Chapter 12
Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow
Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,
They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light,
Out of the garden higher, higher ... But in that instant they shall learn The shattering fury of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn
And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know--poor fools, they'll know!-- One moment, what it is to love.
THE SOLDIER[21]
If I should die, think only this of me; That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[20] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[21] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
_Winifred M. Letts_
Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in her immediate surroundings. Her _Songs from Leinster_ (1913) is her most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure and in her quaint portrayal of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books for children, a later volume of _Poems of the War_ and, during the conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals.
GRANDEUR
Poor Mary Byrne is dead, An' all the world may see Where she lies upon her bed Just as fine as quality.
She lies there still and white, With candles either hand That'll guard her through the night: Sure she never was so grand.
She holds her rosary, Her hands clasped on her breast. Just as dacint as can be In the habit she's been dressed.
In life her hands were red With every sort of toil, But they're white now she is dead, An' they've sorra mark of soil.
The neighbours come and go, They kneel to say a prayer, I wish herself could know Of the way she's lyin' there.
It was work from morn till night, And hard she earned her bread: But I'm thinking she's a right To be aisy now she's dead.
When other girls were gay, At wedding or at fair, She'd be toiling all the day, Not a minyit could she spare.
An' no one missed her face, Or sought her in a crowd, But to-day they throng the place Just to see her in her shroud.
The creature in her life Drew trouble with each breath; She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"-- But she's lovely in her death.
I wish the dead could see The splendour of a wake, For it's proud herself would be Of the keening that they make.
Och! little Mary Byrne, You welcome every guest, Is it now you take your turn To be merry with the rest?
I'm thinking you'd be glad, Though the angels make your bed, Could you see the care we've had To respect you--now you're dead.
THE SPIRES OF OXFORD
I saw the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The grey spires of Oxford Against the pearl-grey sky. My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die.
The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary Colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded war They put their games away.
They left the peaceful river, The cricket-field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford, To seek a bloody sod-- They gave their merry youth away For country and for God.
God rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town.
_Francis Brett Young_
Francis Brett Young, who is a novelist as well as a poet, and who has been called, by _The Manchester Guardian_, "one of the promising evangelists of contemporary poetry," has written much that is both graceful and grave. There is music and a message in his lines that seem to have as their motto: "Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man." Best known as a writer of prose, his most prominent works are _Marching on Tanga_ and _The Crescent Moon_.
Brett Young's _Five Degrees South_ (1917) and his _Poems 1916-18_ (1919) contain the best of his verse.
LOCHANILAUN
This is the image of my last content: My soul shall be a little lonely lake, So hidden that no shadow of man may break The folding of its mountain battlement; Only the beautiful and innocent Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake Of churned cloud in a howling wind's descent. For there shall be no terror in the night When stars that I have loved are born in me, And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair; But this shall be the end of my delight:-- That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see Your image in the mirrored beauty there.
_F. S. Flint_
Known chiefly as an authority on modern French poetry, F. S. Flint has published several volumes of original imagist poems, besides having translated works of Verhaeren and Jean de Bosschere.
LONDON
London, my beautiful, it is not the sunset nor the pale green sky shimmering through the curtain of the silver birch, nor the quietness; it is not the hopping of birds upon the lawn, nor the darkness stealing over all things that moves me.
But as the moon creeps slowly over the tree-tops among the stars, I think of her and the glow her passing sheds on men.
London, my beautiful, I will climb into the branches to the moonlit tree-tops, that my blood may be cooled by the wind.
_Edith Sitwell_
Edith Sitwell was born at Scarborough, in Yorkshire, and is the sister of the poets, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell. In 1914 she came to London and has devoted herself to literature ever since, having edited the various anthologies of _Wheels_ since 1916. Her first book, _The Mother and Other Poems_ (1915), contains some of her best work, although _Clowns' Houses_ (1918) reveals a more piquant idiom and a sharper turn of mind.
THE WEB OF EROS
Within your magic web of hair, lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world; The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair; The songs that turned to gold the evening air When all the stars of heaven sang for joy. The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy. The maenad fire of spring on the cold earth; The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth To the soul Phoenix; and the star-bright shower That came to Danae in her brazen tower.... Within your magic web of hair lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world.
INTERLUDE
Amid this hot green glowing gloom A word falls with a raindrop's boom....
Like baskets of ripe fruit in air The bird-songs seem, suspended where
Those goldfinches--the ripe warm lights Peck slyly at them--take quick flights.
My feet are feathered like a bird Among the shadows scarcely heard;
I bring you branches green with dew And fruits that you may crown anew
Your whirring waspish-gilded hair Amid this cornucopia--
Until your warm lips bear the stains And bird-blood leap within your veins.
_F. W. Harvey_
Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was in the German prison camp at Guetersloh when he wrote _The Bugler_, one of the isolated great poems written during the war. Much of his other verse is haphazard and journalistic, although _Gloucestershire Friends_ contains several lines that glow with the colors of poetry.
THE BUGLER
God dreamed a man; Then, having firmly shut Life like a precious metal in his fist Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin Our various divinity and sin. For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, And others--dreaming empires--straightway cut Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most Did with it--simply nothing. (Here again Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.
For me, I do but bear within my hand (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken) A simple bugle such as may awaken With one high morning note a drowsing man: That wheresoe'er within my motherland That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.
_T. P. Cameron Wilson_
"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several articles under the pseudonym _Tipuca_, a euphonic combination of the first three initials of his name.
When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead, Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23, 1918, at the age of 29.
SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE
They left the fury of the fight, And they were very tired. The gates of Heaven were open quite, Unguarded and unwired. There was no sound of any gun, The land was still and green; Wide hills lay silent in the sun, Blue valleys slept between.
They saw far-off a little wood Stand up against the sky. Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood; Some lazy cows went by ... There were some rooks sailed overhead, And once a church-bell pealed. "_God! but it's England_," someone said, "_And there's a cricket-field!_"
_W. J. Turner_
W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known until his appearance in _Georgian Poetry 1916-17_, has written no few delicate and fanciful poems. _The Hunter_ (1916) and _The Dark Wind_ (1918) both contain many verses as moving and musical as his splendid lines on "Death," a poem which is unfortunately too long to quote.
ROMANCE
When I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Took me by the hand.
My father died, my brother too, They passed like fleeting dreams, I stood where Popocatapetl In the sunlight gleams.
I dimly heard the master's voice And boys far-off at play,-- Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had stolen me away.
I walked in a great golden dream To and fro from school-- Shining Popocatapetl The dusty streets did rule.
I walked home with a gold dark boy And never a word I'd say, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had taken my speech away.
I gazed entranced upon his face Fairer than any flower-- O shining Popocatapetl It was thy magic hour:
The houses, people, traffic seemed Thin fading dreams by day; Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, They had stolen my soul away!
_Patrick MacGill_
Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the son of poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12 and 19, he worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and navvy, becoming one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers" who cross each summer from Ireland to Scotland to help gather in the crops. Out of his bitter experiences and the evils of modern industrial life, he wrote several vivid novels (_The Rat Pit_ is an unforgettable document) and the tragedy-crammed _Songs of the Dead End_. He joined the editorial staff of _The Daily Express_ in 1911; was in the British army during the war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote his _Soldier Songs_ during the conflict.
BY-THE-WAY
These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, which I've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch, On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.
Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go, Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so, For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!
Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies, Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies, Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.
Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes, Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times, Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.
These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute, Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put, Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.
DEATH AND THE FAIRIES
Before I joined the Army I lived in Donegal, Where every night the Fairies Would hold their carnival.
But now I'm out in Flanders, Where men like wheat-ears fall, And it's Death and not the Fairies Who is holding carnival.
_Francis Ledwidge_
Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland, in 1891. His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at various times, a miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger, an experimenter in hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He served as a lance-corporal on the Flanders front and was killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26 years.
Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are full of color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.
AN EVENING IN ENGLAND
From its blue vase the rose of evening drops; Upon the streams its petals float away. The hills all blue with distance hide their tops In the dim silence falling on the grey. A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom; A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.
Night tells her rosary of stars full soon, They drop from out her dark hand to her knees. Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease From all her changes which have stirred the seas. Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil. I and a marsh bird only make a wail.
EVENING CLOUDS
A little flock of clouds go down to rest In some blue corner off the moon's highway, With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array, Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made A little England full of lovely noons, Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.
Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22] Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed, What he loved most; for late I roamed a while Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed; And they remember him with beauty caught From old desires of Oriental Spring Heard in his heart with singing overwrought; And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page 194.)
_Irene Rutherford McLeod_
Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918). The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Selincourt, to whom she was married in 1919.
"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"
Is love, then, so simple my dear? The opening of a door, And seeing all things clear? I did not know before.
I had thought it unrest and desire Soaring only to fall, Annihilation and fire: It is not so at all.
I feel no desperate will, But I think I understand Many things, as I sit quite still, With Eternity in my hand.
LONE DOG
I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.
I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.
Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!
_Richard Aldington_
Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover College and London University. His first poems were published in England in 1909; _Images Old and New_ appeared in 1915. Aldington and "H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington's _War and Love_ (1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic but warmer and more humanly searching.
PRELUDE
How could I love you more? I would give up Even that beauty I have loved too well That I might love you better.
Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give-- I can but give you of my flesh and strength, I can but give you these few passing days And passionate words that, since our speech began, All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.
I try to think of some one lovely gift No lover yet in all the world has found; I think: If the cold sombre gods Were hot with love as I am Could they not endow you with a star And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs? Could they not give you all things that I lack?
You should have loved a god; I am but dust. Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.
IMAGES
I
Like a gondola of green scented fruits Drifting along the dank canals of Venice, You, O exquisite one, Have entered into my desolate city.
II
The blue smoke leaps Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing. So my love leaps forth toward you, Vanishes and is renewed.
III
A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky When the sunset is faint vermilion In the mist among the tree-boughs Art thou to me, my beloved.
IV
A young beech tree on the edge of the forest Stands still in the evening, Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air And seems to fear the stars-- So are you still and so tremble.
V
The red deer are high on the mountain, They are beyond the last pine trees. And my desires have run with them.
VI
The flower which the wind has shaken Is soon filled again with rain; So does my heart fill slowly with tears, O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards, Until you return.
AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM
I turn the page and read: "I dream of silent verses where the rhyme Glides noiseless as an oar." The heavy musty air, the black desks, The bent heads and the rustling noises In the great dome Vanish ... And The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky, The boat drifts over the lake shallows, The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds, The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns, And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....
_Edward Shanks_
Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse and _belles lettres_ for several years for various English publications, and is at present assistant editor of _The London Mercury_. His _The Queen of China and Other Poems_ appeared late in 1919.
COMPLAINT
When in the mines of dark and silent thought Sometimes I delve and find strange fancies there, With heavy labour to the surface brought That lie and mock me in the brighter air, Poor ores from starved lodes of poverty, Unfit for working or to be refined, That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye, I turn away from that base cave, the mind. Yet had I but the power to crush the stone There are strange metals hid in flakes therein, Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone, That only cunning, toilsome chemists win. All this I know, and yet my chemistry Fails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.
_Osbert Sitwell_
Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of Sir George Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated at Eton and became an officer in the Grenadier Guards, with whom he served in France for various periods from 1914 to 1917.
His first contributions appeared in _Wheels_ (an annual anthology of a few of the younger radical writers, edited by his sister) and disclosed an ironic and strongly individual touch. That impression is strengthened by a reading of _Argonaut and Juggernaut_ (1920), where Sitwell's cleverness and satire are fused. His most remarkable though his least brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional poetry has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.
THE BLIND PEDLAR
I stand alone through each long day Upon these pavers; cannot see The wares spread out upon this tray --For God has taken sight from me!
Many a time I've cursed the night When I was born. My peering eyes Have sought for but one ray of light To pierce the darkness. When the skies
Rain down their first sweet April showers On budding branches; when the morn Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers, I've cursed the night when I was born.
But now I thank God, and am glad For what I cannot see this day --The young men cripples, old, and sad, With faces burnt and torn away;
Or those who, growing rich and old, Have battened on the slaughter, Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold, Are creased in purple laughter!
PROGRESS
The city's heat is like a leaden pall-- Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, Of silver bodies bathing in a pool; Or trees that whisper in some far, small town Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold Was merely metal, not a grave of mould In which men bury all that's fine and fair. When they could chase the jewelled butterfly Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh For all the future held so rich and rare; When, though they knew it not, their baby cries Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.
_Robert Nichols_