Chapter 3

No more shall he feel pitched and hurled Uncomprehended into this world; For every place shall be his place, And he shall recognize its face. At dawn he shall upon his path; No sword shall touch him, nor the wrath Of the ranked crowd of clamorous men. At even he shall home again, And lay him down to sleep at ease, One with the Night and the Night's peace. Ev'n Sorrow, to be escaped of none, But a more deep communion Shall be to him, and Death at last No more dreaded than the Past, Whose shadow in the brain of earth Informs him now and gave him birth.

THE NAIADS' MUSIC

(From 'A Faun's Holiday')

Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep: For our kisses lightlier run Than the traceries of the sun By the lolling water cast Up grey precipices vast, Lifting smooth and warm and steep Out of the palely shimmering deep.

Come, ye sorrowful, and take Kisses that are but half awake: For here are eyes O softer far Than the blossom of the star Upon the mothy twilit waters, And here are mouths whose gentle laughters Are but the echoes of the deep Laughing and murmuring in its sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, and see The raindrops flaming goldenly On the stream's eddies overhead And dragonflies with drops of red In the crisp surface of each wing Threading slant rains that flash and sing, Or under the water-lily's cup, From darkling depths, roll slowly up The bronze flanks of an ancient bream Into the hot sun's shattered beam, Or over a sunk tree's bubbled hole The perch stream in a golden shoal: Come, ye sorrowful; our deep Holds dreams lovelier than sleep.

But if ye sons of Sorrow come Only wishing to be numb: Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies, Our breasts are soft as silken roses, And our hands are tenderer Than the breaths that scarce can stir The sunlit eglantine that is Murmurous with hidden bees. Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, for here No voices sound but fond and clear Of mouths as lorn as is the rose That under water doth disclose, Amid her crimson petals torn, A heart as golden as the morn; And here are tresses languorous As the weeds wander over us, And brows as holy and as bland As the honey-coloured sand Lying sun-entranced below The lazy water's limpid flow: Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

THE PROPHETIC BARD'S ORATION

(From 'A Faun's Holiday')

'Be warned! I feel the world grow old, And off Olympus fades the gold Of the simple passionate sun; And the Gods wither one by one: Proud-eyed Apollo's bow is broken, And throned Zeus nods nor may be woken But by the song of spirits seven Quiring in the midnight heaven Of a new world no more forlorn, Sith unto it a Babe is born, That in a propped, thatched stable lies, While with darkling, reverent eyes Dusky Emperors, coifed in gold, Kneel mid the rushy mire, and hold Caskets of rubies, urns of myrrh, Whose fumes enwrap the thurifer And coil toward the high dim rafters Where, with lutes and warbling laughters, Clustered cherubs of rainbow feather, Fanning the fragrant air together, Flit in jubilant holy glee, And make heavenly minstrelsy To the Child their Sun, whose glow Bathes them His cloudlets from below.... Long shall this chimed accord be heard, Yet all earth hushed at His first word: Then shall be seen Apollo's car Blaze headlong like a banished star; And the Queen of heavenly Loves Dragged downward by her dying doves; Vulcan, spun on a wheel, shall track The circle of the zodiac; Silver Artemis be lost, To the polar blizzards tossed; Heaven shall curdle as with blood; The sun be swallowed in the flood; The universe be silent save For the low drone of winds that lave The shadowed great world's ashen sides As through the rustling void she glides. Then shall there be a whisper heard Of the Grave's Secret and its Word, Where in black silence none shall cry Save those who, dead-affrighted, spy How from the murmurous graveyards creep The figures of eternal sleep. Last: when 'tis light men shall behold, Beyond the crags, a flower of gold Blossoming in a golden haze, And, while they guess Zeus' halls now blaze, Shall in the blossom's heart descry The saints of a new hierarchy!'

He ceased ... and in the morning sky Zeus' anger threatened murmurously. I sped away. The lightning's sword Stabbed on the forest. But the word Abides with me. I feel its power Most darkly in the twilit hour, When Night's eternal shadow, cast Over earth hushed and pale and vast, Darkly foretells the soundless Night In which this orb, so green, so bright, Now spins, and which shall compass her When on her rondure nought shall stir But snow-whorls which the wind shall roll From the Equator to the Pole ...

For everlastingly there is Something Beyond, Behind: I wis All Gods are haunted, and there clings, As hound behind fled sheep, the things Beyond the Universe's ken: Gods haunt the Half-Gods, Half-Gods men, And Man the brute. Gods, born of Night, Feel a blacker appetite Gape to devour them; Half-Gods dread But jealous Gods; and mere men tread Warily lest a Half-God rise And loose on them from empty skies Amazement, thunder, stark affright, Famine and sudden War's thick night, In which loud Furies hunt the Pities Through smoke above wrecked, flaming cities.

For Pan, the Unknown God, rules all. He shall outlive the funeral, Change, and decay, of many Gods, Until he, too, lets fall his rods Of viewless power upon that minute When Universe cowers at Infinite!

THE TOWER

It was deep night, and over Jerusalem's low roofs The moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs. The moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet, Over dome and column, up empty, endless street; In the closed, scented gardens the rose loosed from the stem Her white showery petals; none regarded them; The starry thicket breathed odours to the sentinel palm; Silence possessed the city like a soul possessed by calm.

Not a spark in the warren under the giant night, Save where in a turret's lantern beamed a grave, still light: There in the topmost chamber a gold-eyed lamp was lit-- Marvellous lamp in darkness, informing, redeeming it! For, set in that tiny chamber, Jesus, the blessed and doomed, Spoke to the lone apostles as light to men en-tombed; And spreading his hands in blessing, as one soon to be dead, He put soft enchantment into spare wine and bread.

The hearts of the disciples were broken and full of tears, Because their lord, the spearless, was hedgéd about with spears; And in his face the sickness of departure had spread a gloom, At leaving his young friends friendless. They could not forget the tomb. He smiled subduedly, telling, in tones soft as voice of the dove, The endlessness of sorrow, the eternal solace of love; And lifting the earthly tokens, wine and sorrowful bread, He bade them sup and remember one who lived and was dead. And they could not restrain their weeping. But one rose up to depart, Having weakness and hate of weakness raging within his heart, And bowed to the robed assembly whose eyes gleamed wet in the light. Judas arose and departed: night went out to the night.

Then Jesus lifted his voice like a fountain in an ocean of tears, And comforted his disciples and calmed and allayed their fears. But Judas wound down the turret, creeping from floor to floor, And would fly; but one leaning, weeping, barred him beside the door. And he knew her by her ruddy garment and two yet-watching men: Mary of Seven Evils, Mary Magdalen. And he was frighted at her. She sighed: 'I dreamed him dead. We sell the body for silver....' Then Judas cried out and fled Forth into the night!... The moon had begun to set: A drear, deft wind went sifting, setting the dust afret; Into the heart of the city Judas ran on and prayed To stern Jehovah lest his deed make him afraid.

But in the tiny lantern, hanging as if on air, The disciples sat unspeaking. Amaze and peace were there. For _his_ voice, more lovely than song of all earthly birds, In accents humble and happy spoke slow, consoling words.

Thus Jesus discoursed, and was silent, sitting up-right, and soon Past the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon; And, rising for Olivet, all stared, between love and dread, Seeing the torrid moon a ruddy halo behind his head.

* * * * *

HAROLD MONRO

TWO POEMS

(Numbers I and X in 'Strange Meetings')

I

If suddenly a clod of earth should rise, And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love, How one would tremble, and in what surprise Gasp: 'Can _you_ move?'

I see men walking, and I always feel: 'Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?' I can't learn how to know men, or conceal How strange they are to me.

II

A flower is looking through the ground, Blinking at the April weather; Now a child has seen the flower: Now they go and play together.

Now it seems the flower will speak, And will call the child its brother-- But, oh strange forgetfulness!-- They don't recognize each other.

EVERY THING

Since man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), He has not understood the little cries And foreign conversations of the small Delightful creatures that have followed him Not far behind; Has failed to hear the sympathetic call Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind Reposeful Teraphim Of his domestic happiness; the Stool He sat on, or the Door he entered through: He has not thanked them, overbearing fool! What is he coming to?

But you should listen to the talk of these. Honest they are, and patient they have kept, Served him without his 'Thank you' or his 'Please'. I often heard The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, Murmuring, before I slept. The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud, Then bowed, And in a smoky argument Into the darkness went.

The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:-- 'Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know Why; and he always says I boil too slow. He never calls me "Sukie, dear," and oh, I wonder why I squander my desire Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire.'

Now the old Copper Basin suddenly Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, Bumping and crying: 'I can fall by myself; Without a woman's hand To patronize and coax and flatter me, I understand The lean and poise of gravitable land.' It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, Twisted itself convulsively about, Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare, It stares and grins at me.

The old impetuous Gas above my head Begins irascibly to flare and fret, Wheezing into its epileptic jet, Reminding me I ought to go to bed.

The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot. Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again. The Putty cracks against the window-pane. A piece of Paper in the basket shoves Another piece, and toward the bottom moves. My independent Pencil, while I write, Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock Stirs all its body and begins to rock, Warning the waiting presence of the Night, Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain Ticking of ordinary work again.

You do well to remind me, and I praise Your strangely individual foreign ways. You call me from myself to recognize Companionship in your unselfish eyes.

I want your dear acquaintances, although I pass you arrogantly over, throw Your lovely sounds, and squander them along My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.

Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat. You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat, Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak, Your touch grow kindlier from week to week. It well becomes our mutual happiness To go toward the same end more or less. There is not much dissimilarity, Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine, Between the purposes of you and me, And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.

SOLITUDE

When you have tidied all things for the night, And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, You'll pause a moment in the late firelight, Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood In sympathetic silence all the day With that old kindness of domestic wood; Nevertheless the haunted room will say: 'Some one must be away.'

The little dog rolls over half awake, Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you, Wags his tail very slightly for your sake, That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door.

Silence is scattered like a broken glass. The minutes prick their ears and run about, Then one by one subside again and pass Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear. Solitude walks one heavy step more near.

WEEK-END

I

The train! The twelve o'clock for paradise. Hurry, or it will try to creep away. Out in the country every one is wise: We can be only wise on Saturday. There you are waiting, little friendly house: Those are your chimney-stacks with you between, Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows, Staring through all your windows at the green. Your homely floor is creaking for our tread; The smiling tea-pot with contented spout Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread Longs for the butter. All their hands are out To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem Purring and crooning: 'Lie in us, and dream.'

II

The key will stammer, and the door reply, The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair Will grumble at our feet, the table cry: 'Fetch my belongings for me; I am bare.' A clatter! Something in the attic falls. A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled. The loitering shadows move along the walls; Then silence very slowly lifts his head. The starling with impatient screech has flown The chimney, and is watching from the tree. They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone Stops in the middle of the floor to see. Now all you idle things, resume your toil. Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil.

III

Contented evening; comfortable joys; The snoozing fire, and all the fields are still: Tranquil delight, no purpose, and no noise-- Unless the slow wind flowing round the hill. 'Murry' (the kettle) dozes; little mouse Is rambling prudently about the floor. There's lovely conversation in this house: Words become princes that were slaves before. What a sweet atmosphere for you and me The people that have been here left behind.... Oh, but I fear it may turn out to be Built of a dream, erected in the mind: So if we speak too loud, we may awaken To find it vanished, and ourselves mistaken.

IV

Lift up the curtain carefully. All the trees Stand in the dark like drowsy sentinels. The oak is talkative to-night; he tells The little bushes crowding at his knees That formidable, hard, voluminous History of growth from acorn into age. They titter like school-children; they arouse Their comrades, who exclaim: 'He is very sage.' Look how the moon is staring through that cloud, Laying and lifting idle streaks of light. O hark! was that the monstrous wind, so loud And sudden, prowling always through the night? Let down the shaking curtain. They are queer, Those foreigners. They and we live so near.

V

Come, come to bed. The shadows move about, And some one seems to overhear our talk. The fire is low; the candles flicker out; The ghosts of former tenants want to walk. Already they are shuffling through the gloom. I felt an old man touch my shoulder-blade; Once he was married here; they love this room, He and his woman and the child they made. Dead, dead, they are, yet some familiar sound, Creeping along the brink of happy life, Revives their memory from under ground-- The farmer and his troublesome old wife. Let us be going: as we climb the stairs, They'll sit down in our warm half-empty chairs.

VI

Morning! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs Are rippling on the air across the green. The youngest birds are singing to the house. Blood of the world!--and is the country clean? Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout. Sing as you trundle down to light the fire. Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out. And fill the chambers with a new desire. Life is no good, unless the morning brings White happiness and quick delight of day. These half-inanimate domestic things Must all be useful, or must go away. Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate, Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate.

VII

The fresh air moves like water round a boat. The white clouds wander. Let us wander too. The whining, wavering plover flap and float. That crow is flying after that cuckoo. Look! Look!... They're gone. What are the great trees calling? Just come a little farther, by that edge Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge. Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand. Lie down and press your heart against the ground. Let us both listen till we understand, Each through the other, every natural sound.... I can't hear anything to-day, can you, But, far and near: 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'?

VIII

The everlasting grass--how bright, how cool! The day has gone too suddenly, too soon. There's something white and shiny in that pool-- Throw in a stone, and you will hit the moon. Listen, the church-bell ringing! Do not say We must go back to-morrow to our work. We'll tell them we are dead: we died to-day. We're lazy. We're too happy. We will shirk. We're cows. We're kettles. We'll be anything Except the manikins of time and fear. We'll start away to-morrow wandering, And nobody will notice in a year.... Now the great sun is slipping under ground. Grip firmly!--How the earth is whirling round!

IX

Be staid; be careful; and be not too free. Temptation to enjoy your liberty May rise against you, break into a crime, And smash the habit of employing Time. It serves no purpose that the careful clock Mark the appointment, the officious train Hurry to keep it, if the minutes mock Loud in your ear: 'Late. Late. Late. Late again.' Week-end is very well on Saturday: On Monday it's a different affair-- A little episode, a trivial stay In some oblivious spot somehow, somewhere. On Sunday night we hardly laugh or speak: Week-end begins to merge itself in Week.

X

Pack up the house, and close the creaking door. The fields are dull this morning in the rain. It's difficult to leave that homely floor. Wave a light hand; we will return again. (What was that bird?) Good-bye, ecstatic tree, Floating, bursting, and breathing on the air. The lonely farm is wondering that we Can leave. How every window seems to stare! That bag is heavy. Share it for a bit. You like that gentle swashing of the ground As we tread?... It is over. Now we sit Reading the morning paper in the sound Of the debilitating heavy train. London again, again. London again.

THE BIRD AT DAWN

What I saw was just one eye In the dawn as I was going: A bird can carry all the sky In that little button glowing.

Never in my life I went So deep into the firmament.

He was standing on a tree, All in blossom overflowing; And he purposely looked hard at me, At first, as if to question merrily: 'Where are you going?' But next some far more serious thing to say: I could not answer, could not look away.

Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye: Little mirror of all sky!-- And then the after-song another tree Held, and sent radiating back on me.

If no man had invented human word, And a bird-song had been The only way to utter what we mean, What would we men have heard, What understood, what seen, Between the trills and pauses, in between The singing and the silence of a bird?

* * * * *

JOHN MASEFIELD

SEVEN POEMS

[POEM NO.] I

Here in the self is all that man can know Of Beauty, all the wonder, all the power, All the unearthly colour, all the glow, Here in the self which withers like a flower; Here in the self which fades as hours pass, And droops and dies and rots and is forgotten Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass In which it sees its glory still unrotten. Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind, Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone, Beauty herself, the universal mind, Eternal April wandering alone; The God, the holy Ghost, the atoning Lord, Here in the flesh, the never yet explored.

[POEM NO.] II

What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt Held in cohesion by unresting cells Which work they know not why, which never halt, Myself unwitting where their master dwells. I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin; A world which uses me as I use them, Nor do I know which end or which begin, Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn. So, like a marvel in a marvel set, I answer to the vast, as wave by wave The sea of air goes over, dry or wet, Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave, Or the great sun comes north, this myriad I Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.

[POEM NO.] III

If I could get within this changing I, This ever altering thing which yet persists, Keeping the features it is reckoned by, While each component atom breaks or twists; If, wandering past strange groups of shifting forms, Cells at their hidden marvels hard at work, Pale from much toil, or red from sudden storms, I might attain to where the Rulers lurk; If, pressing past the guards in those grey gates, The brain's most folded, intertwisted shell, I might attain to that which alters fates, The King, the supreme self, the Master Cell; Then, on Man's earthly peak, I might behold The unearthly self beyond, unguessed, untold.

[POEM NO.] IV

Ah, we are neither heaven nor earth, but men; Something that uses and despises both, That takes its earth's contentment in the pen, Then sees the world's injustice and is wroth, And flinging off youth's happy promise, flies Up to some breach, despising earthly things, And, in contempt of hell and heaven, dies Rather than bear some yoke of priests or kings. Our joys are not of heaven nor earth, but man's, A woman's beauty, or a child's delight, The trembling blood when the discoverer scans The sought-for world, the guessed-at satellite; The ringing scene, the stone at point to blush For unborn men to look at and say 'Hush.'

[POEM NO.] V

Roses are beauty, but I never see Those blood drops from the burning heart of June Glowing like thought upon the living tree Without a pity that they die so soon, Die into petals, like those roses old, Those women, who were summer in men's hearts Before the smile upon the Sphinx was cold Or sand had hid the Syrian and his arts. O myriad dust of beauty that lies thick Under our feet that not a single grain But stirred and moved in beauty and was quick For one brief moon and died nor lived again; But when the moon rose lay upon the grass Pasture to living beauty, life that was.

[POEM NO.] VI

I went into the fields, but you were there Waiting for me, so all the summer flowers Were only glimpses of your starry powers; Beautiful and inspired dust they were.

I went down by the waters, and a bird Sang with your voice in all the unknown tones Of all that self of you I have not heard, So that my being felt you to the bones.

I went into the house, and shut the door To be alone, but you were there with me; All beauty in a little room may be, Though the roof lean and muddy be the floor.

Then in my bed I bound my tired eyes To make a darkness for my weary brain; But like a presence you were there again, Being and real, beautiful and wise,

So that I could not sleep, and cried aloud, 'You strange grave thing, what is it you would say?' The redness of your dear lips dimmed to grey, The waters ebbed, the moon hid in a cloud.

[POEM NO.] VII