Chapter 2

She visits Serenely down the busy stream the Boot-maker. Miss Thompson floated in a dream. Now, hovering bee-like, she would stop Entranced before some tempting shop, Getting in people's way and prying At things she never thought of buying: Now wafted on without an aim, Until in course of time she came To Watson's bootshop. Long she pries At boots and shoes of every size-- Brown football-boots with bar and stud For boys that scuffle in the mud, And dancing-pumps with pointed toes Glossy as jet, and dull black bows; Slim ladies' shoes with two-inch heel And sprinkled beads of gold and steel-- 'How anyone can wear such things!' On either side the doorway springs (As in a tropic jungle loom Masses of strange thick-petalled bloom And fruits mis-shapen) fold on fold A growth of sand-shoes rubber-soled, Clambering the door-posts, branching, spawning Their barbarous bunches like an awning Over the windows and the doors. But, framed among the other stores, Something has caught Miss Thompson's eye (O worldliness! O vanity!), A pair of slippers--scarlet plush. Miss Thompson feels a conscious blush Suffuse her face, as though her thought Had ventured further than it ought.

But O that colour's rapturous singing And the answer in her lone heart ringing! She turns (O Guardian Angels, stop her From doing anything improper!) She turns; and see, she stoops and bungles In through the sand-shoes' hanging jungles, Away from light and common sense, Into the shop dim-lit and dense With smells of polish and tanned hide.

Mrs. Watson. Soon from a dark recess inside Fat Mrs. Watson comes slip-slop To mind the business of the shop. She walks flat-footed with a roll-- A serviceable, homely soul, With kindly, ugly face like dough, Hair dull and colourless as tow. A huge Scotch pebble fills the space Between her bosom and her face. One sees her making beds all day. Miss Thompson lets her say her say: 'So chilly for the time of year. It's ages since we saw you here.' Then, heart a-flutter, speech precise, Describes the shoes and asks the price. 'Them, Miss? Ah, them is six-and-nine.' Miss Thompson shudders down the spine (Dream of impossible romance). She eyes them with a wistful glance, Torn between good and evil. Yes,

Wrestles with For half-a-minute and no less a Temptation; Miss Thompson strives with seven devils, Then, soaring over earthly levels,

And is Saved. Turns from the shoes with lingering touch-- 'Ah, six-and-nine is far too much. Sorry to trouble you. Good day!'

She visits A little further down the way the Fish-monger. Stands Miles's fish-shop, whence is shed So strong a smell of fishes dead That people of a subtler sense Hold their breath and hurry thence. Miss Thompson hovers there and gazes: Her housewife's knowing eye appraises Salt and fresh, severely cons Kippers bright as tarnished bronze: Great cods disposed upon the sill, Chilly and wet, with gaping gill, Flat head, glazed eye, and mute, uncouth, Shapeless, wan, old-woman's mouth. Next a row of soles and plaice With querulous and twisted face, And red-eyed bloaters, golden-grey; Smoked haddocks ranked in neat array; A group of smelts that take the light Like slips of rainbow, pearly bright; Silver trout with rosy spots, And coral shrimps with keen black dots For eyes, and hard and jointed sheath And crisp tails curving underneath. But there upon the sanded floor, More wonderful in all that store Than anything on slab or shelf, Stood Miles, the fishmonger, himself.

Mr. Miles. Four-square he stood and filled the place. His huge hands and his jolly face Were red. He had a mouth to quaff Pint after pint: a sounding laugh, But wheezy at the end, and oft His eyes bulged outwards and he coughed. Aproned he stood from chin to toe. The apron's vertical long flow Warped grandly outwards to display His hale, round belly hung midway, Whose apex was securely bound With apron-strings wrapped round and round. Outside, Miss Thompson, small and staid, Felt, as she always felt, afraid Of this huge man who laughed so loud And drew the notice of the crowd. Awhile she paused in timid thought, Then promptly hurried in and bought 'Two kippers, please. Yes, lovely weather.' 'Two kippers? Sixpence altogether:' And in her basket laid the pair Wrapped face to face in newspaper.

Relapses into Then on she went, as one half blind, Temptation: For things were stirring in her mind; Then turned about with fixed intent And, heading for the bootshop, went

And Falls. Straight in and bought the scarlet slippers And popped them in beside the kippers.

She visits So much for that. From there she tacked, the Chemist, Still flushed by this decisive act, Westward, and came without a stop To Mr. Wren the chemist's shop, And stood awhile outside to see The tall, big-bellied bottles three-- Red, blue, and emerald, richly bright Each with its burning core of light. The bell chimed as she pushed the door. Spotless the oilcloth on the floor, Limpid as water each glass case, Each thing precisely in its place. Rows of small drawers, black-lettered each With curious words of foreign speech, Ranked high above the other ware. The old strange fragrance filled the air, A fragrance like the garden pink, But tinged with vague medicinal stink Of camphor, soap, new sponges, blent With chloroform and violet scent.

Mr. Wren. And Wren the chemist, tall and spare, Stood gaunt behind his counter there. Quiet and very wise he seemed, With skull-like face, bald head that gleamed; Through spectacles his eyes looked kind. He wore a pencil tucked behind His ear. And never he mistakes The wildest signs the doctor makes Prescribing drugs. Brown paper, string, He will not use for any thing, But all in neat white parcels packs And sticks them up with sealing-wax. Miss Thompson bowed and blushed, and then Undoubting bought of Mr. Wren, Being free from modern scepticism, A bottle for her rheumatism; Also some peppermints to take In case of wind; an oval cake Of scented soap; a penny square Of pungent naphthaline to scare The moth. And after Wren had wrapped And sealed the lot, Miss Thompson clapped Them in beside the fish and shoes; 'Good day,' she says, and off she goes.

Is Led away Beelike Miss Thompson, whither next? to the Pleasure Outside, you pause awhile, perplext, of the Town, Your bearings lost. Then all comes back

Such as Groceries And round she wheels, hot on the track and Millinery, Of Giles the grocer, and from there To Emilie the milliner, There to be tempted by the sight Of hats and blouses fiercely bright. (O guard Miss Thompson, Powers that Be, From Crudeness and Vulgarity.)

And other Still on from shop to shop she goes Allurements With sharp bird's-eye, enquiring nose, Prying and peering, entering some, Oblivious of the thought of home. The town brimmed up with deep-blue haze, But still she stayed to flit and gaze, Her eyes ablur with rapturous sights, Her small soul full of small delights, Empty her purse, her basket filled.

But at length The traffic in the town was stilled. is Convinced The clock struck six. Men thronged the inns. of Indiscretion. Dear, dear, she should be home long since.

And Returns Then as she climbed the misty downs Home. The lamps were lighted in the town's Small streets. She saw them star by star Multiplying from afar; Till, mapped beneath her, she could trace Each street, and the wide square market-place Sunk deeper and deeper as she went Higher up the steep ascent. And all that soul-uplifting stir Step by step fell back from her, The glory gone, the blossoming Shrivelled, and she, a small, frail thing, Carrying her laden basket. Till Darkness and silence of the hill Received her in their restful care And stars came dropping through the air.

But loudly, sweetly sang the slippers In the basket with the kippers; And loud and sweet the answering thrills From her lone heart on the hills.

* * * * *

EDMUND BLUNDEN

THE POOR MAN'S PIG

Already fallen plum-bloom stars the green And apple-boughs as knarred as old toads' backs Wear their small roses ere a rose is seen; The building thrush watches old Job who stacks The bright-peeled osiers on the sunny fence, The pent sow grunts to hear him stumping by, And tries to push the bolt and scamper thence, But her ringed snout still keeps her to the sty.

Then out he lets her run; away she snorts In bundling gallop for the cottage door, With hungry hubbub begging crusts and orts, Then like the whirlwind bumping round once more; Nuzzling the dog, making the pullets run, And sulky as a child when her play's done.

ALMSWOMEN

At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends, And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends Of all the village, two old dames that cling As close as any trueloves in the spring. Long, long ago they passed threescore-and-ten, And in this doll's house lived together then; All things they have in common, being so poor, And their one fear, Death's shadow at the door. Each sundown makes them mournful, each sunrise Brings back the brightness in their failing eyes.

How happy go the rich fair-weather days When on the roadside folk stare in amaze At such a honeycomb of fruit and flowers As mellows round their threshold; what long hours They gloat upon their steepling hollyhocks, Bee's balsams, feathery southernwood, and stocks, Fiery dragon's-mouths, great mallow leaves For salves, and lemon-plants in bushy sheaves, Shagged Esau's-hands with five green finger-tips. Such old sweet names are ever on their lips. As pleased as little children where these grow In cobbled pattens and worn gowns they go, Proud of their wisdom when on gooseberry shoots They stuck eggshells to fright from coming fruits The brisk-billed rascals; pausing still to see Their neighbour owls saunter from tree to tree, Or in the hushing half-light mouse the lane Long-winged and lordly. But when those hours wane, Indoors they ponder, scared by the harsh storm Whose pelting saracens on the window swarm, And listen for the mail to clatter past And church clock's deep bay withering on the blast; They feed the fire that flings a freakish light On pictured kings and queens grotesquely bright, Platters and pitchers, faded calendars And graceful hour-glass trim with lavenders.

Many a time they kiss and cry, and pray That both be summoned in the self-same day, And wiseman linnet tinkling in his cage End too with them the friendship of old age, And all together leave their treasured room Some bell-like evening when the may's in bloom.

PERCH-FISHING

On the far hill the cloud of thunder grew And sunlight blurred below; but sultry blue Burned yet on the valley water where it hoards Behind the miller's elmen floodgate boards, And there the wasps, that lodge them ill-concealed In the vole's empty house, still drove afield To plunder touchwood from old crippled trees And build their young ones their hutched nurseries; Still creaked the grasshoppers' rasping unison Nor had the whisper through the tansies run Nor weather-wisest bird gone home. How then Should wry eels in the pebbled shallows ken Lightning coming? troubled up they stole To the deep-shadowed sullen water-hole, Among whose warty snags the quaint perch lair. As cunning stole the boy to angle there, Muffling least tread, with no noise balancing through The hangdog alder-boughs his bright bamboo. Down plumbed the shuttled ledger, and the quill On the quicksilver water lay dead still.

A sharp snatch, swirling to-fro of the line, He's lost, he's won, with splash and scuffling shine Past the low-lapping brandy-flowers drawn in, The ogling hunchback perch with needled fin. And there beside him one as large as he, Following his hooked mate, careless who shall see Or what befall him, close and closer yet-- The startled boy might take him in his net That folds the other. Slow, while on the clay, The other flounces, slow he sinks away.

What agony usurps that watery brain For comradeship of twenty summers slain, For such delights below the flashing weir And up the sluice-cut, playing buccaneer Among the minnows; lolling in hot sun When bathing vagabonds had drest and done; Rootling in salty flannel-weed for meal And river shrimps, when hushed the trundling wheel; Snapping the dapping moth, and with new wonder Prowling through old drowned barges falling asunder. And O a thousand things the whole year through They did together, never more to do.

THE GIANT PUFFBALL

From what sad star I know not, but I found Myself new-born below the coppice rail, No bigger than the dewdrops and as round, In a soft sward, no cattle might assail.

And so I gathered mightiness and grew With this one dream kindling in me, that I Should never cease from conquering light and dew Till my white splendour touched the trembling sky.

A century of blue and stilly light Bowed down before me, the dew came again, The moon my sibyl worshipped through the night, The sun returned and long abode; but then

Hoarse drooping darkness hung me with a shroud And switched at me with shrivelled leaves in scorn. Red morning stole beneath a grinning cloud, And suddenly clambering over dike and thorn

A half-moon host of churls with flags and sticks Hallooed and hurtled up the partridge brood, And Death clapped hands from all the echoing thicks, And trampling envy spied me where I stood;

Who haled me tired and quaking, hid me by, And came again after an age of cold, And hung me in the prison-house adry From the great crossbeam. Here defiled and old

I perish through unnumbered hours, I swoon, Hacked with harsh knives to staunch a child's torn hand; And all my hopes must with my body soon Be but as crouching dust and wind-blown sand.

THE CHILD'S GRAVE

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies On a morning in April, a rare sunny day; Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries That I sang for delight as I followed the way.

I sang for delight in the ripening of spring, For dandelions even were suns come to earth; Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing To wait on the season with melody's mirth.

Love-making birds were my mates all the road, And who would wish surer delight for the eye Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty?

And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown, With rich Easter roses each side of the door; The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.

This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around. Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.

Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride, And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave; It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side, And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.

He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so, And wished I would lead on the journey or home, As though not a moment of spring were to go In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come

And tell me her life, since we left her that day In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears; But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay; How strange that this clay should mingle with hers!

So I called my good dog, and went on my way; Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by, And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley, Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye!

APRIL BYEWAY

Friend whom I never saw, yet dearest friend, Be with me travelling on the byeway now In April's month and mood: our steps shall bend By the shut smithy with its penthouse brow Armed round with many a felly and crackt plough: And we will mark in his white smock the mill Standing aloof, long numbed to any wind, That in his crannies mourns, and craves him still; But now there is not any grain to grind, And even the master lies too deep for winds to find.

Grieve not at these: for there are mills amain With lusty sails that leap and drop away On further knolls, and lads to fetch the grain. The ash-spit wickets on the green betray New games begun and old ones put away. Let us fare on, dead friend, O deathless friend, Where under his old hat as green as moss The hedger chops and finds new gaps to mend, And on his bonfires burns the thorns and dross, And hums a hymn, the best, thinks he, that ever was.

There the grey guinea-fowl stands in the way, The young black heifer and the raw-ribbed mare, And scorn to move for tumbril or for dray, And feel themselves as good as farmers there. From the young corn the prick-eared leverets stare At strangers come to spy the land--small sirs, We bring less danger than the very breeze Who in great zig-zag blows the bee, and whirs In bluebell shadow down the bright green leas; From whom in frolic fit the chopt straw darts and flees.

The cornel steepling up in white shall know The two friends passing by, and poplar smile All gold within; the church-top fowl shall glow To lure us on, and we shall rest awhile Where the wild apple blooms above the stile; The yellow frog beneath blinks up half bold, Then scares himself into the deeper green. And thus spring was for you in days of old, And thus will be when I too walk unseen By one that thinks me friend, the best that there has been.

All our lone journey laughs for joy, the hours Like honey-bees go home in new-found light Past the cow pond amazed with twinkling flowers And antique chalk-pit newly delved to white, Or idle snow-plough nearly hid from sight. The blackbird sings us home, on a sudden peers The round tower hung with ivy's blackened chains, Then past the little green the byeway veers, The mill-sweeps torn, the forge with cobwebbed panes That have so many years looked out across the plains.

But the old forge and mill are shut and done, The tower is crumbling down, stone by stone falls; An ague doubt comes creeping in the sun, The sun himself shudders, the day appals, The concourse of a thousand tempests sprawls Over the blue-lipped lakes and maddening groves, Like agonies of gods the clouds are whirled, The stormwind like the demon huntsman roves-- Still stands my friend, though all's to chaos hurled, The unseen friend, the one last friend in all the world.

* * * * *

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

THE CAPTIVE LION

Thou that in fury with thy knotted tail Hast made this iron floor thy beaten drum; That now in silence walkst thy little space-- Like a sea-captain--careless what may come:

What power has brought thy majesty to this, Who gave those eyes their dull and sleepy look; Who took their lightning out, and from thy throat The thunder when the whole wide forest shook?

It was that man who went again, alone, Into thy forest dark--Lord, he was brave! That man a fly has killed, whose bones are left Unburied till an earthquake digs his grave.

A BIRD'S ANGER

A summer's morning that has but one voice; Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, lean Their heads together, in their quiet way, And but one bird sings, of a number seen.

It is the lark, that louder, louder sings, As though but this one thought possessed his mind: 'You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch, I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!'

And when I hear him at this daring task, 'Peace, little bird,' I say, 'and take some rest; Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song, Before it makes a coffin of your nest.'

THE VILLAIN

While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.

LOVE'S CAUTION

Tell them, when you are home again, How warm the air was now; How silent were the birds and leaves, And of the moon's full glow; And how we saw afar A falling star: It was a tear of pure delight Ran down the face of Heaven this happy night.