Chapter 1

FORTY-TWO POEMS

Contents

To a Poet a thousand years hence Riouperoux The Town without a Market The Balled of Camden Town Mignon Felo de se Tenebris Interlucentem Invitation to a young but learned friend . . . Balled of the Londoner The First Sonnet of Bathrolaire The Second Sonnet of Bathrolaire The Masque of the Magi The Balled of Hampstead Heath Litany to Satan The Translator and the Children Opportunity Destroyer of Ships, Men, Cities War Song of the Saracens Joseph and Mary No Coward's Song A Western Voyage Fountains The Welsh Sea Oxford Canal Hialmar speaks to the Raven The Ballad of the Student in the South The Queen's song Lord Arnaldos We that were friends My Friend Ideal Mary Magdalen I rose from dreamless hours Prayer A Miracle of Bethlehem Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis Pillage The Ballad of Zacho Pavlovna in London The Sentimentalist Don Juan in Hell The Ballad of Iskander

TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE

I who am dead a thousand years, And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas, Or ride secure the cruel sky, Or build consummate palaces Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still, And statues and a bright-eyed love, And foolish thoughts of good and ill, And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind That falls at eve our fancies blow, And old Moeonides the blind Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown, Student of our sweet English tongue, Read out my words at night, alone: I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face, And never shake you by the hand, I send my soul through time and space To greet you. You will understand.

RIOUPEROUX

High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux, - Small untidy village where the river drives a mill: Frail as wood anemones, white and frail were you, And drooping a little, like the slender daffodil.

Oh I will go to France again, and tramp the valley through, And I will change these gentle clothes for clog and corduroy, And work with the mill-hands of black Riouperoux, And walk with you, and talk with you, like any other boy.

THE TOWN WITHOUT A MARKET

There lies afar behind a western hill The Town without a Market, white and still; For six feet long and not a third as high Are those small habitations. There stood I, Waiting to hear the citizens beneath Murmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth. When all the world lay burning in the sun I heard their voices speak to me. Said one: "Bright lights I loved and colours, I who find That death is darkness, and has struck me blind." Another cried: "I used to sing and play, But here the world is silent, day by day." And one: "On earth I could not see or hear, But with my fingers touched what I was near, And knew things round and soft, and brass from gold, And dipped my hand in water, to feel cold, And thought the grave would cure me, and was glad When the time came to lose what joy I had." Soon all the voices of a hundred dead Shouted in wrath together. Someone said, "I care not, but the girl was sweet to kiss At evening in the meadows." "Hard it is" Another cried, "to hear no hunting horn. Ah me! the horse, the hounds, and the great grey morn When I rode out a-hunting." And one sighed, "I did not see my son before I died." A boy said, "I was strong and swift to run: Now they have tied my feet: what have I done?" A man, "But it was good to arm and fight And storm their cities in the dead of night." An old man said, "I read my books all day, But death has taken all my books away." And one, "The popes and prophets did not well To cheat poor dead men with false hopes of hell. Better the whips of fire that hiss and rend Than painless void proceeding to no end." I smiled to hear them restless, I who sought Peace. For I had not loved, I had not fought, And books are vanities, and manly strength A gathered flower. God grant us peace at length! I heard no more, and turned to leave their town Before the chill came, and the sun went down. Then rose a whisper, and I seemed to know A timorous man, buried long years ago. "On Earth I used to shape the Thing that seems. Master of all men, give me back my dreams. Give me that world that never failed me then, The hills I made and peopled with tall men, The palace that I built and called my home, My cities which could break the pride of Rome, The three queens hidden in the sacred tree, And those white cloudy folk who sang to me. O death, why hast thou covered me so deep? I was thy sister's child, the friend of Sleep."

Then said my heart, Death takes and cannot give. Dark with no dream is hateful: let me live!

THE BALLAD OF CAMDEN TOWN

I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face, A secret heart, and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store, She left the latchkey on its nail, And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her? The river flows So deep and wide and stilly, And waits to catch the fallen rose And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still And breathes the evening air, And often walk to Primrose Hill, And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live, For I will find her yet: I have so little to forgive; So much, I can't forget.

MIGNON

Knowest thou the land where bloom the lemon trees, And darkly gleam the golden oranges? A gentle wind blows down from that blue sky; Calm stands the myrtle and the laurel high. Knowest thou the land? So far and fair! Thou, whom I love, and I will wander there.

Knowest thou the house with all its rooms aglow, And shining hall and columned portico? The marble statues stand and look at me. Alas, poor child, what have they done to thee? Knowest thou the land? So far and fair. My Guardian, thou and I will wander there.

Knowest thou the mountain with its bridge of cloud? The mule plods warily: the white mists crowd. Coiled in their caves the brood of dragons sleep; The torrent hurls the rock from steep to steep. Knowest thou the land? So far and fair. Father, away! Our road is over there!

FELO DE SE

The song of a man who was dead Ere any had heard of his song, Or had seen this his ultimate song, With the lines of it written in red, And the sound of it steady and strong. When you hear it, you know I am dead.

Not because I was weary of life As pallid poets are: My star was a conquering star, My element strife. I am young, I am strong, I am brave, It is therefore I go to the grave.

Now to life and to life's desire, And to youth and the glory of youth, Farewell, for I go to acquire, By the one road left me, Truth. Though a great God slay me with fire I will shout till he answer me. Why? (One soul and a Universe, why?) And for this it is pleasant to die.

For years and years I have slumbered, And slumber was heavy and sweet, But the last few moments are numbered Like trampling feet that beat. I shall walk with the stars in their courses, And hear very soon, very soon, The voice of the forge of the Forces, And ride on a ridge of the moon, And sing a celestial tune.

TENEBRIS INTERLUCENTEM

A linnet who had lost her way Sang on a blackened bough in Hell, Till all the ghosts remembered well The trees, the wind, the golden day.

At last they knew that they had died When they heard music in that land, And someone there stole forth a hand To draw a brother to his side.

INVITATION TO A YOUNG BUT LEARNED FRIEND TO ABANDON ARCHAEOLOGY FOR THE MOMENT, AND PLAY ONCE MORE WITH HIS NEGLECTED MUSE.

In those good days when we were young and wise, You spake to music, you with the thoughtful eyes, And God looked down from heaven, pleased to hear A young man's song arise so firm and clear. Has Fancy died? The Morning Star gone cold? Why are you silent? Have we grown so old? Must I alone keep playing? Will not you, Lord of the Measures, string your lyre anew? Lover of Greece, is this the richest store You bring us,--withered leaves and dusty lore, And broken vases widowed of their wine, To brand you pedant while you stand divine? Decorous words beseem the learned lip, But Poets have the nicer scholarship.

In English glades they watch the Cyprian glow, And all the Maenad melodies they know. They hear strange voices in a London street, And track the silver gleam of rushing feet; And these are things that come not to the view Of slippered dons who read a codex through. O honeyed Poet, will you praise no more The moonlit garden and the midnight shore? Brother, have you forgotten how to sing The story of that weak and cautious king Who reigned two hundred years in Trebizond? You who would ever strive to pierce beyond Love's ecstacy, Life's vision, is it well We should not know the tales you have to tell?

BALLAD OF THE LONDONER

Evening falls on the smoky walls, And the railings drip with rain, And I will cross the old river To see my girl again.

The great and solemn-gliding tram, Love's still-mysterious car, Has many a light of gold and white, And a single dark red star.

I know a garden in a street Which no one ever knew; I know a rose beyond the Thames, Where flowers are pale and few.

THE FIRST SONNET OF BATHROLAIRE

Over the moonless land of Bathrolaire Rises at night, when revelry begins, A white unreal orb, a sun that spins, A sun that watches with a sullen stare That dance spasmodic they are dancing there, Whilst drone and cry and drone of violins Hint at the sweetness of forgotten sins, Or call the devotees of shame to prayer. And all the spaces of the midnight town Ring with appeal and sorrowful abuse. There some most lonely are: some try to crown Mad lovers with sad boughs of formal yews, And Titan women wandering up and down Lead on the pale fanatics of the muse.

THE SECOND SONNET OF BATHROLAIRE

Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afar Has walked among the daisies, and has breathed The glory of the mountain winds, and sheathed The stubborn sword of Night's last-shining star. In Bathrolaire when Day's old doors unbar The motley mask, fantastically wreathed, Pass through a strong portcullis brazen teethed, And enter glowing mines of cinnabar. Stupendous prisons shut them out from day, Gratings and caves and rayless catacombs, And the unrelenting rack and tourniquet Grind death in cells where jetting gaslight gloams, And iron ladders stretching far away Dive to the depths of those eternal domes.

THE MASQUE OF THE MAGI

Three Kings have come to Bethlehem With a trailing star in front of them.

MARY

What would you in this little place, You three bright kings?

KINGS

Mother, we tracked the trailing star Which brought us here from lands afar, And we would look on his dear face Round whom the Seraphs fold their wings.

MARY

But who are you, bright kings?

CASPAR

Caspar am I: the rocky North From storm and silence drave me forth Down to the blue and tideless sea. I do not fear the tinkling sword, For I am a great battle-lord, And love the horns of chivalry. And I have brought thee splendid gold, The strong man's joy, refined and cold. All hail, thou Prince of Galilee!

BALTHAZAR

I am Balthazar, Lord of Ind, Where blows a soft and scented wind From Taprobane towards Cathay. My children, who are tall and wise, Stand by a tree with shutten eyes And seem to meditate or pray. And these red drops of frankincense Betoken man's intelligence. Hail, Lord of Wisdom, Prince of Day!

MELCHIOR

I am the dark man, Melchior, And I shall live but little more Since I am old and feebly move. My kingdom is a burnt-up land Half buried by the drifting sand, So hot Apollo shines above. What could I bring but simple myrrh White blossom of the cordial fire? Hail, Prince of Souls, and Lord of Love!

CHORUS OF ANGELS

O Prince of souls and Lord of Love, O'er thee the purple-breasted dove Shall watch with open silver wings, Thou King of Kings. Suaviole o flos Virginum, Apparuit Rex Gentium. . . . "Who art thou, little King of Kings?" His wondering mother sings.

THE BALLAD OF HAMPSTEAD HEATH

From Heaven's Gate to Hampstead Heath Young Bacchus and his crew Came tumbling down, and o'er the town Their bursting trumpets blew.

The silver night was wildly bright, And madly shone the Moon To hear a song so clear and strong, With such a lovely tune.

From London's houses, huts and flats, Came busmen, snobs, and Earls, And ugly men in bowler hats With charming little girls.

Sir Moses came with eyes of flame, Judd, who is like a bloater, The brave Lord Mayor in coach and pair, King Edward, in his motor.

Far in a rosy mist withdrawn The God and all his crew, Silenus pulled by nymphs, a faun, A satyr drenched in dew,

Smiled as they wept those shining tears Only Immortals know, Whose feet are set among the stars, Above the shifting snow.

And one spake out into the night, Before they left for ever, "Rejoice, rejoice!" and his great voice Rolled like a splendid river.

He spake in Greek, which Britons speak Seldom, and circumspectly; But Mr. Judd, that man of mud, Translated it correctly.

And when they heard that happy word, Policemen leapt and ambled: The busmen pranced, the maidens danced, The men in bowlers gambolled.

A wistful Echo stayed behind To join the mortal dances, But Mr Judd, with words unkind, Rejected her advances.

And passing down through London Town She stopped, for all was lonely, Attracted by a big brass plate Inscribed, FOR MEMBERS ONLY.

And so she went to Parliament, But those ungainly men Woke up from sleep, and turned about, And fell asleep again.

LITANY TO SATAN (from Baudelaire.)

O grandest of the Angels, and most wise, O fallen God, fate-driven from the skies, Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

O first of exiles who endurest wrong, Yet growest, in thy hatred, still more strong, Satan, at last take pity on our pain!

O subterranean King, omniscient, Healer of man's immortal discontent, Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show That Passion is the Paradise below. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou by thy mistress Death hast given to man Hope, the imperishable courtesan. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mien Which damns the crowd around the guillotine. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou knowest the corners of the jealous Earth Where God has hidden jewels of great worth. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou dost discover by mysterious signs Where sleep the buried people of the mines. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou stretchest forth a saving hand to keep Such men as roam upon the roofs in sleep. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thy power can make the halting Drunkard's feet Avoid the peril of the surging street. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou, to console our helplessness, didst plot The cunning use of powder and of shot. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thy awful name is written as with pitch On the unrelenting foreheads of the rich. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

In strange and hidden places thou dost move Where women cry for torture in their love. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Father of those whom God's tempestuous ire Has flung from Paradise with sword and fire, Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

PRAYER

Satan, to thee be praise upon the Height Where thou wast king of old, and in the night Of Hell, where thou dost dream on silently. Grant that one day beneath the Knowledge-tree, When it shoots forth to grace thy royal brow, My soul may sit, that cries upon thee now.

THE TRANSLATOR AND THE CHILDREN

While I translated Baudelaire, Children were playing out in the air. Turning to watch, I saw the light That made their clothes and faces bright. I heard the tune they meant to sing As they kept dancing in a ring; But I could not forget my book, And thought of men whose faces shook When babies passed them with a look.

They are as terrible as death, Those children in the road beneath. Their witless chatter is more dread Than voices in a madman's head: Their dance more awful and inspired, Because their feet are never tired, Than silent revel with soft sound Of pipes, on consecrated ground, When all the ghosts go round and round.

OPPORTUNITY (from Machiavelli.)

"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced, O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"

"I am that maid whose secret few may steal, Called Opportunity. I hasten by Because my feet are treading on a wheel,

Being more swift to run than birds to fly. And rightly on my feet my wings I wear, To blind the sight of those who track and spy;

Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair To veil my face, and down my breast to fall, Lest men should know my name when I am there;

And leave behind my back no wisp at all For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide So near, and turn, and pass beyond recall."

"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?" "Penitence. Mark this well that by decree Who lets me go must keep her for his bride.

And thou hast spent much time in talk with me Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand, Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost see How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."

DESTROYER OF SHIPS, MEN, CITIES

Helen of Troy has sprung from Hell To claim her ancient throne, So we have bidden friends farewell To follow her alone.

The Lady of the laurelled brow, The Queen of pride and power, Looks rather like a phantom now, And rather like a flower.

Deep in her eyes the lamp of night Burns with a secret flame, Where shadows pass that have no sight, And ghosts that have no name.

For mute is battle's brazen horn That rang for Priest and King, And she who drank of that brave morn Is pale with evening.

An hour there is when bright words flow, A little hour for sleep, An hour between, when lights are low, And then she seems to weep,

But no less lovely than of old She shines, and almost hears The horns that blew in days of gold, The shouting charioteers.

And still she breaks the hearts of men, Their hearts and all their pride, Doomed to be cruel once again, And live dissatisfied.

WAR SONG OF THE SARACENS

We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early or late: We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware! Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer. But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and we tramp With the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair.

From the lands, where the elephants are, to the forts of Merou and Balghar, Our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the ruins of Rum. We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we will go there again; We have stood on the shore of the plain where the Waters of Destiny boom.

A mart of destruction we made at Jalula where men were afraid, For death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom; And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few of ambition, And drave not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong: And the shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolate pool, And as straight as the rock of Stamboul when their cavalry thundered along: For the coward was drowned with the brave when our battle sheered up like a wave, And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God in our song.

JOSEPH AND MARY

JOSEPH

Mary, art thou the little maid Who plucked me flowers in Spring? I know thee not: I feel afraid: Thou'rt strange this evening.

A sweet and rustic girl I won What time the woods were green; No woman with deep eyes that shone, And the pale brows of a Queen.

MARY (inattentive to his words.)

A stranger came with feet of flame And told me this strange thing, - For all I was a village maid My son should be a King.

JOSEPH

A King, dear wife. Who ever knew Of Kings in stables born!

MARY

Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blue The clarion and the horn?

JOSEPH

Mary, alas, lest grief and joy Have sent thy wits astray; But let me look on this my boy, And take the wraps away.

MARY

Behold the lad.

JOSEPH

I dare not gaze: Light streams from every limb.

MARY

The winter sun has stored his rays, And passed the fire to him.

Look Eastward, look! I hear a sound. O Joseph, what do you see?

JOSEPH

The snow lies quiet on the ground And glistens on the tree;

The sky is bright with a star's great light, And clearly I behold Three Kings descending yonder hill, Whose crowns are crowns of gold.

O Mary, what do you hear and see With your brow toward the West?

MARY

The snow lies glistening on the tree And silent on Earth's breast;

And strong and tall, with lifted eyes Seven shepherds walk this way, And angels breaking from the skies Dance, and sing hymns, and pray.

JOSEPH

I wonder much at these bright Kings; The shepherds I despise.

MARY

You know not what a shepherd sings, Nor see his shining eyes.

NO COWARD'S SONG

I am afraid to think about my death, When it shall be, and whether in great pain I shall rise up and fight the air for breath Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain.

I am no coward who could seek in fear A folklore solace or sweet Indian tales: I know dead men are deaf and cannot hear The singing of a thousand nightingales.

I know dead men are blind and cannot see The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes, And they are witless--O I'd rather be A living mouse than dead as a man dies.

A WESTERN VOYAGE

My friend the Sun--like all my friends Inconstant, lovely, far away - Is out, and bright, and condescends To glory in our holiday.

A furious march with him I'll go And race him in the Western train, And wake the hills of long ago And swim the Devon sea again.

I have done foolishly to head The footway of the false moonbeams, To light my lamp and call the dead And read their long black printed dreams.

I have done foolishly to dwell With Fear upon her desert isle, To take my shadowgraph to Hell, And then to hope the shades would smile.

And since the light must fail me soon (But faster, faster, Western train!) Proud meadows of the afternoon, I have remembered you again.

And I'll go seek through moor and dale A flower that wastrel winds caress; The bud is red and the leaves pale, The name of it Forgetfulness.

Then like the old and happy hills With frozen veins and fires outrun, I'll wait the day when darkness kills My brother and good friend, the Sun.

FOUNTAINS

Soft is the collied night, and cool The wind about the garden pool. Here will I dip my burning hand And move an inch of drowsy sand, And pray the dark reflected skies To fasten with their seal mine eyes. A million million leagues away Among the stars the goldfish play, And high above the shadowed stars Wave and float the nenuphars.

THE WELSH SEA

Far out across Carnarvon bay, Beneath the evening waves, The ancient dead begin their day And stream among the graves.