Chapter 2
Double red daisies, they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow. In a big quarrelsome house like ours They try it sometimes--but no, I root them up because they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow.
_Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifulest flowers in the garden._
Double red daisy, that's my mark: I paint it in all my books! It's carved high up on the beech-tree bark, How neat and lovely it looks! So don't forget that it's my trade mark; Don't copy it in your books.
_Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifulest flowers in the garden._
CAREERS
Father is quite the greatest poet That ever lived anywhere. You say you're going to write great music-- I chose that first: it's unfair. Besides, now I can't be the greatest painter and do Christ and angels, or lovely pears and apples and grapes on a green dish, or storms at sea, or anything lovely, Because that's been taken by Claire.
It's stupid to be an engine-driver, And soldiers are horrible men. I won't be a tailor, I won't be a sailor, And gardener's taken by Ben. It's unfair if you say that you'll write great music, you horrid, you unkind (I simply loathe you, though you are my sister), you beast, cad, coward, cheat, bully, liar! Well? Say what's left for me then! But _we_ won't go to your ugly music. (Listen!) Ben will garden and dig, And Claire will finish her wondrous pictures All flaming and splendid and big.
And I'll be a perfectly marvellous carpenter, and I'll make cupboards and benches and tables and ... and baths, and nice wooden boxes for studs and money, And you'll be jealous, you pig!
I'D LOVE TO BE A FAIRY'S CHILD
Children born of fairy stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire, Always get their heart's desire: Jingle pockets full of gold, Marry when they're seven years old. Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and ten sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on cherries, they run wild-- I'd love to be a Fairy's child.
THE NEXT WAR
You young friskies who today Jump and fight in Father's hay With bows and arrows and wooden spears, Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers, Happy though these hours you spend, Have they warned you how games end? Boys, from the first time you prod And thrust with spears of curtain-rod, From the first time you tear and slash Your long-bows from the garden ash, Or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather, Binding the split tops together, From that same hour by fate you're bound As champions of this stony ground, Loyal and true in everything, To serve your Army and your King, Prepared to starve and sweat and die Under some fierce foreign sky, If only to keep safe those joys That belong to British boys, To keep young Prussians from the soft Scented hay of father's loft, And stop young Slavs from cutting bows And bendy spears from Welsh hedgerows. Another War soon gets begun, A dirtier, a more glorious one; Then, boys, you'll have to play, all in; It's the cruellest team will win. So hold your nose against the stink And never stop too long to think. Wars don't change except in name; The next one must go just the same, And new foul tricks unguessed before Will win and justify this War. Kaisers and Czars will strut the stage Once more with pomp and greed and rage; Courtly ministers will stop At home and fight to the last drop; By the million men will die In some new horrible agony; And children here will thrust and poke, Shoot and die, and laugh at the joke, With bows and arrows and wooden spears, Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers.
STRONG BEER
"What do you think The bravest drink Under the sky?" "Strong beer," said I.
"There's a place for everything, Everything, anything, There's a place for everything Where it ought to be: For a chicken, the hen's wing; For poison, the bee's sting; For almond-blossom, Spring; A beerhouse for me."
"There's a prize for every one Every one, any one, There's a prize for every one, Whoever he may be: Crags for the mountaineer, Flags for the Fusilier, For English poets, beer! Strong beer for me!"
"Tell us, now, how and when We may find the bravest men?" "A sure test, an easy test: Those that drink beer are the best, Brown beer strongly brewed, English drink and English food."
Oh, never choose as Gideon chose By the cold well, but rather those Who look on beer when it is brown, Smack their lips and gulp it down. Leave the lads who tamely drink With Gideon by the water brink, But search the benches of the Plough, The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow, For jolly rascal lads who pray, Pewter in hand, at close of day, "Teach me to live that I may fear The grave as little as my beer."
MARIGOLDS
With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.
Look: the constant marigold Springs again from hidden roots. Baffled gardener, you behold New beginnings and new shoots Spring again from hidden roots. Pull or stab or cut or burn, They will ever yet return.
Gardener, cursing at the weed, Ere you curse it further, say: Who but you planted the seed In my fertile heart, one day? Ere you curse me further, say! New beginnings and new shoots String again from hidden roots Pull or stab or cut or burn, Love must ever yet return.
THE LADY VISITOR IN THE PAUPER WARD
Why do you break upon this old, cool peace, This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese, With garish flowers? Why do you churn smooth waters rough again, Selfish old skin-and-bone? Leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain, Leave us alone.
LOVE AND BLACK MAGIC
To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone; In his grotto the maiden sits alone. She gazes up with a weary smile At the rafter-hanging crocodile, The slowly swinging crocodile. Scorn has she of her master's gear, Cauldron, alembic, crystal sphere, Phial, philtre--"Fiddlededee For all such trumpery trash!" quo' she. "A soldier is the lad for me; Hey and hither, my lad!
"Oh, here have I ever lain forlorn: My father died ere I was born, Mother was by a wizard wed, And oft I wish I had died instead-- Often I wish I were long time dead. But, delving deep in my master's lore, I have won of magic power such store I can turn a skull--oh, fiddlededee For all this curious craft!" quo' she. "A soldier is the lad for me; Hey and hither, my lad!
"To bring my brave boy unto my arms, What need have I of magic charms-- 'Abracadabra!' and 'Prestopuff'? I have but to wish, and that is enough. The charms are vain, one wish is enough. My master pledged my hand to a wizard; Transformed would I be to toad or lizard If e'er he guessed--but fiddlededee For a black-browed sorcerer, now," quo' she. "Let Cupid smile and the fiend must flee; Hey and hither, my lad."
SMOKE-RINGS
BOY Most venerable and learned sir, Tall and true Philosopher, These rings of smoke you blow all day With such deep thought, what sense have they?
PHILOSOPHER Small friend, with prayer and meditation I make an image of Creation. And if your mind is working nimble Straightway you'll recognize a symbol Of the endless and eternal ring Of God, who girdles everything-- God, who in His own form and plan Moulds the fugitive life of man. These vaporous toys you watch me make, That shoot ahead, pause, turn and break-- Some glide far out like sailing ships, Some weak ones fail me at my lips. He who ringed His awe in smoke, When He led forth His captive folk, In like manner, East, West, North, and South, Blows us ring-wise from His mouth.
A CHILD'S NIGHTMARE
Through long nursery nights he stood By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing, Talking, as he lapped my blood, In a voice cruel and flat, Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
That one word was all he said, That one word through all my sleep, In monotonous mock despair. Nonsense may be light as air, But there's Nonsense that can keep Horror bristling round the head, When a voice cruel and flat Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
He had faded, he was gone Years ago with Nursery Land When he leapt on me again From the clank of a night train, Overpowered me foot and head, Lapped my blood, while on and on The old voice cruel and flat Says for ever, "Cat!... Cat!... Cat!..."
Morphia drowsed, again I lay In a crater by High Wood: He was there with straddling legs, Staring eyes as big as eggs, Purring as he lapped my blood, His black bulk darkening the day, With a voice cruel and flat, "Cat!... Cat!... Cat!..." he said, "Cat!... Cat!..."
When I'm shot through heart and head, And there's no choice but to die, The last word I'll hear, no doubt, Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!" Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry, "Let that body be, he's dead!" But a voice cruel and flat Saying for ever, "Cat!... Cat!... Cat!"
ESCAPE
(_August_ 6, 1916.--Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: Graves, Captain R., Royal Welch Fusiliers.)
... But I _was_ dead, an hour or more. I woke when I'd already passed the door That Cerberus guards, and half-way down the road To Lethe, as an old Greek signpost showed. Above me, on my stretcher swinging by, I saw new stars in the subterrene sky: A Cross, a Rose in bloom, a Cage with bars, And a barbed Arrow feathered in fine stars. I felt the vapours of forgetfulness Float in my nostrils. Oh, may Heaven bless Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake, And, stooping over me, for Henna's sake Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back Breathless, with leaping heart along the track. After me roared and clattered angry hosts Of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts. "Life! life! I can't be dead! I won't be dead! Damned if I'll die for any one!" I said.... Cerberus stands and grins above me now, Wearing three heads--lion, and lynx, and sow. "Quick, a revolver! But my Webley's gone, Stolen!... No bombs ... no knife.... The crowd swarms on, Bellows, hurls stones.... Not even a honeyed sop ... Nothing.... Good Cerberus!... Good dog!... but stop! Stay!... A great luminous thought ... I do believe There's still some morphia that I bought on leave." Then swiftly Cerberus' wide mouths I cram With army biscuit smeared with ration jam;
And sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple. He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple With the all-powerful poppy ... then a snore, A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun-- Too late! for I've sped through. O Life! O Sun!
THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE
An Idyll
Back from the Somme two Fusiliers Limped painfully home; the elder said, _S_. "Robert, I've lived three thousand years This Summer, and I'm nine parts dead." _R_. "But if that's truly so," I cried, "quick, now, Through these great oaks and see the famous bough
"Where once a nonsense built her nest With skulls and flowers and all things queer, In an old boot, with patient breast Hatching three eggs; and the next year ..." _S_. "Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did."
Said he, "Before this quaint mood fails, We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," _R_. "Hanging it up with monkey tails In a deep grove all hushed and dim...." _S_. "To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees," _R_. "Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese,"
_S_. "Which men are wise beyond their time, And worship nonsense, no one more." _R_. "Hard by, among old quince and lime, They've built a temple with no floor," _S_. "And whosoever worships in that place, He disappears from sight and leaves no trace."
_R_. "Once the Galatians built a fane To Sense: what duller God than that?" _S_. "But the first day of autumn rain The roof fell in and crushed them flat." _R_. "Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls When nonsense is foundation for the walls."
I tell him old Galatian tales; He caps them in quick Portuguese, While phantom creatures with green scales Scramble and roll among the trees. The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings.
NOT DEAD
Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough hark of the friendly oak. A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his. Turf burns with pleasant smoke; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile.
A BOY IN CHURCH
"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!" My window frames forest and heather. I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.
Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still. I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill. The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show.
The parson's voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks. I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch. "Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again."
I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there's not the least mistake. Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover! It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the lake? The red light from his mantle passes Across the broad memorial brasses.
It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving God.... But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.
CORPORAL STARE
Back from the line one night in June, I gave a dinner at Bethune-- Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal Money could buy or batman steal. Five hungry lads welcomed the fish With shouts that nearly cracked the dish; Asparagus came with tender tops, Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops. Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook, "They'll put this in the history book." We bawled Church anthems _in choro_ Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow, With drinking songs, a jolly sound To help the good red Pommard round. Stories and laughter interspersed, We drowned a long La Bassée thirst-- Trenches in June make throats damned dry. Then through the window suddenly, Badge, stripes and medals all complete, We saw him swagger up the street, Just like a live man--Corporal Stare! Stare! Killed last May at Festubert. Caught on patrol near the Boche wire, Tom horribly by machine-gun fire! He paused, saluted smartly, grinned, Then passed away like a puff of wind, Leaving us blank astonishment. The song broke, up we started, leant Out of the window--nothing there, Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare, Only a quiver of smoke that showed A fag-end dropped on the silent road.
THE ASSAULT HEROIC
Down in the mud I lay, Tired out by my long day Of five damned days and nights, Five sleepless days and nights, ... Dream-snatched, and set me where The dungeon of Despair Looms over Desolate Sea, Frowning and threatening me With aspect high and steep-- A most malignant keep. My foes that lay within Shouted and made a din, Hooted and grinned and cried: "Today we've killed your pride; Today your ardour ends. We've murdered all your friends; We've undermined by stealth Your happiness and your health. We've taken away your hope; Now you may droop and mope To misery and to Death." But with my spear of Faith, Stout as an oaken rafter, With my round shield of laughter, With my sharp, tongue-like sword That speaks a bitter word, I stood beneath the wall And there defied them all. The stones they cast I caught And alchemized with thought Into such lumps of gold As dreaming misers hold. The boiling oil they threw Fell in a shower of dew, Refreshing me; the spears Flew harmless by my ears, Struck quivering in the sod; There, like the prophet's rod, Put leaves out, took firm root, And bore me instant fruit. My foes were all astounded, Dumbstricken and confounded, Gaping in a long row; They dared not thrust nor throw. Thus, then, I climbed a steep Buttress and won the keep, And laughed and proudly blew My horn, _"Stand to! Stand to! Wake up, sir! Here's a new Attack! Stand to! Stand to!"_
THE POET IN THE NURSERY
The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly things and never there.
And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I'd been writing,... An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking, His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; And how at last, into a fever sinking, Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.
But suddenly I saw the bright green cover Of a thin pretty book right down below; I snatched it up and turned the pages over, To find it full of poetry, and so Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover, And turned to watch if the old man saw it go.
The book was full of funny muddling mazes, Each rounded off into a lovely song, And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong. And metre twisting like a chain of daisies With great big splendid words a sentence long.
I took the book to bed with me and gloated, Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand; So soon the pretty emerald green was coated With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand, While round the nursery for long months there floated Wonderful words no one could understand.
IN THE WILDERNESS
Christ of His gentleness Thirsting and hungering, Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. He heard the bitterns call From ruined palace-wall, Answered them brotherly. He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety. Basilisk, cockatrice, Flocked to his homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barbéd slings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries. And ever with Him went, Of all His wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scapegoat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept.
CHERRY-TIME
Cherries of the night are riper Than the cherries pluckt at noon Gather to your fairy piper When he pipes his magic tune: Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter For the eater Under the moon. And you'll be fairies soon.
In the cherry pluckt at night, With the dew of summer swelling, There's a juice of pure delight, Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder Mine are sweeter For the eater In the moonlight. And you'll be fairies quite.
When I sound the fairy call, Gather here in silent meeting, Chin to knee on the orchard wall, Cooled with dew and cherries eating. Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter. For the eater When the dews fall. And you'll be fairies all.
1915
I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, Red poppy floods of June, August, and yellowing Autumn, so To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, And you've been everything.
Dear, you've been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches--pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, And Peace, and all that's good.
FREE VERSE
I now delight In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition, In writing And reciting Straight ahead, Without let or omission, Just any little rhyme In any little time That runs in my head; Because, I've said, My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed Like Prussian soldiers on parade That march, Stiff as starch, Foot to foot, Boot to boot, Blade to blade, Button to button Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. No! No! My rhymes must go Turn 'ee, twist 'ee, Twinkling, frosty, Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty; Rhymes I will make Like Keats and Blake And Christina Rossetti, With run and ripple and shake. How pretty To take A merry little rhyme In a jolly little time And poke it, And choke it, Change it, arrange it, Straight-lace it, deface it, Pleat it with pleats, Sheet it with sheets Of empty conceits, And chop and chew, And hack and hew, And weld it into a uniform stanza, And evolve a neat, Complacent, complete, Academic extravaganza!