Part 2

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Where that comes in that shall not go again; Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate. They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then, When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking, And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying Of credulous hearts, in heaven--such are but taking Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost. Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder, Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most. Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder, But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss. All this is love; and all love is but this.

UNFORTUNATE

Heart, you are restless as a paper scrap That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind; Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind. Between the small hands folded in her lap Surely a shamed head may bow down at length, And find forgiveness where the shadows stir About her lips, and wisdom in her strength, Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!"...

She will not care. She'll smile to see me come, So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me. She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me, And open wide upon that holy air The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home, Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.

THE CHILTERNS

Your hands, my dear, adorable, Your lips of tenderness --Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well, Three years, or a bit less. It wasn't a success.

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road, Quit of my youth and you, The Roman road to Wendover By Tring and Lilley Hoo, As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly, The tears that follow fast; And the dirtiest things we do must lie Forgotten at the last; Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find, The splendour and the pain; The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away, Give something in the end; And a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall find The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires. And laughter, and inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows, The slumbering Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps, And a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, And lips as soft, but true. And I daresay she will do.

HOME

I came back late and tired last night Into my little room, To the long chair and the firelight And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in I saw a woman there, The line of neck and cheek and chin, The darkness of her hair, The form of one I did not know Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still, Watching her neck and hair. I made a step to her; and saw That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight That made me see her there. It was a chance of shade and light And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth, That night, how could I sleep? I lay and watched the lonely gloom; And watched the moonlight creep From wall to basin, round the room. All night I could not sleep.

THE NIGHT JOURNEY

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line; The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies. Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine, Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes

Glares the imperious mystery of the way. Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway, Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again....

As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise, Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love; And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes, Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move

Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing; And, gathering power and purpose as he goes, Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing, Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,

Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal, Out of the fire, out of the little room.... --There is an end appointed, O my soul! Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom

Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers. Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly, Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers. The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.

And lips and laughter are forgotten things. Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on, The strength and splendour of our purpose swings. The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.

SONG

All suddenly the wind comes soft, And Spring is here again; And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green, And my heart with buds of pain.

My heart all Winter lay so numb, The earth so dead and frore, That I never thought the Spring would come, Or my heart wake any more.

But Winter's broken and earth has woken, And the small birds cry again; And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds, And my heart puts forth its pain.

BEAUTY AND BEAUTY

When Beauty and Beauty meet All naked, fair to fair, The earth is crying-sweet, And scattering-bright the air, Eddying, dizzying, closing round, With soft and drunken laughter; Veiling all that may befall After--after--

Where Beauty and Beauty met, Earth's still a-tremble there, And winds are scented yet, And memory-soft the air, Bosoming, folding glints of light, And shreds of shadowy laughter; Not the tears that fill the years After--after--

THE WAY THAT LOVERS USE

The way that lovers use is this; They bow, catch hands, with never a word, And their lips meet, and they do kiss, --So I have heard.

They queerly find some healing so, And strange attainment in the touch; There is a secret lovers know, --I have read as much.

And theirs no longer joy nor smart, Changing or ending, night or day; But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart, --So lovers say.

MARY AND GABRIEL

Young Mary, loitering once her garden way, Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day, As wine that blushes water through. And soon, Out of the gold air of the afternoon, One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire, Bound back above his ears with golden wire, Baring the eager marble of his face. Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white, And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light, Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair, That presence filled the garden. She stood there, Saying, "What would you, Sir?" He told his word, "Blessed art thou of women!" Half she heard, Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known, The message of that clear and holy tone, That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart; Such serene tidings moved such human smart. Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow. Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir Within her body, a will too strong for her That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes Closed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs, She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad.... She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had Such multitudinous burnings, to and fro, And throbs not understood; she did not know If they were hurt or joy for her; but only That she was grown strange to herself, half lonely, All wonderful, filled full of pains to come And thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb, Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far, Divine, dear, terrible, familiar... Her heart was faint for telling; to relate Her limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate, Over and over, whispering, half revealing, Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing. 'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her, She raised her eyes to that fair messenger. He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyes Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies; Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind. His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind. How should she, pitiful with mortality, Try the wide peace of that felicity With ripples of her perplexed shaken heart, And hints of human ecstasy, human smart, And whispers of the lonely weight she bore, And how her womb within was hers no more And at length hers? Being tired, she bowed her head; And said, "So be it!" The great wings were spread Showering glory on the fields, and fire. The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher, Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone A gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.

The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.

THE FUNERAL OF YOUTH: THRENODY

The day that _Youth_ had died, There came to his grave-side, In decent mourning, from the county's ends, Those scatter'd friends Who had lived the boon companions of his prime, And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted, In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse, The days and nights and dawnings of the time When _Youth_ kept open house, Nor left untasted Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear, No quest of his unshar'd-- All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd, Followed their old friend's bier. _Folly_ went first, With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd; And after trod the bearers, hat in hand-- _Laughter_, most hoarse, and Captain _Pride_ with tanned And martial face all grim, and fussy _Joy_, Who had to catch a train, and _Lust_, poor, snivelling boy; These bore the dear departed. Behind them, broken-hearted, Came _Grief_, so noisy a widow, that all said, "Had he but wed Her elder sister _Sorrow_, in her stead!" And by her, trying to soothe her all the time, The fatherless children, _Colour_, _Tune_, and _Rhyme_ (The sweet lad _Rhyme_), ran all-uncomprehending. Then, at the way's sad ending, Round the raw grave they stay'd. Old _Wisdom_ read, In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead. There stood _Romance_, The furrowing tears had mark'd her rouged cheek; Poor old _Conceit_, his wonder unassuaged; Dead _Innocency's_ daughter, _Ignorance_; And shabby, ill-dress'd _Generosity_; And _Argument_, too full of woe to speak; _Passion_, grown portly, something middle-aged; And _Friendship_--not a minute older, she; _Impatience_, ever taking out his watch; _Faith_, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catch Old _Wisdom's_ endless drone. _Beauty_ was there, Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone. Poor maz'd _Imagination_; _Fancy_ wild; _Ardour_, the sunlight on his greying hair; _Contentment_, who had known _Youth_ as a child And never seen him since. And _Spring_ came too, Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers-- She did not stay for long. And _Truth_, and _Grace_, and all the merry crew, The laughing _Winds_ and _Rivers_, and lithe _Hours_; And _Hope_, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing _Song_;-- Yes, with much woe and mourning general, At dead _Youth's_ funeral, Even these were met once more together, all, Who erst the fair and living _Youth_ did know; All, except only _Love_. _Love_ had died long ago.

GRANTCHESTER

THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER

(_Cafe des Westens, Berlin, May_ 1912)

Just now the lilac is in bloom, All before my little room; And in my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink; And down the borders, well I know, The poppy and the pansy blow... Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through, Beside the river make for you A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep Deeply above; and green and deep The stream mysterious glides beneath, Green as a dream and deep as death. --Oh, damn! I know it! and I know How the May fields all golden show, And when the day is young and sweet, Gild gloriously the bare feet That run to bathe... _Du lieber Gott!_

Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot, And there the shadowed waters fresh Lean up to embrace the naked flesh. _Temperamentvoll_ German Jews Drink beer around;--and _there_ the dews Are soft beneath a morn of gold. Here tulips bloom as they are told; Unkempt about those hedges blows An English unofficial rose; And there the unregulated sun Slopes down to rest when day is done, And wakes a vague unpunctual star, A slippered Hesper; and there are Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton Where das _Betreten's_ not _verboten_.

[Greek: eithe genoimen] ... Would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester!-- Some, it may be, can get in touch With Nature there, or Earth, or such. And clever modern men have seen A Faun a-peeping through the green, And felt the Classics were not dead, To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head, Or hear the Goat-foot piping low:... But these are things I do not know. I only know that you may lie Day long and watch the Cambridge sky, And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass, Hear the cool lapse of hours pass, Until the centuries blend and blur In Grantchester, in Grantchester.... Still in the dawnlit waters cool His ghostly Lordship swims his pool, And tries the strokes, essays the tricks, Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx. Dan Chaucer hears his river still Chatter beneath a phantom mill. Tennyson notes, with studious eye, How Cambridge waters hurry by... And in that garden, black and white, Creep whispers through the grass all night; And spectral dance, before the dawn, A hundred Vicars down the lawn; Curates, long dust, will come and go On lissom, clerical, printless toe; And oft between the boughs is seen The sly shade of a Rural Dean... Till, at a shiver in the skies, Vanishing with Satanic cries, The prim ecclesiastic rout Leaves but a startled sleeper-out, Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls, The falling house that never falls.

God! I will pack, and take a train, And get me to England once again! For England's the one land, I know, Where men with Splendid Hearts may go; And Cambridgeshire, of all England, The shire for Men who Understand; And of _that_ district I prefer The lovely hamlet Grantchester. For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile; And Royston men in the far South Are black and fierce and strange of mouth; At Over they fling oaths at one, And worse than oaths at Trumpington, And Ditton girls are mean and dirty, And there's none in Harston under thirty, And folks in Shelford and those parts Have twisted lips and twisted hearts, And Barton men make Cockney rhymes, And Coton's full of nameless crimes, And things are done you'd not believe At Madingley, on Christmas Eve. Strong men have run for miles and miles, When one from Cherry Hinton smiles; Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives, Rather than send them to St. Ives; Strong men have cried like babes, bydam, To hear what happened at Babraham. But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester! There's peace and holy quiet there, Great clouds along pacific skies, And men and women with straight eyes, Lithe children lovelier than a dream, A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream, And little kindly winds that creep Round twilight corners, half asleep. In Grantchester their skins are white; They bathe by day, they bathe by night; The women there do all they ought; The men observe the Rules of Thought. They love the Good; they worship Truth; They laugh uproariously in youth; (And when they get to feeling old, They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)...

Ah God! to see the branches stir Across the moon at Grantchester! To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten Unforgettable, unforgotten River-smell, and hear the breeze Sobbing in the little trees. Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand Still guardians of that holy land? The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream, The yet unacademic stream? Is dawn a secret shy and cold Anadyomene, silver-gold? And sunset still a golden sea From Haslingfield to Madingley? And after, ere the night is born, Do hares come out about the corn? Oh, is the water sweet and cool, Gentle and brown, above the pool? And laughs the immortal river still Under the mill, under the mill? Say, is there Beauty yet to find? And Certainty? and Quiet kind? Deep meadows yet, for to forget The lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yet Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?

PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS WEST NORWOOD LONDON

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, the book is a faithful transcript of the original physical book.