gone less warmly clad
during the winter than through the summer, because of the increased
liveliness on my clothes. I’ve been stung to what we call ‘dumping’ a
great part of my clothing, as I thought it wisest to go cold than lousy.
It may have been this that caused all the crotchetiness. However, we’ve
been in no danger—that is, from shell-fire—for a good long while, though
so very close to most terrible fighting. But as far as houses or sign of
ordinary human living is concerned, we might as well be in the Sahara
Desert. I think I could give some blood-curdling touches if I wished to
tell all I see, of dead buried men blown out of their graves, and more,
but I will spare you all this.”


                _To Edward Marsh (Postmark, May, 1917)._

“Regular rhythms I do not like much, but, of course, it depends on where
the stress and accent are laid. I think there is nothing finer than the
vigorous opening to ‘Lycidas’ for music; yet it is regular.... It is
only when we get a bit of a rest and the others might be gambling or
squabbling I do a line or two and continue this way. The weather is
gorgeous now, and we are bivouacked in the fields.”


                       _To Edward Marsh (1917)._

“I hope you have not yet got my poem, ‘The Amulet,’ I’ve asked my sister
to send you. If you get it, please don’t read it, because it’s the
merest sketch and the best is yet to come. If I am able to carry on with
it, I’ll send you it in a more presentable fashion. I believe I have a
good idea at bottom. It’s a kind of ‘Rape of the Sabine Women’ idea:
some strange race of wanderers have settled in some wild place and are
perishing out for lack of women. The prince of these explores some
country near where the women are most fair. But the natives will not
hear of foreign marriages; and he plots another Rape of the Sabines, but
is trapped in the act.”


                       _To Edward Marsh (1917)._

“I am now fearfully rushed, but find energy enough to scribble this in
the minute I plunder from my work. I believe I can see the obscurities
in the ‘Daughters,’ but hardly hope to clear them up in France. The
first part, the picture of the Daughters dancing and calling to the
spirits of the slain before their last ones have ceased among the boughs
of the tree of life, I must still work on. In that part obscure the
description of the voice of the Daughter I have not made clear, I see; I
have tried to suggest the wonderful sound of her voice, spiritual and
voluptuous at the same time. The end is an attempt to imagine the
severance of all human relationship and the fading away of human love.
Later on I will try and work on it, because I think it a pity if the
ideas are to be lost for want of work. My ‘Unicorn’ play is stopped
because of my increased toil, and I forget how much or little I told you
of it. I want to do it in one Act, although I think I have a subject
here that could make a gigantic play. I have not the time to write out
the sketch of it as far as it’s gone, though I’d like to know your
criticism of it very much. The most difficult part I shrink from; I
think even Shakespeare might:—the first time Tel, the chief of the
decaying race, sees a woman (who is Lilith, Saul’s wife), and he is
called upon to talk. Saul and Lilith are ordinary folk into whose
ordinary lives the Unicorn bursts. It is to be a play of terror—terror
of hidden things and the fear of the supernatural. But I see no hope of
doing the play while out here. I have a way, when I write, to try and
put myself in the situation, and I make gestures and grimaces.”


            _To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, July 20, 1917)._

“My sister wrote me of your note, and it made me very glad to feel you
thought in that way about my poem, because I liked it myself above
anything I have yet done. I know my letters are not what they should be;
but I must take any chance I get of writing for fear another chance does
not come, so I write hastily and leave out most I should write about. I
wished to say last time a lot about your poem, but I could think of
nothing that would properly express my great pleasure in it; and I can
think of nothing now. If anything, I think it is too brief—although it
is so rare and compressed and full of hinted matter. I wish I could get
back and read your plays; and if my luck still continues, I shall.
Leaves have commenced with us, but it may be a good while before I get
mine. We are more busy now than when I last wrote, but I generally
manage to knock something up if my brain means to, and I am sketching
out a little play. My great fear is that I may lose what I’ve written,
which can happen here so easily. I send home any bit I write, for
safety, but that can easily get lost in transmission. However, I live in
an immense trust that things will turn out well.”


                     _To Gordon Bottomley (1917)._

“The other poems I have not yet read, but I will follow on with letters
and shall send the bits of—or rather the bit of—a play I’ve written.
Just now it is interfered with by a punishment I am undergoing for the
offence of being endowed with a poor memory, which continually causes me
trouble and often punishment. I forgot to wear my gas-helmet one day; in
fact, I’ve often forgotten it, but I was noticed one day, and seven
days’ pack drill is the consequence, which I do between the hours of
going up the line and sleep. My memory, always weak, has become worse
since I’ve been out here.”


           _To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, August 3, 1917)._

“I don’t think I’ll get my play complete for it in time, though it will
hardly take much space, it’s so slight. If I could get home on leave I’d
work at it and get it done, no doubt, but leaves are so chancy. It’s
called ‘The Unicorn.’ Now, it’s about a decaying race who have never
seen a woman; animals take the place of women, but they yearn for
continuity. The chief’s Unicorn breaks away and he goes in chase. The
Unicorn is found by boys outside a city and brought in, and breaks away
again. Saul, who has seen the Unicorn on his way to the city for the
week’s victuals, gives chase in his cart. A storm comes on, the mules
break down, and by the lightning he sees the Unicorn race by; a naked
black like an apparition rises up and easily lifts the wheels from the
rut, and together they ride to Saul’s hut. There Lilith is in great
consternation, having seen the Unicorn and knowing the legend of this
race of men. The emotions of the black (the Chief) are the really
difficult part of my story. Afterwards a host of blacks on horses, like
centaurs and buffaloes, come rushing up, the Unicorn in front. On every
horse is clasped a woman. Lilith faints, Saul stabs himself, the Chief
places Lilith on the Unicorn, and they all race away.”


In the late summer of this year (1917) Rosenberg came to England on
leave.


           _To Gordon Bottomley (dated September 21, 1917)._

“The greatest thing of my leave after seeing my mother was your letter
which has just arrived.... I wish I could have seen you, but now I must
go on and hope that things will turn out well, and some happy day will
give me the chance of meeting you.... I am afraid I can do no writing or
reading; I feel so restless here and unanchored. We have lived in such
an elemental way so long, things here don’t look quite right to me
somehow; or it may be the consciousness of my so limited time here for
freedom—so little time to do so many things bewilders me. ‘The Unicorn,’
as will be obvious, is just a basis; its final form will be very
different, I hope.”


On returning to France he was taken ill and sent down the line. The time
in hospital was a relief, especially as his restlessness in England had
prevented writing or reading.


              _To Miss Seaton (dated February 14, 1918)._

“We had a rough time in the trenches with the mud, but now we’re out for
a bit of a rest, and I will try and write longer letters. You must know
by now what a rest behind the line means. I can call the evenings—that
is, from tea to lights out—my own; but there is no chance whatever for
seclusion or any hope of writing poetry now. Sometimes I give way and am
appalled at the devastation this life seems to have made in my nature.
It seems to have blunted me. I seem to be powerless to compel my will to
any direction, and all I do is without energy and interest.”


          _To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, February 26, 1918)._

“I wanted to send some bits I wrote for the ‘Unicorn’ while I was in
hospital, and if I find them I’ll enclose them. I tried to work on your
suggestion and divided it into four acts, but since I left the hospital
all the poetry has gone quite out of me. I seem even to forget words,
and I believe if I met anybody with ideas I’d be dumb. No drug could be
more stupefying than our work (to me anyway), and this goes on like that
old torture of water trickling, drop by drop unendingly, on one’s
helplessness.”


             _To Gordon Bottomley (Dated, March 7, 1918)._

“I believe our interlude is nearly over, and we may go up the line any
moment now, so I answer your letter straightaway. If only this war were
over our eyes would not be on death so much: it seems to underlie even
our underthoughts. Yet when I have been so near to it as anybody could
be, the idea has never crossed my mind, certainly not so much as when
some lying doctor told me I had consumption. I like to think of myself
as a poet; so what you say, though I know it to be extravagant, gives me
immense pleasure.”


                   _To Miss Seaton (March 8, 1918)._

“I do not feel that I have much to say, but I do know that unless I
write now it will be a long time before you hear from me again, without
something exceptional happens. It is not very cold now, but I dread the
wet weather, which is keeping off while we are out, and, I fear, saving
itself up for us. We will become like mummies—look warm and lifelike,
but a touch and we crumble to pieces. Did I send you a little poem, ‘The
Burning of the Temple’? I thought it was poor, or rather, difficult in
expression, but G. Bottomley thinks it fine. Was it clear to you? If I
am lucky, and come off undamaged, I mean to put all my innermost
experiences into the ‘Unicorn.’ I want it to symbolize the war and all
the devastating forces let loose by an ambitious and unscrupulous will.
Last summer I wrote pieces for it and had the whole of it planned out,
but since then I’ve had no chance of working on it and it may have gone
quite out of my mind.”


               _To Edward Marsh (dated March 28, 1918)._

“I think I wrote you I was about to go up the line again after our
little rest. We are now in the trenches again, and though I feel very
sleepy, I just have a chance to answer your letter, so I will while I
may. It’s really my being lucky enough to bag an inch of candle that
incites me to this pitch of punctual epistolary. I must measure my
letter by the light....”


The date of the postmark on this letter is April 2, when the writer was
already dead.

                                                        LAURENCE BINYON.




                                 MOSES
                             A PLAY (1916)


                                PERSONS

                    MOSES       _An Egyptian Prince_
                    ABINOAH     _An Overseer_
                    TWO HEBREWS
                    KOELUE      _Abinoah’s Daughter_
                    MESSENGER


                                 MOSES


  SCENE I.: _Outside a college in Thebes. Egyptian students pass by._
                      MOSES _alone in meditation_.

                          [_Enter_ MESSENGER.]

                               MESSENGER

[_Handing papyrus._] Pharaoh’s desires.

                                 MOSES

[_Reads._] To our beloved son, greeting. Add to our thoughts of you, if
possible to add, but a little, and you are more than old heroes—not to
bemean your genius, who might cry “Was that all!” We pile barriers
everywhere: we give you idiots for tools, tree stumps for swords, skin
sacks for souls. The sixteenth pyramid remains to be built: we give you
the last draft of slaves. Move! Forget not the edict. PHARAOH.

                                 MOSES

[_To_ MESSENGER.] What is the edict?

                         MESSENGER

     The royal paunch of Pharaoh dangled worriedly,
     Not knowing where the wrong: viands once giant-like
     Came to him thin and thinner—what rats gnawed?
     Horror, the swarm of slaves! The satraps swore
     Their wives’ bones hurt them when they lay abed,
     That before were soft and plump: the people howled
     They’d boil the slaves three days to get their fat,
     Ending the famine. A haggard council held
     Decrees the two hind molars, those two staunchest
     Busy labourers in the belly’s service, to be drawn
     From out each slave’s greased mouth, which soon
     From incapacity will lose the habit
     Of eating.

                           MOSES

     Well, should their bones stick out to find the air,
     I’ll make a use of them for pleasantness—
     Droll demonstrations of anatomy.

                         MESSENGER

     And when you’ve ended find ’twas one on sharks.

             [MOSES _signs to_ MESSENGER _to go.
                     Exit_ MESSENGER.]

                     MOSES

     Fine! Fine!
     See, in my brain
     What madmen have rushed through
     And like a tornado
     Torn up the tight roots
     Of some dead universe:
     The old clay is broken
     For a power to soak in and knit
     It all into tougher tissues
     To hold life;
     Pricking my nerves till the brain might crack
     It boils to my finger-tips,
     Till my hands ache to grip
     The hammer—the lone hammer
     That breaks lives into a road
     Through which my genius drives.
     Pharaoh well peruked and oiled,
     And your admirable pyramids,
     And your interminable procession
     Of crowded kings,
     You are my little fishing rods
     Wherewith I catch the fish
     To suit my hungry belly.
     I am rough now, and new, and will have no tailor.
     Startlingly,
     As a mountain-side
     Wakes aware of its other side
     When from a cave a leopard comes,
     On its heels the same red sand,
     Springing with acquainted air,
     Sprang an intelligence
     Coloured as a whim of mine,
     Showed to my dull outer eyes
     The living eyes underneath.
     Did I not shrivel up and take the place of air,
     Secret as those eyes were,
     And those strong eyes call up a giant frame?
     And I am that now.

     Pharaoh is sleek and deep;
     And where his love for me is set—under
     The deeps, on their floor, or in the shallow ways,
     Though I have been as a diver—never yet
     Could I find.... I have a way, a touchstone!
     A small misdemeanour, touch of rebelliousness;
     To prick the vein of father, monitor, foe,
     Will tell which of these his kingship is.
     If I shut my eyes to the edict,
     And leave the pincers to rust
     And the slaves’ teeth as God made them,
     Then hide from the summoning tribunal,
     Pharaoh will speak; and I’ll seize that word to act.
     Should the word be a foe’s I can use it well
     As a poison to soak into Egypt’s bowels;
     A wraith from old Nile will cry
     “For his mercy they break his back”
     And I shall have a great following for this,
     The rude, touched heart of the mauled, sweaty horde,
     Their rough tongues fawn at my hands, their red-streaked eyes
     Glitter with sacrifice. Well! Pharaoh bids me act....
     Hah! I’m all a-bristle.... Lord, his eyes would go wide
     If he knew the road my rampant dreams would race!
     I am too much awake now—restless, so restless.
     Behind white mists invisibly
     My thoughts stood like a mountain;
     But Power, watching as a man,
     Saw no mountain there—
     Only the mixing mist and sky
     And the flat earth.
     What shoulder pushed through those mists
     Of gay fantastic pastimes
     And startled hills of sleep?

                             [_He looks in a mirror._]

     Oh, apparition of me,
     Ruddy flesh soon hueless,
     Fade and show to my eyes
     The lasting bare body;
     Soul-sack fall away
     And show what you hold!
     Sing! Let me hear you sing.

                 A VOICE

     [_Sings._]

           Upon my lips, like a cloud
           To burst on the peaks of light,
           Sit cowled impossible things
           To tie my hands at their prime and height.
           Power, break through their shroud;
           Pierce them so thoroughly,
           Thoroughly enter me,
           Know me for one dead;
           Break the shadowy thread,
           The cowering spirit’s bond
           Writ by illusions blond!

           Ah! Let the morning pale
           Throb with a wilder pulse:
           No delicate flame shall quail
           With terror at your convulse.
           Thin branches whip the white skies
           To lips and spaces of song
           That chant a mood to my eyes....
           Ah! Sleep can be overlong.

                             MOSES

     Voices thunder, voices of deeds not done:
     Lo, on the air are scrawled in abysmal light
     Old myths never known and yet already forgone,
     And songs more lost, more secret than desert light:
     Martyrdoms of uncreated things,
     Virgin silences waiting a breaking voice—
     As in a womb they cry, in a cage beat vain wings
     Under life, over life: is their unbeing my choice?

     Dull wine of torpor—the unsoldered spirit lies limp.
     Ah! If she would run into a mould,
     Some new idea unwalled
     To human by-ways, an apocalyptic camp
     Of utterest and ulterior dreaming,
     Understood only in its gleaming,
     To flash stark naked the whole girth of the world.

     I am sick of priests and forms,
     This rigid dry-boned refinement:
     As ladies’ perfumes are
     Obnoxious to stern natures,
     This miasma of a rotting god
     Is to me.
     Who has made of the forest a park?
     Who has changed the wolf to a dog?
     And put the horse in harness?
     And man’s mind in a groove?

     I heard the one spirit cry in them,
     “Break this metamorphosis,
     Disenchant my lying body;
     Only putrefaction is free,
     And I, Freedom, am not.
     Moses! Touch us, thou!”

     There shall not be a void or calm,
     But a fury fill the veins of time—
     Whose limbs had begun to rot,
     Who had flattered my stupid torpor
     With an easy and mimic energy,
     And drained my veins with a paltry marvel
     More monstrous than battle;
     For the soul ached and went out dead in pleasure.

     Is not this song still sung in the streets of me?

                   A naked African
                   Walked in the sun
                   Singing—singing
                   Of his wild love.

                   I slew the tiger
                   With your young strength
                   (My tawny panther)
                   Rolled round my life.

                   Three sheep, your breasts
                   And my head between,
                   Grazing together
                   On a smooth slope.

                       Ah! Koelue!
     Had you embalmed your beauty, so
     It could not backward go
     Or change in any way,
     What were the use if on my eyes
     The embalming spices were not laid
     To keep us fixed,
     Two amorous sculptures passioned endlessly?
     What were the use if my sight grew
     And its far branches were cloud-hung,
     You small at the roots like grass;
     While the new lips my spirit would kiss
     Were not red lips of flesh,
     But the huge kiss of power?
     Where yesterday soft hair through my fingers fell
     A shaggy mane would entwine;
     And no slim form work fire to my thighs,
     But human Life’s inarticulate mass
     Throb the pulse of a thing
     Whose mountain flanks awry
     Beg my mastery—mine!
     Ah! I will ride the dizzy beast of the world
     My road—my way.


  SCENE II.: _Evening before Thebes. The Pyramids are being built.
    Swarms of Hebrews labouring. Priests and Taskmasters. Two Hebrews
    are furtively talking._ KOELUE _passes by singing_.

                     KOELUE

         The vague viols of evening
         Call all the flower clans
         To some abysmal swinging
         And tumult of deep trance;
         He may hear, flower of my singing,
         And come hither winging.

                     OLD HEBREW

     [_Gazing after her in a muffled frenzy._]

 Hateful harlot! Boils cover your small cruel face.
 O, fine champion Moses: O, so good to us:
 O, grand begetter on her of a whip and a torturer,
 Her father, born to us since you kissed her.
 Our champion, O so good to us!


                 YOUNG HEBREW

 For shame! Our brothers’ twisted blood-smeared gums
 Tell we only have more room for wreck curtailed:
 For you, having no teeth to draw, it is no mercy
 Perhaps; but they might mangle your gums
 Or touch a nerve somewhere. He barred it now;
 And that is all his thanks, he, too, in peril.
 Be still, old man; wait a little.

                     OLD HEBREW

 Wait!
 All day some slow dark quadruped beats
 To pulp our springiness:
 All day some hoofed animal treads our veins,
 Leisurely—leisurely our energies flow out:
 All agonies created from the first day
 Have wandered hungry searching the world for us,
 Or they would perish like disused Behemoth.
 Is our Messiah one to unleash these agonies
 As Moses does, who gives us an Abinoah?

                 YOUNG HEBREW

 Yesterday as I lay nigh dead with toil
 Underneath the hurtling crane oiled with our blood,

 Thinking to end all and let the crane crush me,
 He came by and bore me into the shade:
 O, what a furnace roaring in his blood
 Thawed my congealed sinews and tingled my own
 Raging through me like a strong cordial.
 He spoke! Since yesterday
 Am I not larger grown?
 I’ve seen men hugely shapen in soul,
 Of such unhuman shaggy male turbulence
 They tower in foam miles from our neck-strained sight,
 And to their shop only heroes come;
 But all were cripples to this speed
 Constrained to the stables of flesh.
 I say there is a famine in ripe harvest
 When hungry giants come as guests:
 Come knead the hills and ocean into food,
 There is none for him.
 The streaming vigours of his blood erupting
 From his halt tongue are like an anger thrust
 Out of a madman’s piteous craving for
 A monstrous balked perfection.

                     OLD HEBREW

 He is a prince, an animal
 Not of our kind; who perhaps has heard

 Vague rumours of our world, to his mind
 An unpleasant miasma.

                 YOUNG HEBREW

 Is not Miriam his sister, Jochabed his mother?
 In the womb he looked round and saw
 From furthermost stretches our wrong:
 From the palaces and schools
 Our pain has pierced dead generations
 Back to his blood’s thin source.
 As we lie chained by Egyptian men
 He lay in nets of their women,
 And now rejoices he has broken their meshes.
 O! His desires are fleets of treasure
 He has squandered in treacherous seas,
 Sailing mistrust to find frank ports;
 He fears our fear and tampers mildly
 For our assent to let him save us.
 When he walks amid our toil
 With some master-mason
 His tense brows, critical
 Of the loose enginery,
 Hint famed devices flat, his rod
 Scratching new schemes on the sand:
 But read hard the scrawled lines there—
 Limned turrets and darkness, chinks of light,

 Half beasts snorting into the light,
 A phantasmagoria, wild escapade
 To our hearts’ clue; just a daring plan
 To the honest mason. What swathed meanings peer
 From his work-a-day council, washed to and from
 Your understanding till you doubt
 That a word was said—
 But a terror wakes and forces your eyes
 Into his covertly, to search his searching;
 Startled to life, starved hopes slink out
 Cowering, incredulous.

                   OLD HEBREW

 [_To himself._] His youth is flattered at Moses’ kind speech to him.

             [_To the_ YOUNG HEBREW.]

 I am broken and grey, have seen much in my time,
 And all this gay grotesque of childish man
 Long passed; half blind, half deaf, I only grumble
 I am not blind or deaf enough for peace.
 I have seen splendid young fools cheat themselves
 Into a prophet’s frenzy; I have seen
 So many crazed shadows puffed away,
 And conscious cheats with such an ache for fame

 They’d make a bonfire of themselves to be
 Mouthed in the squares, broad in the public eye:
 And whose backs break, whose lives are mauled, after
 It all falls flat? His tender airs chill me—
 As thoughts of sleep to a man tiptoed night-long
 Roped round his neck, for sleep means death to him.
 Oh, he is kind to us!
 Your safe teeth chatter when they hear a step:
 He left them yours because his cunning way
 Would brag the wrong against his humane act
 By Pharaoh; so gain more favour than he lost.

                 YOUNG HEBREW

 Help him not then, and push your safety away:
 I for my part will be his backward eye,
 His hands when they are shut. Ah! Abinoah!
 Like a bad smell from the soul of Moses dipt
 In the mire of lust he hangs round him;
 And if his slit-like eyes could tear right out
 The pleasure Moses on his daughter had,
 She’d be as virgin as ere she came nestling
 Into that fierce unmanageable blood,
 Flying from her loathed father. O, that slave
 Has hammered from the anvil of her beauty

 A steel to break his manacles: hard for us
 Moses has made him overseer. O, his slits
 Pry—pry.... For what?... To sell to Imra....

         [ABINOAH _is seen approaching_.]

 Sh! The thin-lipped abomination!
 Zig-zagging haschish tours in a fine style:
 It were delightful labour making bricks,
 Knowing they would kiss friendly with his head.

                 ABINOAH


 [_Who has been taking haschish; and who has one obsession, hatred of
    Jews._]

 Dirt-draggled mongrels, circumcised slaves,
 You puddle with your lousy gibberish
 The holy air, Pharaoh’s own tributary:
 Filthy manure for Pharaoh’s flourishing,
 I’ll circumcise and make holy your tongues,
 And stop one outlet to your profanation.

                 [_To the_ OLD HEBREW.]

 I’ve never seen one beg so for a blow;
 Too soft am I to resist such entreaty.
                                     [_Beats him._]
 Your howling holds the earnest energies
 You cheat from Pharaoh when you make his bricks.


                 AN AGED MINSTREL

               [_Sings from a distance._]

         Taut is the air and tied the trees,
         The leaves lie as on a hand;
         God’s unthinkable imagination
         Invents new tortures for nature.

         And when the air is soft and the leaves
         Feel free and push and tremble,
         Will they not remember and say
         How wonderful to have lived?

 [_The_ OLD HEBREW _is agitated and murmurs_.]

 Messiah, Messiah.... That voice....
 O, he has beaten my sight out.... I see
 Like a rain about a devouring fire....

             [_The Minstrel sings._]

 Ye who best God awhile, O hear: your wealth
 Is but His cunning to see to make death more hard,
 Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking;
 And he has made the market for your beauty
 Too poor to buy although you die to sell.


                     OLD HEBREW

 I am crazed with whips.... I hear a Messiah.

                 YOUNG HEBREW

 The venerable man will question this.

                     ABINOAH

 [_Overhearing._] I’ll beat you more, and he’ll question
 The scratchiness of your whining; or, may be,
 Thence may be born deep argument
 With reasons from philosophy,
 That this blow, taking longer, yet was but one,
 Or perhaps two; or that you felt this one—
 Arguing from the difference in your whine—
 Exactly, or not, like the other.

                     MINSTREL

 You labour hard to give pain.

                     ABINOAH

 [_Still beating._] My pain is ... not ... to labour so.

                     MINSTREL

 What is this greybeard worth to you now,
 All his dried-up blood crumbled to dust?


 [_Motions_ ABINOAH _to desist, but not in time to prevent the old man
    fainting into the hands of the_ YOUNG HEBREW.]

                     ABINOAH

 Harper, are you envious of the old fool?
 Go! Hug the rat who stole your last crumbs,
 And gnawed the hole in your life which made time wonder
 Who it was saved labour for him the next score of years.
 We allowed them life for their labour—they haggled.
 Food they must have, and (god of laughter!) even ease;
 But mud and lice and Jews are very busy
 Breeding plagues in ease.

     [_The Minstrel pulls his beard and robe off._]

                     ABINOAH

 Moses!

                     MOSES

 You drunken rascal!

                     ABINOAH

 A drunken rascal! Isis, hear the Prince!
 Drunken with duty, and he calls me rascal.


                     MOSES

 You may think it your duty to get drunk;
 But get yourself bronze claws before
 You would be impudent.

                     ABINOAH

 When a man’s drunk he’ll kiss a horse or king,
 He’s so affectionate. Under your words
 There is strong wine to make me drunk; you think,
 The lines of all your face say, “Her father, Koelue’s father.”

                     MOSES

 This is too droll and extraordinary.
 I dreamt I was a prince—a queer droll dream
 Where a certain slave of mine, a thing, a toad,
 Shifting his belly, showed a diamond
 Where he had lain; and a blind dumb messenger
 Bore syllabled messages soaked right through with glee:
 I paid the toad, the blind man; afterwards
 They spread a stench and snarling. O, droll dream!

 I think you merely mean to flatter me,
 You subtle knave, that, more than prince, I’m _man_
 And worth to listen to your bawdy breath.

                     ABINOAH

 Yet my breath was worth your mixing with.

                     MOSES

 A boy at college flattered so by a girl
 Will give her what she asks for.

                     ABINOAH

 Osiris! Burning Osiris!
 Of thee desirable, for thee, her hair....

     [_He looks inanely at_ MOSES, _saying to himself_.]

 Prince Imra vowed his honey-hives and vineyards:
 Isis, to let a Jew have her for nothing!

             [_He sings under his breath._]

         Night by night in a little house
         A man and woman meet;
         They look like each other,
         They are sister and brother;
         And night by night at that same hour
         A king calls for his son in vain.


                     MOSES

 [_To himself._] So, sister Miriam, it is known then. Slave, you die.
 [_Aloud._] O, you ambiguous stench,
 You’ll be more interesting as a mummy
 I have no doubt.

                     ABINOAH

 I’m drunk, yes—drenched with the thought
 Of a certain thing. [_Aside._] I’ll sleep sounder to-night
 Than all the nights I’ve followed him about
 Worrying each slight clue, each monosyllable
 To give the word to Imra: the prince is near,
 And Moses’ eyes shall blink before next hour
 To a hundred javelins. I’ll tease him till they come.
 [_Aloud._] On Koelue’s tears I swam to you, in a mist
 Of her sighs I hung round you;
 As in some hallucination I’ve been walking
 A white waste world, we two only in it.

                     MOSES

 Doubtless the instinct balked to bully the girl,
 Making large gapings in your haschish dreams,

 Led you to me in whom she was thoroughly lost.
 Pah, you sicken me!

     [_He is silent awhile, then turns away._]

                     ABINOAH

 Prince Imra is Pharaoh’s choice now, and Koelue’s.

         [MOSES _turns back menacingly_.]

                     MOSES

 Silence, you beast!

     [_He changes his tone to a winning softness._]

 I hate these family quarrels: it is so
 Like fratricide. I am a rebel, well?
 Soft! You are not, and we are knit so close
 It would be shame for a son to be so honoured
 And the father still unknown: come, Koelue’s (so _my_) father,
 I’ll tell my plans—you’ll beg to be rebel then.
 Look round on the night—
 Old as the first, bleak, even her wish is done;
 She has never seen, though dreamt perhaps of the sun,
 Yet only dawn divides; could a miracle

 Destroy the dawn, night would be mixed with light,
 No night or light would be, but a new thing:
 So with these slaves, who perhaps have dreamt of freedom,
 Egypt was in the way; I’ll strike it out
 With my ways curious and unusual.
 I have a trouble in my mind for largeness,
 Rough-hearted, shaggy, which your grave ardours lack:
 Here is the quarry quiet for me to hew;
 Here are the springs, primeval elements,
 The roots’ hid secrecy, old source of race,
 Unreasoned reason of the savage instinct.
 I’d shape one impulse through the contraries
 Of vain ambitious men, selfish and callous,
 And frail life-drifters, reticent, delicate—
 Litheness thread bulk, a nation’s harmony:
 These are not lame nor bent awry, but placeless
 With the rust and stagnant. All that’s low I’ll charm,
 Barbaric love sweeten to tenderness,
 Cunning run into wisdom, craft turn to skill;
 Their meanness, threaded right and sensibly,
 Change to a prudence envied and not sneered;
 Their hugeness be a driving wedge to a thing

 Ineffable and useable, as near
 Solidity as human life can be:
 So grandly fashion these rude elements
 Into some newer nature, a consciousness
 Like naked light seizing the all-eyed soul,
 Oppressing with its gorgeous tyranny
 Until they take it thus—or die.

 [_While speaking, he places his hand on the unsuspecting Egyptian’s head
    and gently, caressingly, pulls his hair back until his chin is above
    his forehead, and holds him so till he is suffocated. In the darkness
    ahead is seen the glimmer of javelins and spears: it is Prince Imra’s
    cohorts come to arrest_ MOSES.]


                                THE END.




                       POEMS FROM CAMP AND TRENCH

              And like the artist who creates
              From dying things what never dies....
                                              _Fragment._


                            DAUGHTERS OF WAR

    Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs,
    Their naked dances with man’s spirit naked
    By the root side of the tree of life
    (The under side of things
    And shut from earth’s profoundest eyes).

    I saw in prophetic gleams
    These mighty daughters in their dances
    Beckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpse
    To mix in their glittering dances:
    I heard the mighty daughters’ giant sighs
    In sleepless passion for the sons of valour
    And envy of the days of flesh,
    Barring their love with mortal boughs across—
    The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life.
    The old bark burnt with iron wars
    They blow to a live flame
    To char the young green days
    And reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure,
    No softer lure than the savage ways of death.

    We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sun
    To take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth—
    These maidens came—these strong everliving Amazons,
    And in an easy might their wrists
    Of night’s sway and noon’s sway the sceptres brake,
    Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes.

    Clouding the wild lustres, the clinging tender lights;
    Driving the darkness into the flame of day
    With the Amazonian wind of them
    Over our corroding faces
    That must be broken—broken for evermore,
    So the soul can leap out
    Into their huge embraces.
    Though there are human faces
    Best sculptures of Deity,
    And sinews lusted after
    By the Archangels tall,
    Even these must leap to the love-heat of these maidens
    From the flame of terrene days,
    Leaving grey ashes to the wind—to the wind.

    One (whose great lifted face,
    Where wisdom’s strength and beauty’s strength
    And the thewed strength of large beasts
    Moved and merged, gloomed and lit)
    Was speaking, surely, as the earth-men’s earth fell away;
    Whose new hearing drank the sound
    Where pictures, lutes, and mountains mixed
    With the loosed spirit of a thought,
    Essenced to language thus—

    “My sisters force their males
    From the doomed earth, from the doomed glee
    And hankering of hearts.
    Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ash
    Seem to wail, as in sad faded paintings
    Far-sunken and strange.
    My sisters have their males
    Clean of the dust of old days
    That clings about those white hands
    And yearns in those voices sad:
    But these shall not see them,
    Or think of them in any days or years;
    They are my sisters’ lovers in other days and years.”


                 ON RECEIVING THE FIRST NEWS OF THE WAR

                     Snow is a strange white word;
                     No ice or frost
                     Has asked of bud or bird
                     For Winter’s cost.

                     Yet ice and frost and snow
                     From earth to sky
                     This Summer land doth know;
                     No man knows why.

                     In all men’s hearts it is:
                     Some spirit old
                     Hath turned with malign kiss
                     Our lives to mould.

                     Red fangs have torn His face,
                     God’s blood is shed:
                     He mourns from His lone place
                     His children dead.

                     O ancient crimson curse!
                     Corrode, consume;
                     Give back this universe
                     Its pristine bloom.


_Cape Town, 1914._


                              SPRING, 1916

         Slow, rigid, is this masquerade
         That passes as through a difficult air:
         Heavily—heavily passes.
         What has she fed on? Who her table laid
         Through the three seasons? What forbidden fare
         Ruined her as a mortal lass is?

         I played with her two years ago,
         Who might be now her own sister in stone;
         So altered from her May mien,
         When round the pink a necklace of warm snow
         Laughed to her throat where my mouth’s touch had gone.
         How is this, ruined Queen?

         Who lured her vivid beauty so
         To be that strained chill thing that moves
         So ghastly midst her young brood
         Of pregnant shoots that she for men did grow?
         Where are the strong men who made these their loves?
         Spring! God pity your mood!


                             THE TROOP SHIP

                   Grotesque and queerly huddled
                   Contortionists to twist
                   The sleepy soul to a sleep,
                   We lie all sorts of ways
                   And cannot sleep.
                   The wet wind is so cold,
                   And the lurching men so careless,
                   That, should you drop to a doze,
                   Winds’ fumble or men’s feet
                   Are on your face.


                                MARCHING

                     (AS SEEN FROM THE LEFT FILE).

                   My eyes catch ruddy necks
                   Sturdily pressed back—
                   All a red-brick moving glint.
                   Like flaming pendulums, hands
                   Swing across the khaki—
                   Mustard-coloured khaki—
                   To the automatic feet.

                   We husband the ancient glory
                   In these bared necks and hands.
                   Not broke is the forge of Mars;
                   But a subtler brain beats iron
                   To shoe the hoofs of death
                   (Who paws dynamic air now).
                   Blind fingers loose an iron cloud
                   To rain immortal darkness
                   On strong eyes.


                      BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES

              The darkness crumbles away—
              It is the same old druid Time as ever.
              Only a live thing leaps my hand—
              A queer sardonic rat—
              As I pull the parapet’s poppy
              To stick behind my ear.
              Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
              Your cosmopolitan sympathies
              (And God knows what antipathies).
              Now you have touched this English hand
              You will do the same to a German—
              Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
              To cross the sleeping green between.
              It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
              Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes
              Less chanced than you for life,
              Bonds to the whims of murder,
              Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
              The torn fields of France.
              What do you see in our eyes
              At the shrieking iron and flame
              Hurled through still heavens?
              What quaver—what heart aghast?
              Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
              Drop, and are ever dropping;
              But mine in my ear is safe,
              Just a little white with the dust.


                            KILLED IN ACTION

               Your “Youth”[2] has fallen from its shelf,
               And you have fallen, you yourself.
               They knocked a soldier on the head,
               I mourn the poet who fell dead.
               And yet I think it was by chance,
               By oversight you died in France.
               You were so poor an outward man,
               So small against your spirit’s span,
               That Nature, being tired awhile,
               Saw but your outward human pile;
               And Nature, who would never let
               A sun with light still in it set,
               Before you even reached your sky,
               In inadvertence let you die.

Footnote 2:

  “Youth,” a volume of poems by I. Rosenberg.


                      RETURNING, WE HEAR THE LARKS

      Sombre the night is:
      And, though we have our lives, we know
      What sinister threat lurks there.

      Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know
      This poison-blasted track opens on our camp—
      On a little safe sleep.

      But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.
      Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:
      Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

      Death could drop from the dark
      As easily as song—
      But song only dropped,
      Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand
      By dangerous tides;
      Like a girl’s dark hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,
      Or her kisses where a serpent hides.


         THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY THE BABYLONIAN HORDES

                 They left their Babylon bare
                 Of all its tall men,
                 Of all its proud horses;
                 They made for Lebanon.

                 And shadowy sowers went
                 Before their spears to sow
                 The fruit whose taste is ash,
                 For Judah’s soul to know.

                 They who bowed to the Bull god,
                 Whose wings roofed Babylon,
                 In endless hosts darkened
                 The bright-heavened Lebanon.

                 They washed their grime in pools
                 Where laughing girls forgot
                 The wiles they used for Solomon.
                 Sweet laughter, remembered not!

                 Sweet laughter charred in the flame
                 That clutched the cloud and earth,
                 While Solomon’s towers crashed between
                 To a gird of Babylon’s mirth.


                       THE BURNING OF THE TEMPLE

                Fierce wrath of Solomon,
                Where sleepest thou? O see,
                The fabric which thou won
                Earth and ocean to give thee—
                O look at the red skies.

                Or hath the sun plunged down?
                What is this molten gold—
                These thundering fires blown
                Through heaven, where the smoke rolled?
                Again the great king dies.

                His dreams go out in smoke.
                His days he let not pass
                And sculptured here are broke,
                Are charred as the burnt grass,
                Gone as his mouth’s last sighs.


                       HOME-THOUGHTS FROM FRANCE

                    Wan, fragile faces of joy,
                    Pitiful mouths that strive
                    To light with smiles the place
                    We dream we walk alive,

                    To you I stretch my hands,
                    Hands shut in pitiless trance
                    In a land of ruin and woe,
                    The desolate land of France.

                    Dear faces startled and shaken,
                    Out of wild dust and sounds
                    You yearn to me, lure and sadden
                    My heart with futile bounds.


                             THE IMMORTALS

                I killed them, but they would not die.
                Yea, all the day and all the night
                For them I could not rest nor sleep,
                Nor guard from them nor hide in flight!

                Then in my agony I turned
                And made my hands red in their gore.
                In vain—for faster than I slew
                They rose more cruel than before.

                I killed and killed with slaughter mad;
                I killed till all my strength was gone;
                And still they rose to torture me,
                For Devils only die for fun.

                I used to think the Devil hid
                In women’s smiles and wine’s carouse;
                I called him Satan, Balzebub;
                But now I call him dirty louse.


                             LOUSE HUNTING

               Nudes, stark and glistening,
               Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces
               And raging limbs
               Whirl over the floor one fire;
               For a shirt verminously busy
               Yon soldier tore from his throat
               With oaths
               Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice,
               And soon the shirt was aflare
               Over the candle he’d lit while we lay.

               Then we all sprang up and stript
               To hunt the verminous brood.
               Soon like a demons’ pantomime
               This plunge was raging.
               See the silhouettes agape,
               See the gibbering shadows
               Mixed with the baffled arms on the wall.
               See Gargantuan hooked fingers
               Pluck in supreme flesh
               To smutch supreme littleness.
               See the merry limbs in that Highland fling
               Because some wizard vermin willed
               To charm from the quiet this revel
               When our ears were half lulled
               By the dark music
               Blown from Sleep’s trumpet.


                        GIRL TO SOLDIER ON LEAVE

                I love you, Titan lover,
                My own storm-days’ Titan.
                Greater than the son of Zeus,
                I know whom I would choose.

                Titan—my splendid rebel—
                The old Prometheus
                Wanes like a ghost before your power:
                His pangs were joys to yours.

                Pallid days, arid and wan,
                Tied your soul fast:
                Babel-cities’ smoky tops
                Pressed upon your growth

                Weary gyves. What were you
                But a word in the brain’s ways,
                Or the sleep of Circe’s swine?
                One gyve holds you yet.

                It held you hiddenly on the Somme
                Tied from my heart at home:
                O must it loosen now? I wish
                You were bound with the old, old gyves.

                Love! You love me—your eyes
                Have looked through death at mine.
                You have tempted a grave too much.
                I let you—I repine.


                       SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY

                I love you, great new Titan!
                Am I not you?
                Napoleon and Cæsar
                Out of you grew.

                Out of unthinkable torture,
                Eyes kissed by death,
                Won back to the world again,
                Lost and won in a breath,

                Cruel men are made immortal.
                Out of your pain born,
                They have stolen the sun’s power
                With their feet on your shoulders worn.

                Let them shrink from your girth,
                That has outgrown the pallid days
                When you slept like Circe’s swine
                Or a word in the brain’s ways.


                                THE JEW

                   Moses, from whose loins I sprung,
                   Lit by a lamp in his blood
                   Ten immutable rules, a moon
                   For mutable lampless men.

                   The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy,
                   With the same heaving blood,
                   Keep tide to the moon of Moses.
                   Then why do they sneer at me?


                           THE DYING SOLDIER

                  “Here are houses,” he moaned,
                  “I could reach, but my brain swims.”
                  Then they thundered and flashed,
                  And shook the earth to its rims.

                  “They are gunpits,” he gasped,
                  “Our men are at the guns.
                  Water!... Water!... Oh, water!
                  For one of England’s dying sons.”

                  “We cannot give you water,
                  Were all England in your breath.”
                  “Water!... Water!... Oh, water!”
                  He moaned and swooned to death.


                            DEAD MAN’S DUMP

        The plunging limbers over the shattered track
        Racketed with their rusty freight,
        Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
        And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
        To stay the flood of brutish men
        Upon our brothers dear.

        The wheels lurched over sprawled dead
        But pained them not, though their bones crunched;
        Their shut mouths made no moan.
        They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,
        Man born of man, and born of woman;
        And shells go crying over them
        From night till night and now.

        Earth has waited for them,
        All the time of their growth
        Fretting for their decay:
        Now she has them at last!
        In the strength of their strength
        Suspended—stopped and held.

        What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit?
        Earth! Have they gone into you?
        Somewhere they must have gone,
        And flung on your hard back
        Is their souls’ sack,
        Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.
        Who hurled them out? Who hurled?

        None saw their spirits’ shadow shake the grass,
        Or stood aside for the half used life to pass
        Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,
        When the swift iron burning bee
        Drained the wild honey of their youth.

        What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre,
        Walk, our usual thoughts untouched,
        Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,
        Immortal seeming ever?
        Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,
        A fear may choke in our veins
        And the startled blood may stop.

        The air is loud with death,
        The dark air spurts with fire,
        The explosions ceaseless are.
        Timelessly now, some minutes past,
        These dead strode time with vigorous life,
        Till the shrapnel called “An end!”
        But not to all. In bleeding pangs
        Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,
        Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.

        A man’s brains splattered on
        A stretcher-bearer’s face;
        His shook shoulders slipped their load,
        But when they bent to look again
        The drowning soul was sunk too deep
        For human tenderness.

        They left this dead with the older dead,
        Stretched at the cross roads.

        Burnt black by strange decay
        Their sinister faces lie,
        The lid over each eye;
        The grass and coloured clay
        More motion have than they,
        Joined to the great sunk silences.

        Here is one not long dead.
        His dark hearing caught our far wheels,
        And the choked soul stretched weak hands
        To reach the living word the far wheels said;
        The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,
        Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels
        Swift for the end to break
        Or the wheels to break,
        Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight,
        “Will they come? Will they ever come?”
        Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,
        The quivering-bellied mules,
        And the rushing wheels all mixed
        With his tortured upturned sight.

        So we crashed round the bend,
        We heard his weak scream,
        We heard his very last sound,
        And our wheels grazed his dead face.


                                 IN WAR

                  Fret the nonchalant noon
                  With your spleen
                  Or your gay brow,
                  For the motion of your spirit
                  Ever moves with these.

                  When day shall be too quiet,
                  Deaf to you
                  And your dumb smile,
                  Untuned air shall lap the stillness
                  In the old space for your voice—

                  The voice that once could mirror
                  Remote depths
                  Of moving being,
                  Stirred by responsive voices near,
                  Suddenly stilled for ever.

                  No ghost darkens the places
                  Dark to One;
                  But my eyes dream,
                  And my heart is heavy to think
                  How it was heavy once.

                  In the old days when death
                  Stalked the world
                  For the flower of men,
                  And the rose of beauty faded
                  And pined in the great gloom,

                  One day we dug a grave:
                  We were vexed
                  With the sun’s heat.
                  We scanned the hooded dead:
                  At noon we sat and talked.

                  How death had kissed their eyes
                  Three dread noons since,
                  How human art won
                  The dark soul to flicker
                  Till it was lost again:

                  And we whom chance kept whole—
                  But haggard,
                  Spent—were charged
                  To make a place for them who knew
                  No pain in any place.

                  The good priest came to pray;
                  Our ears half heard,
                  And half we thought
                  Of alien things, irrelevant;
                  And the heat and thirst were great.

                  The good priest read: “I heard....”
                  Dimly my brain
                  Held words and lost....
                  Sudden my blood ran cold....
                  God! God! It could not be.

                  He read my brother’s name;
                  I sank—
                  I clutched the priest.
                  They did not tell me it was he
                  Was killed three days ago.

                  What are the great sceptred dooms
                  To us, caught
                  In the wild wave?
                  We break ourselves on them,
                  My brother, our hearts and years.


                            THE DEAD HEROES

                    Flame out, you glorious skies,
                    Welcome our brave;
                    Kiss their exultant eyes;
                    Give what they gave.

                    Flash, mailed seraphim,
                    Your burning spears;
                    New days to outflame their dim
                    Heroic years.

                    Thrills their baptismal tread
                    The bright proud air;
                    The embattled plumes outspread
                    Burn upwards there.

                    Flame out, flame out, O Song!
                    Star ring to star;
                    Strong as our hurt is strong
                    Our children are.

                    Their blood is England’s heart;
                    By their dead hands
                    It is their noble part
                    That England stands.

                    England—Time gave them thee;
                    They gave back this
                    To win Eternity
                    And claim God’s kiss.




                       FRAGMENTS OF “THE UNICORN”


                                   I
                               THE AMULET

                LILITH.     SAUL.     AMAK.     NUBIAN.

  LILITH _sits under pomegranate trees watching her child_ AMAK _playing
    with Saul his father’s helm and spear. A light smoke is ascending
    from the chimney of their hut, and through the doorway a naked
    Nubian man is seen stirring the embers._ SAUL _sleeps_.

                     LILITH

 Amak, you’ll break your father’s sleep:
 Come here and tell me what those spices are
 This strange man bakes our cakes with.
 It makes the brain wild. Be still, Amak:
 I’ll give you the strange man your father brought,
 And he will run with you upon his back to-day.

 Come from your father or you’ll get no cake;
 He’s been a long journey.
 Bring me the pictured book he brought for you.
 What! Already cut to pieces?
 Put away that horn from your father’s ear,
 And stay that horrid noise: come, Amak.

     [_Amak runs to his mother with a jade amulet, shouting._]

                     AMAK

 Look, mother, what I’ve found.

     [_He runs back again, making great shouts._]

                     LILITH

 It dances with my blood: when my eyes caught it first
 I was like lost, and yearned and yearned and yearned,
 And strained like iron to stay my head from falling
 Upon that beggar’s breast where the jade stone hung.
 Perhaps the spirit of Saul’s young love lies here
 Strayed far and brought back by this stranger near.
 Saul said his discourse was more deep than Heaven.

 For the storm trapped him ere he left the town
 Loaded with our week’s victuals: the slime clung
 And licked and clawed and chewed the clogged dragging wheels
 Till they sunk right to the axle: Saul, sodden and vexed,
 Like fury smote the mules’ mouths, pulling but sweat
 From his drowned hair and theirs, while the thunder knocked
 And all the air yawned water, falling water,
 And the light cart was water, like a wrecked raft,
 And all seemed like a forest under the ocean.
 Sudden the lightning flashed upon a figure
 Moving as a man moves in the slipping mud,
 Singing, but not as a man sings, through the storm,
 Which could not drown his sounds. Saul bawled “Hi! Hi!”
 And the man loomed, naked, vast, and gripped the wheels;
 Saul fiercely dug from under; he tugged the wheels;
 The mules foamed straining, straining.
 Suddenly they went.
 Saul and the man leaped in: Saul, miserably sodden,

 Marvelled at the large cheer in a naked glistening man;
 Yet soon fell in with that contented mood,
 That when our hut’s light broke on his new mind
 He could not credit it—too soon it seemed:
 The stranger man’s talk was witchery.
 I pray his baking be as magical;
 The cakes should be nigh burnt.

 [_She calls the_ NUBIAN. _He answers from within._]

                     NUBIAN

 They are laid by to cool, housewife.

                     LILITH

 Bring me the sherbet from the ledge and the fast-dried figs.

     [_The_ NUBIAN _brings sherbet, figs, and a bowl of ice, and lays
        them down_.]

 [_She looks curiously at him. He is an immense man with squat,
    mule-skinned features: his jet-black curled beard, crisp hair,
    glistening nude limbs, appear to her like some heathen idol of
    ancient stories._]


                 [_She thinks to herself._]

 Out of the lightning
 In a dizzying cloven wink
 This apparition stood up,
 Of stricken trunk or beast’s spirit,
 Stirred by Saul’s blasphemies;
 So Saul’s heart feared, aghast.
 But lo, he touched the mischance and life ran straight!
 Was it the storm-spirit, storm’s pilot,
 With all the heaving débris of Noah’s sunken days
 Dragged on his loins;
 Law’s spirit wandering to us
 Through Nature’s anarchy,
 Wandering towards us when the Titans yet were young?
 Perhaps Moses and Buddha he met.

                 [_She speaks aloud._]

 The shadow of these pomegranate boughs
 Is sweet and restful; sit and ease your feet. Eat of these figs;
 You have journeyed long.

                     NUBIAN

 All my life, housewife.


                     LILITH

 You have seen men and women,
 Soaked yourself in powers and old glories,
 In broken days and tears and glees,
 And touched cold hands—
 Hands shut in pitiless trances where the feast high.
 I think there is more sorrow in the world
 Than man can bear.

                     NUBIAN

 None can exceed their limit, lady:
 You either bear or break.

                     LILITH

 Can one choose to break? To bear,
 Wearily to bear, is misery.
 Beauty is this corroding malady.

                     NUBIAN

 Beauty is a great paradox—
 Music’s secret soul creeping about the senses
 To wrestle with man’s coarser nature.
 It is hard when beauty loses.


                     LILITH

 I think beauty is a bad bargain made of life.
 Men’s iron sinews hew them room in the world
 And use deceits to gain them trophies:
 O, when our beauty fails us did we not use
 Deceits, where were our room in the world—
 Only our room in the world?
 Are not the songs and devices of men
 Moulds they have made after my scarlet mouth,
 Of cunning words and contours of bronze
 And viols and gathered air?
 They without song have sung me
 Boldly and shamelessly.
 I am no wanton, no harlot;
 I have been pleased and smiled my pleasure,
 I am a wife with a woman’s natural ways.
 Yet through the shadow of the pomegranates
 Filters a poison day by day,
 And to a malady turns
 The blond, the ample music of my heart:
 Inward to eat my heart
 My thoughts are worms that suck my softness all away.
 I watch the dumb eyeless hours
 Drop their tears, then shapeless moaning drop.

 Unfathomable is my mouth’s dream
 Do not men say?
 So secret are my far eyes,
 Weaving for iron men profound subtleties.

 Sorceress they name me;
 And my eyes harden, and they say,
 “How may those eyes know love
 If God made her without a heart?

 “Her tears, her moaning,
 Her sad profound gaze,
 The dishevelled lustres of her hair
 Moon-storm like” they say,
 “These are her subtleties” men say.
 My husband sleeps,
 The ghosts of my virgin days do not trouble him:
 His sleep can be over-long,
 For there is that in my embers
 Pride and blushes of fire, the outraged blood,
 His sleep makes me remember.

 Sleep, hairy hunter; sleep!
 You are not hungry more,
 Having fed on my deliciousness;
 Your sleep is not adultery to me,

 For you were wed to a girl
 And I am a woman.
 My lonely days are not whips to my honour.

     [_She dries her tears with her hair, then fingers the amulet at her
        throat._]

 Yours, friend.

                     NUBIAN

 [_Eagerly._] My amulet! My amulet!

 [_He speaks gravely._] Small comfort is counsel to broken lives;
 But tolerance is medicinal.
 In all our textures are loosed
 Pulses straining against strictness
 Because an easy issue lies therefrom.
 (Could they but slink past the hands holding whips
 To hunt them from the human pale
 Where is the accident to cover? Spite fears bias.)
 I am justified at my heart’s plea;
 He is justified also.

 For the eyes of vanity are sleepless—are suspicious.
 Are mad with imaginings
 Of secret stabs in words, in looks, in gestures.

 Man is a chimera’s eremite,
 That lures him from the good kindness of days
 Which only ask his willingness.

 There is a crazed shadow from no golden body
 That poisons at the core
 What smiles may stray:
 It mixes with all God-ancestralled essences,
 And twists the brain and heart.
 This shadow sits in the texture of Saul’s being,
 Mauling your love and beauty with its lies:
 I hold a power like light to shrivel it—
 There, in your throat’s hollow—that green jade.

 [_He snatches at it as she lets it fall. He grows white and troubled,
    and walks to where_ AMAK _is playing, and sees minutely strewn pieces
    of paper_.]

 [_He mutters._] Lost—lost.
 The child has torn the scroll in it,
 And half is away. It cannot be spelt now.

                     LILITH

 God, restore me his love.
 Ah! Well!

                     [_She rises._]

 I will go now; prepare our evening meal;
 And waken my husband, my love once.

                     NUBIAN

 [_Musing._] The lightning of the heavens
 Lifts an apocalypse:
 The dumb night’s lips are scared and wide,
 The world is reeling with sound:
 Was I deaf before, mute, tied?
 What shakes here from lustre-seeded pomegranates
 Not in the great world,
 More vast and terrible?
 What is this ecstasy in form,
 This lightning
 That found the lightning in my blood,
 Searing my spirit’s lips aghast and naked?
 I am flung in the abyss of days,
 And the void is filled with rushing sound
 From pent eternities:
 I am strewn as the cypher is strewn.
 A woman—a soft woman!
 Our girls have hair
 Like heights of night ringing with never-seen larks,
 Or blindness dim with dreams:
 Here is a yellow tiger gay that blinds your night.
 Mane—Mane—Mane!

 Your honey spilt round that small dazzling face
 Shakes me to golden tremors;
 I have no life at all,
 Only thin golden tremors.
 Light tender beast!
 Your fragile gleaming wrists
 Have shaken the scaled glacier from under me,
 And bored into my craft
 That is now with the old dreamy Adam
 With other things of dust.

                     LILITH

 You lazy hound! See my poor child.

 [_He turns to see_ LILITH _drop the bowl and cakes and run to_ AMAK—_who
    is crying, half stifled under_ SAUL’S _huge shield_.]

             [SAUL _opens his eyes_.]

                  *       *       *       *       *


                                   II
                       THE SONG OF TEL THE NUBIAN

          Small dazzling face!
          I shut you in my soul;
          How can I perish now?

          But thence a strange decay—
          Your fragile gleaming wrists
          Waver my days and shake my life
          To golden tremors. I have no life at all,
          Only thin golden tremors
          That shudder over the abyss of days
          Which hedged my spirit, my spirit your prison walls
          That shrunk like phantasms with your vivid beauty—

          Towering and widening till
          The sad moonless place
          Throngs with a million torches
          And spears of flaming wings.


                                  III
                          THE TOWER OF SKULLS

                             MOURNERS

         These layers of piled-up skulls,
         These layers of gleaming horror—stark horror!
         Ah me! Through my thin hands they touch my eyes.

         Everywhere, everywhere is a pregnant birth,
         And here in death’s land is a pregnant birth.
         Your own crying is less mortal
         Than the amazing soul in your body.
         Your own crying yon parrot takes up
         And from your empty skull cries it afterwards.

         Thou whose dark activities unenchanted
         Days from gyrating days, suspending them
         To thrust them far from sight, from the gyrating days
         Which have gone widening on and left us here,
         Cast derelicts lost for ever.

         When aged flesh looks down on tender brood;
         For he knows between his thin ribs’ walls
         The giant universe, the interminable
         Panorama—synods, myths and creeds,
         He knows his dust is fire and seed.




                             EARLIER POEMS

                    I have heard the Gods
                    In their high conference
                    As I lay outside the world
                    Quiet in sleep....
                                        _Fragment._

He was an artist and a dreamer—that is, one whose delight in the beauty
of life was an effective obstacle to the achievement of the joy of
living.

                                                         (_Circa 1913._)


                               EXPRESSION

          Call—call—and bruise the air:
          Shatter dumb space!
          Yea! We will fling this passion everywhere;
          Leaving no place

          For the superb and grave
          Magnificent throng,
          The pregnant queens of quietness that brave
          And edge our song

          Of wonder at the light
          (Our life-leased home),
          Of greeting to our housemates. And in might
          Our song shall roam

          Life’s heart, a blossoming fire
          Blown bright by thought,
          While gleams and fades the infinite desire,
          Phantasmed naught.

          Can this be caught and caged?
          Wings can be clipt
          Of eagles, the sun’s gaudy measure gauged,
          But no sense dipt

          In the mystery of sense:
          The troubled throng
          Of words break out like smothered fire through dense
          And smouldering wrong.


                          FROM “NIGHT AND DAY”


                                   I
                            IN THE WORKSHOP

     Dim watery lights gleaming on gibbering faces,
     Faces speechful, barren of soul and sordid,
     Huddled and chewing a jest, lewd and gabbled insidious:
     Laughter, born of its dung, flashes and floods like sunlight,
     Filling the room with a sense of a soul lethargic and kindly,
     Touches my soul with a pathos, a hint of a wide desolation.


                                   II

                  I saw the face of God to-day,
                  I heard the music of His smile,
                  And yet I was not far away,
                  And yet in Paradise the while.

                  I lay upon the sparkling grass,
                  And God’s own mouth was kissing me,
                  And there was nothing that did pass
                  But blazed with divinity.

                  Divine—divine—upon my eyes,
                  Upon mine hair—divine—divine,
                  The fervour of the golden skies,
                  The ardent gaze of God on mine.


                                  III

                       Then spake I to the tree,
                       “Were ye your own desire
                       What is it ye would be?”

                       Answered the tree to me,
                       “I am my own desire,
                       I am what I would be.

                       “If you were your desire
                       Would you lie under me,
                       And see me as you see?”

                       “I am my own desire
                       While I lie under you,
                       And that which I would be
                       Desire will sing to you.”


                                   IV

        I wander—I wander—O will she wander here
        Where’er my footsteps carry me I know that she is near,
        A jewelled lamp within her hand and jewels in her hair;
        I lost her in a vision once and seek her everywhere.

        My spirit whispers she is near, I look at you and you:
        Surely she has not passed me, I sleeping as she flew.
        I wander—I wander, and yet she is not here,
        Although my spirit whispers to me that she is near.


                                ZION[3]

             She stood—a hill-ensceptred Queen,
               The glory streaming from her;
             While Heaven flashed her rays between,
               And shed eternal summer.

             The gates of morning opened wide
               On sunny dome and steeple;
             Noon gleamed upon the mountain-side
               Thronged with a happy people;

             And twilight’s drowsy, half closed eyes
               Beheld that virgin splendour
             Whose orbs were as her darkening skies,
               And as her spirit, tender.

             Girt with that strength, first-born of right,
               Held fast by deeds of honour,
             Her robe she wove with rays more bright
               Than Heaven could rain upon her.

Footnote 3:

  Written at the age of sixteen.


                   Where is that light—that citadel?
                     That robe with woof of glory?
                   She lost her virtue and she fell,
                     And only left her story.


                    SPIRITUAL ISOLATION: A FRAGMENT

            My Maker shunneth me:
            Even as a wretch stricken with leprosy,
            So hold I pestilent supremacy.
            Yea! He hath fled far as the uttermost star,
            Beyond the unperturbed fastnesses of night
            And dreams that bastioned are
            By fretted towers of sleep that scare His light.

            Of wisdom writ, whereto
            My burdened feet may haste withouten rue,
            I may not spell—and I am sore to do.
            Yea, all (seeing my Maker hath such dread),
            Even mine own self-love, wists not but to fly
            To Him, and sore besped
            Leaves me, its captain, in such mutiny.

            Will, deemed incorporate
            With me, hath flown ere love, to expiate
            Its sinful stay where He did habitate.
            Ah me, if they had left a sepulchre;
            But no—the light hath changed not, and in it
            Of its same colour stir
            Spirits I see not but phantasmed feel to flit.

            Air, legioned with such, stirreth,
            So that I seem to draw them with my breath,
            Ghouls that devour each joy they do to death,
            Strange glimmering griefs and sorrowing silences
            Bearing dead flowers unseen whose charnel smell
            Great awe to my sense is
            Even in the rose-time when all else is well.

                  *       *       *       *       *


                                FAR AWAY

                 By what pale light or moon-pale shore
                 Drifts my soul in lonely flight?
                 Regions God had floated o’er
                 Ere He touched the world with light?

                 Not in Heaven and not in earth
                 Is this water, is this moon;
                 For there is no starry birth,
                 And no dawning and no noon.

                 Far away—O far away,
                 Mist-born—dewy vapours rise
                 From the dim gates of the day
                 Far below in earthly skies.


                                 SPRING

                     I walk and I wonder
                     To hear the birds sing;
                     Without you, my lady,
                     How can there be Spring?
                     I see the pink blossoms
                     That slept for a year,
                     But who could have waked them
                     While you were not near?

                     Birds sing to the blossoms,
                     Blind, dreaming your pink;
                     These blush to the songsters,
                     Your music they think:
                     So well had you taught them
                     To look and to sing,
                     Your bloom and your music,
                     The ways of the Spring.


                                  SONG

                   A silver rose to show
                   Is your sweet face;
                   And like the heavens’ white brow,
                   Sometime God’s battle-place,
                   Your blood is quiet now.

                   Your body is a star
                   Unto my thought;
                   But stars are not too far,
                   And can be caught—
                   Small pools their prisons are.


                         HEART’S FIRST WORD. I.

            To sweeten a swift minute so
            With such rare fragrance of sweet speech,
            And make the after hours go
            In a blank yearning each on each;
            To drain the springs till they be dry,
            And then in anguish thirst for drink;
            So but to glimpse her robe thirst I,
            And my soul hungers and I sink.

            There is no word that we have said
            Whereby the lips and heart are fire;
            No look the linked glances read
            That held the springs of deep desire.
            And yet the sounds her glad lips gave
            Are on my soul vibrating still;
            Her eyes that swept me as a wave
            Shine my soul’s worship to fulfil.

            Her hair, her eyes, her throat and chin—
            Sweet hair, sweet eyes, sweet throat, so sweet,
            So fair because the ways of sin
            Have never known her perfect feet—
            By what far ways and marvellous
            May I such lovely heaven reach?
            What dread, dark seas and perilous
            Lie ’twixt love’s silence and love’s speech?


                         HEARTS FIRST WORD. II.

                    And all her soft dark hair
                    Breathed for him like a prayer,
                    And her white lost face
                    Was prisoned to some far place.
                    Love was not denied—
                    Love’s ends would hide,
                    And flower and fruit and tree
                    Were under its sea.
                    Yea, its abundance knelt
                    Where the nerves felt
                    The springs of feeling flow
                    And made pain grow!
                    There seemed no root or sky,
                    But a pent infinity
                    Where apparitions dim
                    Sculptured each whim
                    In flame and wandering mist
                    Of kisses to be kist.


                          LADY, YOU ARE MY GOD

                     Lady, you are my God—
                     Lady, you are my Heaven.

                     _If I am your God
                     Labour for your Heaven._

                     Lady, you are my God,
                     And shall not love win Heaven?

                     _If love made me God
                     Deeds must win my Heaven._

                     If my love made you God,
                     What more can I for Heaven?


                            IF YOU ARE FIRE

                  If you are fire and I am fire,
                  Who blows the flame apart
                  So that desire eludes desire
                  Around one central heart?

                  A single root and separate bough,
                  And what blind hands between
                  That make our longing’s mutual glow
                  As if it had not been?


                           IN THE UNDERWORLD

           I have lived in the underworld so long:
           How can you, a creature of light,
           Without terror understand the song
           And unmoved hear what moves in night?

           I am a spirit that yours has found,
           Strange, undelightful, obscure,
           Created by some other God, and bound
           In terrible darkness, breathing breath impure.

           Creature of light and happiness,
           Deeper the darkness was when you,
           With your bright terror eddying the distress,
           Grazed the dark waves and shivering further flew.


                     O, IN A WORLD OF MEN AND WOMEN

               O, in a world of men and women,
               Where all things seemed so strange to me,
               And speech the common world called human
               For me was a vain mimicry,

               I thought—O, am I one in sorrow?
               Or is the world more quick to hide
               Their pain with raiment that they borrow
               From pleasure in the house of pride?

               O joy of mine, O longed-for stranger,
               How I would greet you if you came:
               In the world’s joys I’ve been a ranger,
               In my world sorrow is their name.


                           A GIRL’S THOUGHTS

              Dim apprehension of a trust
              Comes over me this quiet hour,
              As though the silence were a flower,
              And this, its perfume, dark like dust.

              My individual self would cling
              Through fear, through pride, unto its fears:
              It strives to shut out what it hears,
              The founts of being murmuring.

              O! Need, whose hauntings terrorize;
              Whether my maiden ways would hide,
              Or lose and to that need subside,
              Life shrinks and instinct dreads surprise.


                        A BALLAD OF WHITECHAPEL

           God’s mercy shines;
           And our full hearts must make record of this,
           For grief that burst from out its dark confines
           Into strange sunlit bliss.

           I stood where glowed
           The merry glare of golden whirring lights
           Above the monstrous mass that seethed and flowed
           Through one of London’s nights.

           I watched the gleams
           Of jagged warm lights on shrunk faces pale:
           I heard mad laughter as one hears in dreams
           Or Hell’s harsh lurid tale.

           The traffic rolled,
           A gliding chaos populous of din,
           A steaming wail at doom the Lord had scrawled
           For perilous loads of sin.

           And my soul thought:
           “What fearful land have my steps wandered to?
           God’s love is everywhere, but here is naught
           Save love His anger slew.”

           And as I stood
           Lost in promiscuous bewilderment,
           Which to my mazèd soul was wonder-food,
           A girl in garments rent

           Peered ’neath lids shamed
           And spoke to me and murmured to my blood.
           My soul stopped dead, and all my horror flamed
           At her forgot of God.

           Her hungered eyes,
           Craving and yet so sadly spiritual,
           Shone like the unsmirched corner of a jewel
           Where else foul blemish lies.

           I walked with her
           Because my heart thought, “Here the soul is clean,
           The fragrance of the frankincense and myrrh
           Is lost in odours mean.”

           She told me how
           The shadow of black death had newly come
           And touched her father, mother, even now
           Grim-hovering in her home,

           Where fevered lay
           Her wasting brother in a cold, bleak room,
           Which theirs would be no longer than a day,
           And then—the streets and doom.

           Lord! Lord! Dear Lord!
           I knew that life was bitter, but my soul
           Recoiled, as anguish-smitten by sharp sword,
           Grieving such body’s dole.

           Then grief gave place
           To a strange pulsing rapture as she spoke;
           For I could catch the glimpses of God’s grace,
           And a desire awoke

           To take this trust
           And warm and gladden it with love’s new fires,
           Burning the past to ashes and to dust
           Through purified desires.

           We walked our way,
           One way hewn for us from the birth of Time;
           For we had wandered into Love’s strange clime
           Through ways sin waits to slay.

           Love’s euphony,
           In Love’s own temple that is our glad hearts,
           Makes now long music wild deliciously;
           Now Grief hath used his darts.

           Love infinite,
           Chastened by sorrow, hallowed by pure flame—
           Not all the surging world can compass it.
           Love—Love—O tremulous name!

           God’s mercy shines;
           And my full heart hath made record of this,
           Of grief that burst from out its dark confines
           Into strange sunlit bliss.


                                  TESS

 The free fair life that has never been mine, the glory that might have
    been,
 If I were what you seem to be and what I may not be!
 I know I walk upon the earth, but a dreadful wall between
 My spirit and your spirit lies, your joy and my misery.

 The angels that lie watching us, the little human play,
 What deem they of the laughter and the tears that flow apart?
 When a word of man is a woman’s doom do they turn and wonder and say,
 “Ah! Why has God made love so great that love must burst her heart?”


                                THE NUN

                    So thy soul’s meekness shrinks,
                    Too loth to show her face—
                    Why should she shun the world?
                    It is a holy place.

                    Concealèd to itself
                    If the flower kept its scent,
                    Of itself amorous,
                    Less rich its ornament.

                    Use—utmost in each kind—
                    Is beauty, truth in one,
                    While soul rays light to soul
                    In one God-linkèd sun.


                             IN PICCADILLY

                   Lamp-lit faces, to you
                   What is your starry dew?
                   Gold flowers of the night blue!

                   Deep in wet pavement’s slime
                   Mud-rooted is your fierce prime,
                   To bloom in lust’s coloured clime.

                   The sheen of eyes that lust,
                   Which dew-time made your trust,
                   Lights your passionless dust.


                                 A MOOD

                    You are so light and gay,
                    So slight, sweet maid—
                    Your limbs like leaves in play,
                    Or beams that grasses braid;
                    O! Joys whose jewels pray
                    My breast to be inlaid.

                    Frail fairy of the streets;
                    Strong, dainty lure;
                    For all men’s eyes the sweets
                    Whose lack makes hearts so poor;
                    While your heart loveless beats,
                    Light, laughing, and impure.

                    O! Fragrant waft of flesh,
                    Float through me so—
                    My limbs are in your mesh,
                    My blood forgets to flow;
                    Ah! Lilied meadows fresh,
                    It knows where it would go.


                              FIRST FRUIT

     I did not pluck at all,
     And I am sorry now:
     The garden is not barred
     But the boughs are heavy with snow,
     The flake-blossoms thickly fall
     And the hid roots sigh, “How long will our flowers be marred?”

     Strange as a bird were dumb,
     Strange as a hueless leaf.
     As one deaf hungers to hear,
     Or gazes without belief,
     The fruit yearned “Fingers, come!”
     O, shut hands, be empty another year.


                            A CARELESS HEART

                   A little breath can make a prayer,
                   A little wind can take it
                   And turn it back again to air:
                   Then say, why should you make it?

                   An ardent thought can make a word,
                   A little ear can hear it,
                   A careless heart forget it heard:
                   Then why keep ever near it?


                                  DAWN

                O tender first cold flush of rose,
                O budded dawn, wake dreamily;
                Your dim lips as your lids unclose
                Murmur your own sad threnody.
                O as the soft and frail lights break
                Upon your eyelids, and your eyes
                Wider and wider grow and wake,
                The old pale glory dies.

                And then, as sleep lies down to sleep
                And all her dreams lie somewhere dead,
                The iron shepherd leads his sheep
                To pastures parched whose green is shed.
                Still, O frail dawn, still in your hair
                And your cold eyes and sad sweet lips,
                The ghosts of all the dreams are there,
                To fade like passing ships.


                                AT NIGHT

              Crazed shadows, from no golden body
              That I can see, embrace me warm;
              All is purple and closed
              Round by night’s arm.

              A brilliance wings from dark-lit voices,
              Wild lost voices of shadows white:
              See the long houses lean
              To the weird flight.

              Star-amorous things that wake at sleep-time
              (Because the sun spreads wide like a tree
              With no good fruit for them)
              Thrill secrecy.

              Pale horses ride before the morning,
              The secret roots of the sun to tread,
              With hoofs shod with venom
              And ageless dread;

              To breathe on burning emerald grasses
              And opalescent dews of the day,
              And poison at the core
              What smiles may stray.


                                CREATION

              As the pregnant womb of night
              Thrills with imprisoned light,
              Misty, nebulous-born,
              Growing deeper into her morn,
              So man, with no sudden stride,
              Bloomed into pride.

              In the womb of the All-spirit
              The universe lay; the will
              Blind, an atom, lay still.
              The pulse of matter
              Obeyed in awe
              And strove to flatter
              The rhythmic law.
              But the will grew; nature feared,
              And cast off the child she reared,
              Now her rival, instinct-led,
              With her own powers impregnated.

              Brain and heart, blood-fervid flowers,
              Creation is each act of yours.
              Your roots are God, the pauseless cause,
              But your boughs sway to self-windy laws.
              Perception is no dreamy birth
              And magnifies transfigured earth.
              With each new light, our eyes receive
              A larger power to perceive.

              If we could unveil our eyes,
              Become as wise as the All-wise,
              No love would be, no mystery:
              Love and joy dwell in infinity.
              Love begets love; reaching highest
              We find a higher still, unseen
              From where we stood to reach the first;
              Moses must die to live in Christ,
              The seed be buried to live to green.
              Perfection must begin from worst.
              Christ perceives a larger reachless love,
              More full, and grows to reach thereof.
              The green plant yearns for its yellow fruit.
              Perfection always is a root,
              And joy a motion that doth feed
              Itself on light of its own speed,
              And round its radiant circle runs,
              Creating and devouring suns.


                             OF ANY OLD MAN

        Wreck not the ageing heart of quietness
        With alien uproar and rude jolly cries,
        Which (satyr-like to a mild maiden’s pride)
        Ripen not wisdom but a large recoil;
        Give them their withered peace, their trial grave,
        Their past youth’s three-scored shadowy effigy.
        Mock them not with your ripened turbulence,
        Their frost-mailed petulance with your torrid wrath,
        When, edging your boisterous thunders, shivers one word
        (Pap to their senile sneering, drug to truth,
        The feigned rampart of bleak ignorance)
        “Experience”—crown of naked majesties,
        That tells us naught we know not, but confirms.
        O think, you reverend shadowy austere,
        Your Christ’s youth was not ended when he died.


                              THE ONE LOST

                I mingle with your bones;
                You steal in subtle noose
                This lighted dust Jehovah loans
                And now I lose.

                What will the Lender say
                When I shall not be found,
                Safe-sheltered at the Judgment Day,
                Being in you bound?

                He’ll hunt through wards of Heaven,
                Call to uncoffined earth
                “Where is this soul, unjudged, not given
                Dole for good’s dearth?”

                And I, lying so safe
                Within you, hearing all,
                To have cheated God shall laugh,
                Freed by your thrall.


                                 WEDDED

                 They leave their love-lorn haunts,
                 Their sigh-warm floating Eden;
                 And they are mute at once,
                 Mortals by God unheeden,
                 By their past kisses chidden.

                 But they have kist and known
                 Clear things we dim by guesses—
                 Spirit to spirit grown:
                 Heaven, born in hand-caresses.
                 Love, fall from sheltering tresses.

                 And they are dumb and strange:
                 Bared trees bowed from each other.
                 Their last green interchange
                 What lost dreams shall discover?
                 Dead, strayed, to love-strange lover.


                            DON JUAN’S SONG

                  The moon is in an ecstasy,
                  It wanes not nor can grow;
                  The heavens are in a mist of love,
                  And deepest knowledge know:
                  What things in nature seem to move
                  Bear love as I bear love?
                  And bear my pleasures so?

                  I bear my love as streams that bear
                  The sky still flow or shake:
                  Though deep within, too far on high.
                  Light blossoms kiss and wake
                  The waters sooner than the sky;
                  And if they kiss and die
                  God made them frail to break.


                           ON A LADY SINGING

            She bade us listen to the singing lark
            In tones far sweeter than its own:
            For fear that she should cease and leave us dark
            We built the bird a feignèd throne,
            Shrined in her gracious glory-giving ways
            From sceptred hands of starred humility—
            Praising herself the more in giving praise
            To music less than she.


                                 BEAUTY

                  As a sword in the sun—
                  A glory calling a glory—
                  Our eyes, seeing it run,
                  Capture its gleam for our story.

                  Singer, marvellous gleam
                  Dancing in splendid light,
                  Here you have brought us our dream—
                  Ah, but its stay is its flight!


                               A QUESTION

                 What if you shut your eyes and look,
                 Yea, look with all the spirit’s eyes,
                 While mystic unrevealèd skies
                 Unfold like pages of a book

                 Wherein new scenes of wonder rare
                 Are imaged, till the sense deceives
                 Itself, and what it sees believes—
                 Even what the soul has pictured there?


                                CHAGRIN

                 Caught still as Absalom,
                 Surely the air hangs
                 From the swayless cloud-boughs
                 Like hair of Absalom
                 Caught and hanging still.

                 From the imagined weight
                 Of spaces in a sky
                 Of mute chagrin my thoughts
                 Hang like branch-clung hair
                 To trunks of silence swung,
                 With the choked soul weighing down
                 Into thick emptiness.
                 Christ, end this hanging death,
                 For endlessness hangs therefrom!

                 Invisibly branches break
                 From invisible trees:
                 The cloud-woods where we rush
                 (Our eyes holding so much),
                 Which we must ride dim ages round
                 Ere the hands (we dream) can touch,
                 We ride, we ride—before the morning
                 The secret roots of the sun to tread—
                 And suddenly
                 We are lifted of all we know,
                 And hang from implacable boughs.


                             THE BLIND GOD

                 Streaked with immortal blasphemies,
                 Betwixt His twin eternities
                 The Shaper of mortal destinies
                 Sits in that limbo of dreamless sleep,
                 Some nothing that hath shadows deep.

                 The world is only a small pool
                 In the meadows of Eternity,
                 And men like fishes lying cool;
                 And the wise man and the fool
                 In its depths like fishes lie.
                 When an angel drops a rod
                 And he draws you to the sky
                 Will you bear to meet your God
                 You have streaked with blasphemy?


                             THE FEMALE GOD

    We curl into your eyes—
    They drink our fires and have never drained;
    In the fierce forest of your hair
    Our desires beat blindly for their treasure.

    In your eyes’ subtle pit,
    Far down, glimmer our souls;
    And your hair like massive forest trees
    Shadows our pulses, overtired and dumb.

    Like a candle lost in an electric glare
    Our spirits tread your eyes’ infinities;
    In the wrecking waves of your tumultuous locks
    Do you not hear the moaning of our pulses?

    Queen! Goddess! Animal!
    In sleep do your dreams battle with our souls?
    When your hair is spread like a lover on the pillow
    Do not our jealous pulses wake between?

    You have dethroned the ancient God,
    You have usurped his Sabbath, his common days;
    Yea, every moment is delivered to you,
    Our Temple, our Eternal, our one God!

    Our souls have passed into your eyes,
    Our days into your hair;
    And you, our rose-deaf prison, are very pleased with the world,
    Your world.


                                  GOD

       In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,
       Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!
       His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls:
       The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled cat
       To him. On fragments of an old shrunk power,
       On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry,
       He lay—a bullying hulk—to crush them more;
       But when one fearless turned and clawed like bronze,
       Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws,
       And he would weigh the heavier on those after.

       Who rests in God’s mean flattery now? Your wealth
       Is but his cunning to make death more hard,
       Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking;
       And he has made the market for your beauty
       Too poor to buy although you die to sell.
       Only that he has never heard of sleep,
       And when the cats come out the rats are sly,
       Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawn.

       But he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,
       And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.
       Things are not strange; and strange things are forgetful.
       Ah! If the day were arid, somehow lost
       Out of us; but it is as hair of us,
       And only in the hush no wind stirs it,
       And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,
       And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.
       The fingers shut on voices that pass through
       Where blind farewells are taken easily.

       Ah, this miasma of a rotting God!


                                 SLEEP

             Godhead’s lip hangs
             When our pulses have no golden tremors,
             And his whips are flicked by mice
             And all star-amorous things.

             Drops, drops of shivering quiet
             Filter under my lids.
             Now only am I powerful.
             What though the cunning gods outwit us here
             In daytime and in playtime,
             Surely they feel the gyves we lay on them
             In our sleep.

             O, subtle gods lying hidden!
             O, gods with your oblique eyes!
             Your elbows in the dawn, and wrists
             Bright with the afternoon,
             Do you not shake when a mortal slides
             Into your own unvexed peace?

             When a moving stillness breaks over your knees
             (An emanation of piled æons’ pressures),
             From our bodies flat and straight,
             And your limbs are locked,
             Futilely gods,
             And shut your sinister essences?


                                MY DAYS

           My days are but the tombs of buried hours;
           Which tombs are hidden in the pilèd years;
           But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,
           Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.
           Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,
           Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high;
           But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,
           And the dead corpse leaves what will never die—
           It may be but a thought, the nursling seed
           Of many thoughts, of many a high desire;
           Some little act that stirs a noble deed,
           Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire:
           They only live who have not lived in vain,
           For in their works their life returns again.


                      PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
                       BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED,
                          GUILDFORD AND ESHER

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.