Chapter 2

The lily of Malud is born in secret mud. It is breathed like a word in a little dark ravine Where no bird was ever heard and no beast was ever seen, And the leaves are never stirred by the panther's velvet sheen.

It blooms once a year in summer moonlight, In a valley of dark fear full of pale moonlight: It blooms once a year, and dies in a night, And its petals disappear with the dawn's first light; And when that night has come, black small-breasted maids, With ecstatic terror dumb, steal fawn-like through the shades To watch, hour by hour, the unfolding of the flower.

When the world is full of night, and the moon reigns alone And drowns in silver light the known and the unknown, When each hut is a mound, half blue-silver and half black, And casts upon the ground the hard shadow of its back, When the winds are out of hearing and the tree-tops never shake, When the grass in the clearing is silent but awake 'Neath a moon-paven sky: all the village is asleep And the babes that nightly cry dream deep:

From the doors the maidens creep, Tiptoe over dreaming curs, soft, so soft, that not one stirs, And stand curved and a-quiver, like bathers by a river, Looking at the forest wall, groups of slender naked girls, Whose black bodies shine like pearls where the moonbeams fall.

They have waked, they knew not why, at a summons from the night, They have stolen fearfully from the dark to the light, Stepping over sleeping men, who have moved and slept again: And they know not why they go to the forest, but they know, As their moth-feet pass to the shore of the grass And the forest's dreadful brink, that their tender spirits shrink: They would flee, but cannot turn, for their eyelids burn With still frenzy, and each maid, ere she leaves the moonlit space, If she sees another's face is thrilled and afraid.

Now like little phantom fawns they thread the outer lawns Where the boles of giant trees stand about in twos and threes, Till the forest grows more dense and the darkness more intense, And they only sometimes see in a lone moon-ray A dead and spongy trunk in the earth half-sunk, Or the roots of a tree with fungus grey, Or a drift of muddy leaves, or a banded snake that heaves.

And the towering unseen roof grows more intricate, and soon It is featureless and proof to the lost forgotten moon. But they could not look above as with blind-drawn feet they move Onwards on the scarce-felt path, with quick and desperate breath, For their circling fingers dread to caress some slimy head, Or to touch the icy shape of a hunched and hairy ape, And at every step they fear in their very midst to hear A lion's rending roar or a tiger's snore.... And when things swish or fall, they shiver but dare not call.

O what is it leads the way that they do not stray? What unimagined arm keeps their bodies from harm? What presence concealed lifts their little feet that yield Over dry ground and wet till their straining eyes are met With a thinning of the darkness?

And the foremost faintly cries in awed surprise: And they one by one emerge from the gloom to the verge Of a small sunken vale full of moonlight pale. And they hang along the bank, clinging to the branches dank, A shadowy festoon out of sight of the moon; And they see in front of them, rising from the mud, A single straight stem and a single pallid bud In that little lake of light from the moon's calm height.

A stem, a ghostly bud, on the moon-swept mud That shimmers like a pond; and over there beyond The guardian forest high, menacing and strange, Invades the empty sky with its wild black range.

And they watch hour by hour that small lonely flower In that deep forest place that hunter never found.

It shines without sound, as a star in space.

And the silence all around that solitary place Is like silence in a dream; till a sudden flashing gleam Down their dark faces flies; and their lips fall apart And their glimmering great eyes with excitement dart And their fingers, clutching the branches they were touching, Shake and arouse hissing leaves on the boughs.

And they whisper aswoon: Did it move in the moon?

O it moved as it grew! It is moving, opening, with calm and gradual will And their bodies where they cling are shadowed and still, And with marvel they mark that the mud now is dark, For the unfolding flower, like a goddess in her power, Challenges the moon with a light of her own, That lovelily grows as the petals unclose, Wider, more wide with an awful inward pride Till the heart of it breaks, and stilled is their breath, For the radiance it makes is as wonderful as death.

The morning's crimson stain tinges their ashen brows As they part the last boughs and slowly step again On to the village grass, and chill and languid pass Into the huts to sleep. Brief slumber, yet so deep That, when they wake to day, darkness and splendour seem Broken and far-away, a faint miraculous dream; And when those maidens rise they are as they ever were Save only for a rare shade of trouble in their eyes. And the surly thick-lipped men, as they sit about their huts Making drums out of guts, grunting gruffly now and then, Carving sticks of ivory, stretching shields of wrinkled skin, Smoothing sinister and thin squatting gods of ebony, Chip and grunt and do not see. But each mother, silently, Longer than her wont stays shut in the dimness of her hut, For she feels a brooding cloud of memory in the air, A lingering thing there that makes her sit bowed With hollow shining eyes, as the night-fire dies, And stare softly at the ember, and try to remember, Something sorrowful and far, something sweet and vaguely seen Like an early evening star when the sky is pale green: A quiet silver tower that climbed in an hour, Or a ghost like a flower, or a flower like a queen: Something holy in the past that came and did not last.... But she knows not what it was.

* * * * *

SIEGFRIED SASSOON

A LETTER HOME

('To Robert Graves')

I

Here I'm sitting in the gloom Of my quiet attic room. France goes rolling all around, Fledged with forest May has crowned. And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, Thinking how the fighting started, Wondering when we'll ever end it, Back to Hell with Kaiser send it, Gag the noise, pack up and go, Clockwork soldiers in a row. I've got better things to do Than to waste my time on you.

II

Robert, when I drowse to-night, Skirting lawns of sleep to chase Shifting dreams in mazy light, Somewhere then I'll see your face Turning back to bid me follow Where I wag my arms and hollo, Over hedges hasting after Crooked smile and baffling laughter, Running tireless, floating, leaping, Down your web-hung woods and valleys, Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, Where the glowworm stars are peeping, Till I find you, quiet as stone On a hill-top all alone, Staring outward, gravely pondering Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering.

III

You and I have walked together In the starving winter weather. We've been glad because we knew Time's too short and friends are few. We've been sad because we missed One whose yellow head was kissed By the gods, who thought about him Till they couldn't do without him. Now he's here again; I've seen Soldier David dressed in green, Standing in a wood that swings To the madrigal he sings. He's come back, all mirth and glory, Like the prince in a fairy story. Winter called him far away; Blossoms bring him home with May.

IV

Well, I know you'll swear it's true That you found him decked in blue Striding up through morning-land With a cloud on either hand. Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; Hides all night in hilly nooks, Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. Yet, it's certain, here he teaches Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. And I'm sure, as here I stand, That he shines through every land, That he sings in every place Where we're thinking of his face.

V

Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and worship Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder. Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. Bones are smashed and buried quick. Yet, through stunning battle storms, All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go. _You_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle. War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true!

THE KISS

To these I turn, in these I trust; Brother Lead and Sister Steel. To his blind power I make appeal; I guard her beauty clean from rust.

He spins and burns and loves the air, And splits a skull to win my praise; But up the nobly marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair.

Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward darting kiss.

THE DRAGON AND THE UNDYING

All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings And beats upon the dark with furious wings; And, stung to rage by his own darting fires, Reaches with grappling coils from town to town; He lusts to break the loveliness of spires, And hurls their martyred music toppling down.

Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas. Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night, And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams. Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, They wander in the dusk with chanting streams; And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.

TO VICTORY

Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, But shining as a garden; come with the streaming Banners of dawn and sundown after rain.

I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver, Radiance through living roses, spires of green Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood, Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.

I am not sad; only I long for lustre,-- Tired of the greys and browns and the leafless ash. I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.

Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness, Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice; Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness, When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with up-lifted voice.

'THEY'

The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they'll have fought In a just cause: they lead the last attack On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought New right to breed an honourable race. They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply. For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; And Bert's gone syphilitic; you'll not find A chap who's served that hasn't found _some_ change.' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'

'IN THE PINK'

So Davies wrote: 'This leaves me in the pink.' Then scrawled his name: 'Your loving sweet-heart, Willie' With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.

He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten. To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. And still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why.

HAUNTED

Evening was in the wood, louring with storm. A time of drought had sucked the weedy pool And baked the channels; birds had done with song. Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon, Or willow-music blown across the water Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.

Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding, His face a little whiter than the dusk. A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.

The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.

He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him, But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.

He blundered down a path, trampling on thistles, In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees. And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought, And half remembered starlight on the meadows, Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men, Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves, And far off the long churring night-jar's note.

But something in the wood, trying to daunt him, Led him confused in circles through the brake. He was forgetting his old wretched folly, And freedom was his need; his throat was choking; Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs, And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps. Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!' Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom, Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns, He peers around with boding, frantic eyes. An evil creature in the twilight looping Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off, He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double, To shamble at him zigzag, squat and bestial.

Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls With roaring brain--agony--the snapt spark-- And blots of green and purple in his eyes. Then the slow fingers groping on his neck, And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.

THE DEATH-BED

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- Silence and safety; and his mortal shore Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Some one was holding water to his mouth. He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. Water--calm, sliding green above the weir; Water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers And shaken hues of summer: drifting down, He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace Gently and slowly washing life away.

* * * * *

He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. But some one was beside him; soon he lay Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. And Death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed. Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. He's young; he hated war; how should he die When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But Death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

* * * * *

I. ROSENBERG

'AH, KOELUE ...'

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!

* * * * *

ROBERT NICHOLS

TO----

Asleep within the deadest hour of night And turning with the earth, I was aware How suddenly the eastern curve was bright, As when the sun arises from his lair. But not the sun arose: it was thy hair Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.

Since then I know that neither night nor day May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell! Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay; And should I dare to die, I know full well Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell, Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way.

THE ASSAULT

The beating of the guns grows louder. 'Not long, boys, now'. My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder. Hurricanes grow As guns redouble their fire. Through the shaken periscope peeping, I glimpse their wire: Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, Spouting like shocks of meeting waves, Death's fountains are playing, Shells like shrieking birds rush over; Crash and din rises higher. A stream of lead raves Over us from the left ... (we safe under cover!) Crash! Reverberation! Crash! Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash. Black smoke drifting. The German line Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry Of our men, 'Gah, yer swine! Ye're for it', die In a hurricane of shell.

One cry: 'We're comin' soon! look out!' There is opened hell Over there; fragments fly, Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: Dust, smoke, thunder! A sudden bout Of machine guns chattering ... And redoubled battering, As if in fury at their daring!...

No good staring.

Time soon now ... home ... house on a sunny hill ... Gone like a flickered page: Time soon now ... zero ... will engage....

A sudden thrill-- 'Fix bayonets!' Gods! we have our fill Of fear, hysteria, exultation, rage, Rage to kill.

My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter, Contracts tighter and tighter, Until I stifle with the will Long forged, now used (Though utterly strained)-- O pounding heart, Baffled, confused, Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained-- To do my part.

Blindness a moment. Sick. There the men are! Bayonets ready: click! Time goes quick; A stumbled prayer ... somehow a blazing star In a blue night ... where? Again prayer. The tongue trips. Start: How's time? Soon now. Two minutes or less. The gun's fury mounting higher ... Their utmost. I lift a silent hand. Unseen I bless Those hearts will follow me. And beautifully, Now beautifully my will grips, Soul calm and round and filmed and white!

A shout: 'Men, no such order as retire!'

I nod. The whistle's 'twixt my lips ... I catch A wan, worn smile at me. Dear men! The pale wrist-watch ... The quiet hand ticks on amid the din. The guns again Rise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust: Kill! Pound! Kill! Pound! Pound! Now comes the thrust! My part ... dizziness ... will ... but trust These men. The great guns rise; Their fury seems to burst the earth and skies!

They lift.

Gather, heart, all thoughts that drift; Be steel, soul, Compress thyself Into a round, bright whole. I cannot speak.

Time. Time!

I hear my whistle shriek, Between teeth set; I fling an arm up, Scramble up the grime Over the parapet! I'm up. Go on. Something meets us. Head down into the storm that greets us.

A wail. Lights. Blurr. Gone. On, on. Lead. Lead. Hail. Spatter. Whirr! Whirr! 'Toward that patch of brown; Direction left'. Bullets a stream. Devouring thought crying in a dream. Men, crumpled, going down.... Go on. Go. Deafness. Numbness. The loudening tornado. Bullets. Mud. Stumbling and skating. My voice's strangled shout: 'Steady pace, boys!' The still light: gladness. 'Look, sir. Look out!' Ha! ha! Bunched figures waiting. Revolver levelled quick! Flick! Flick! Red as blood. Germans. Germans. Good! O good! Cool madness.

FULFILMENT

Was there love once? I have forgotten her. Was there grief once? grief yet is mine. Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, Lined by the wind, burned by the sun; Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, As whose children we are brethren: one.

And any moment may descend hot death To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath Not less for dying faithful to the last.

O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, Oped mouth gushing, fallen head, Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony! O sudden spasm, release of the dead!

Was there love once? I have forgotten her. Was there grief once? grief yet is mine. O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, All, all, my joy, my grief, my love, are thine!

THE PHILOSOPHER'S ORATION

(From 'A Faun's Holiday')

Meanwhile, though nations in distress Cower at a comet's loveliness Shaken across the midnight sky; Though the wind roars, and Victory, A virgin fierce, on vans of gold Stoops through the cloud's white smother rolled Over the armies' shock and flow Across the broad green hills below, Yet hovers and will not circle down To cast t'ward one the leafy crown; Though men drive galleys' golden beaks To isles beyond the sunset peaks, And cities on the sea behold Whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold, Whose turrets, risen in an hour, Dazzle between the sun and shower, Whose sole inhabitants are kings Six cubits high with gryphon's wings And beard and mien more glorious Than Midas or Assaracus; Though priests in many a hill-top fane Lift anguished hands--and lift in vain-- Toward the sun's shaft dancing through The bright roof's square of wind-swept blue; Though 'cross the stars nightly arise The silver fumes of sacrifice; Though a new Helen bring new scars, Pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars, Stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits sped Like a streaked flame toward the dead: Though all these be, yet grows not old Delight of sunned and windy wold, Of soaking downs aglare, asteam, Of still tarns where the yellow gleam Of a far sunrise slowly breaks, Or sunset strews with golden flakes The deeps which soon the stars will throng.

For earth yet keeps her undersong Of comfort and of ultimate peace, That whoso seeks shall never cease To hear at dawn or noon or night. Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright, Too thin, too bright, for those to hear Who listen with an eager ear, Or course about and seek to spy, Within an hour, eternity. First must the spirit cast aside This world's and next his own poor pride And learn the universe to scan More as a flower, less as a man. Then shall he hear the lonely dead Sing and the stars sing overhead, And every spray upon the heath, And larks above and ants beneath; The stream shall take him in her arms; Blue skies shall rest him in their calms; The wind shall be a lovely friend, And every leaf and bough shall bend Over him with a lover's grace. The hills shall bare a perfect face Full of a high solemnity; The heavenly clouds shall weep, and be Content as overhead they swim To be high brothers unto him.