Part 1
OXFORD POETRY
1918
NEW YORK AGENTS: LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET
OXFORD POETRY
1918
EDITED BY
T. W. E., E. F. A. G., AND D. L. S.
OXFORD B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET 1918
CONTENTS
PAGE
ANON (NON-COLL.) BY PROXY 1
BASIL BLACKWELL (MERTON) AT THE PAUPER ASYLUM 2
C. BURCHARDT (MAGDALEN) COMPLAINT 3
M. ST. CLARE BYRNE (SOMERVILLE) “AND ONE FELL BY THE WAYSIDE...” 4
J. E. A. CARVER (MAGDALEN) EVENING 5
E. P. CHASE (MAGDALEN) ON A BIRTHDAY 6
WILFRED CHILDE (MAGDALEN) SEA FAIRY 7 AGE GOTHIQUE DORÉ 8 ROSA INNOCENS 9
GERALD H. CROW (HERTFORD) TRENCH VISION 10 MADHOUSE GARDEN 11
G. D. DESMOND (SOMERVILLE) HOME-COMING 12 AGE 13
E. C. DICKINSON (NON-COLL.) A TAVERN LILT 14
T. W. EARP (EXETER) OUR LADY OF LIGHT 16
E. F. A. GEACH (HOME STUDENT) ROMANCE 18 RETROSPECT 18
E. F. A. GEACH (HOME STUDENT) AND D. E. A. WALLACE (SOMERVILLE) BALLADE OF LADIES WHO DIED FOR LOVE 19
K. GIBBERD (ST. HILDA’S HALL) WHEN I AM OLD 20
RUSSELL GREEN (QUEEN’S) FAITH 21 HILLS 22
REGINALD HARRIS (C.C.C.) SONG 23 FRAGMENT FROM THE “LAMENT FOR BION” 24
MERCY HARVEY (ST. HILDA’S HALL) SONG 25
H. C. HARWOOD (BALLIOL) INCOMPATIBILITY 26 DEDICATION OF AN UNWRITTEN MASTERPIECE TO A WOMAN AS YET UNKNOWN 27
LUISA HEWITT (HOME STUDENT) “YOU LIT YOUR CIGARETTE FROM MINE” 28 AVE ATQUE VALE 29
R. M. HEWITT (KEBLE) ITER PERSICUM 30 GAUDIUM IN CŒLO 31
E. E. ST. L. HILL (KEBLE) PARTING 32
ALDOUS HUXLEY (BALLIOL) TWO SONGS 33 SONG OF POPLARS 34
C. R. JURY (MAGDALEN) A SONNET TO A FRIEND 35 AN EPITAPH 35
MARGARET LEIGH (SOMERVILLE) TWO EPITAPHS 36 SONNET: THE JOURNALIST 37
E. H. W. MEYERSTEIN (MAGDALEN) THE INCANTATION 38
ROBERT NICHOLS (TRINITY) CLOSING LINES FROM “POLYPHEMUS HIS PASSION” 41
L. RICE-OXLEY (KEBLE) THE OPENING OF THE GRAVE OF ARTHUR AND GUINEVERE AT GLASTONBURY 45
DOROTHY L. SAYERS (SOMERVILLE) PYGMALION 46
HELEN SIMPSON (HOME STUDENT) THE HEAD OF THE TABLE 49 AEROPLANE, JUNE 6TH 50
L. A. G. STRONG (WADHAM) RUFUS PRAYS 51 IN THE GARDEN 52
SHERARD VINES (NEW COLLEGE) PERMISSION 53 SUMMER 54
D. E. A. WALLACE (SOMERVILLE) RIVER-POOLS 55 LIFE AND I 56
_ANON_
(_NON-COLL._)
BY PROXY
You will not lure me with your charms Or win me back again Because you held me in your arms And I forgot my pain.
’Twas not for you my spirit yearned That night of fierce desire; The flame in which we met and burned Drew from an alien fire.
I shall not win my lady’s grace, Her eyes are still and cold; I may not find a resting-place Before my life grows old.
One thought alone rejoicing stirs And shall, when all is done-- That in your arms my soul met hers And we became as one.
_BASIL BLACKWELL_
(_MERTON_)
AT THE PAUPER ASYLUM
With naked turf-plots three by six in symmetric precision spread You see, between its walls of red, the graveyard of the lunatics.
No cenotaph or obelisk holds memory in graven speech; Sole epitaph accorded each a number on a painted disk.
In nameless uniformity, with few to know and none to weep, While space allows, their freehold keep the men that God has made awry.
And these within their straitened fold, who nothing owned, were owned of none, Possess of all beneath the Sun what God and man could not withhold.
So close they lie, a skeleton might give his rotting friend a nudge And say, “If you or I were judge, we should not moulder here alone.
“Lest we might harm our fellow-men, they prisoned us, and now exhaust, To speed a cosmic holocaust, the blood and gold they grudged us then.
“The world had seen less misery with us for prince and presbyter, Who sometimes knew the fools we were, and in our folly could not lie.
“But happier we who lived in scorn, and dying, passed from human thought Than they whose sophistry has bought the curses of a race unborn.”
_C. BURCHARDT_
(_MAGDALEN_)
COMPLAINT
My love has left me. Let my heart forget The happy days and moments of our past That in the future I shall not regret The worship of a love that could not last.
Make me remember there are things apart From dreamy love and visionary truth And teach me to forget how once my heart Did love with all the tenderness of youth.
Yes, teach me to forget--and how to live Without the joy of hope. For I have seen How every single pleasure life can give Must needs sow seeds of misery between.
No more of love. Since at such heavy cost It must be bought and even then be lost.
_M. ST. CLARE BYRNE_
(_SOMERVILLE_)
“AND ONE FELL BY THE WAYSIDE ...”
Scholar, and man of letters, and daintily nurtured, You were one with your peers, Leaving the half-told story, Throwing away the dear things of this life-time-- All you found was the steady, silent effort, Only the toilsome moulding, the shaping the weapon, None of the keen sword-glory.
Not for you the crown and the consummation, Not the battle-death, sharp, swift, and kindly; Only the early plodding on, half blindly, Only seeing the end by the faith of the spirit, Only the hardest of all, the preparation, All the heart-breaking spadework, Formulas, initiation; Only the snows of December ...
Under the snow the quiet brown land lies sleeping, Waiting the breath of Spring-- God will remember.
_J. E. A. CARVER_
(_MAGDALEN_)
EVENING
The children play, and the old folk talk In the silent village square, While the wagons jolt, and the belfry’s note Comes floating through the air.
The white owl hoots from his lofty seat; In the fields the rabbits play; The weazel squeaks, and the red fox sneaks From his lair at close of day.
The final signs of departing day Burst out in its changing hues, While the stars pearl out in the azure sky, And silent fall the dews.
_E. P. CHASE_
(_MAGDALEN_)
ON A BIRTHDAY
Am I a man at last? I feared to think Not long ago, that I could ever be Older than twenty-one. Eternity Is not more vast if one lean o’er its brink Than are the cool sane draughts of years we drink After the brilliance and the ecstasy Of a decisive year. Majority We hail; past commoner birthdays we slink.
We love all action that is glorious It matters little whether, in our aim We seem to fail or are victorious. But in the lesser things and lesser hours We must--how can we?--spend our treasured powers For duties that can never bring us fame.
_WILFRED CHILDE_
(_MAGDALEN_)
SEA FAIRY
All day long the waves wander and the winds cry, And there are blue stones sparkling by the shores; But with evening there cometh a silence over the void sky And the sea is hushed along her coral corridors.
Then the mer-girls fall asleep, their singing is over, Their golden limbs lie stretched along the sands; And wearily nods the Sun like a giant lover, In a blood-red bath of dreams, with lilies in his hands.
On white wings screaming come the elvish gulls But lo! where a glint of turquoise divides the cliffs, Where the Halcyon Birds whom the rest of the world thinks fools Are crossing the Ocean becalmed on their amorous skiffs.
AGE GOTHIQUE DORÉ
TO G. C.
King Richard in his garden walks royal, His mantle green being wrought with scarlet flowers, His hand holding a coloured book of hours. His coat all gold, gilden his feet withal.
King Richard walks in his garden by Thames-side, Hearing the bells of high Westminster ring, And the sound of the chaunt of the monks echoing, Singing each in his stall to God Crucified.
Golden the sun descends beyond Thames-water, Golden flash out London steeples and spires, Their vanes burn and turn in the day’s last fires.
About the King the flowers of the garden fade, And in star-light he walks on, yet lonelier, His heart being filled with the peace of the Mother Maid.
ROSA INNOCENS
O young fresh rose, O tender rose, O rose so young, so newly born, Whose petals fair do now unclose To the radiant kisses of the air, And the shell-soft lips of the morn, To the heavens holy and bare! Lovely, young, fresh rose, Frail-framed and lapped in dew, O born like a virgin anew After a time of bale and scorn, Storm-wind shattering the boughs Of the tall trees turn by turn: But thou art still abiding Amid the slender veins of thy house, Like an immaculate lady, Very beautiful and causing the eyes of the beholders To weep strange tears of joy!
_GERALD H. CROW_
(_HERTFORD_)
TRENCH VISION
A great bee pottered round the room And gossipped like a child to itself, Investigating bloom by bloom The lilac on the window-shelf.
Outside among the garden beds The wind went like a laughing boy, And caught the poppies by the heads, And chased the honey-bees for joy.
The slanting patch of sunlight crept Along the floor, across the wall, And I was there and laughed and wept, And laughed again to see it all.
MADHOUSE GARDEN
Aloof he heareth yet the vulgar urge And throng his realm, and groweth glad of bars. It is a gentle kingly thaumaturge Hath made a net of little silver stars, And snared contentment, that great golden carp, The moon contentment, that shall never die, And charmeth him upon a tender harp, And hath him in a net of lazuli. Thus I shall hear you crying presently, And shall look forth with questioning dream-dimmed eyes Upon your turmoil and perplexity, Out of whatever hell or paradise The maker of nets is come to, bye and bye; And shall not understand or sympathize.
_G. D. DESMOND_
(_SOMERVILLE_)
HOME-COMING
I come back to my garment of hills Now my soul is laid bare. For I gave him my lips and my limbs And my hands, and long hair-- I gave him all things that were mine, This my garment of clay. So have need of my garment of hills, To hide me away--
O high hills, O loved hills, O hills That are healing and strength, I have grown to your measure at last, I can wear you at length.
I have loved, so my soul is upgrown, Adult in its nakedness And I, as the naked, cry.
* * * * *
And the wild, kind hills are my dress.
AGE
I think that I am old. Silent I am with sorrow At the beauteous sky that holds the new morrow. I think that I am old. The lark sings words to me, Who erst sung but Music. And in the ancient sea, I can see old colours that I have seen elsewhere.... Purple orchids hurt me: and everything that’s fair-- Buttercups and distance and smoke, and people’s bodies. O, I cannot get away from the places where my God is. Laughter is a thing to strain and angle for, My heart is quick and shrinking and pains me at its core. I am older, older, than the Earth--O, I am old. If I should be older, colder, than the stars, far off and cold?... Once I danced and sang and capered on the grass At the cool close of day, when shadows creep and pass. When shadows link, and lengthen, and slowly become--nought. Light flies, and shadow dies without its sustenance. And stars shine out most silently, like jewels quietly wrought. Not even then I ceased, nor paused upon my dance. Now, I am struck and smitten with beauty’s poignancy. Now, I am hurt with wonder, closed in from ecstasy. No ecstasy is mine. I cannot get away. Every way I turn--myself. By night, by day, My face, my soul, my body, the people that I know-- Ah, no more free fashioning of worlds that gleam and go.
* * * * *
I have grown to be my own world, my world with heart and pain And he that has found himself can be never lost again. And he that is quite awake cannot dream his dreams again.
_E. C. DICKINSON_
(_NON.-COLL._)
A TAVERN LILT
TO W. W.
I do not know more wonderful respite Than to sit within the Inns of swinkèd lords With a mate upon the left hand and the right And tankards of good ale upon the boards.
My lads, the World for us when we’re in yoke-- To Hell and through to Heaven twice a day; While Lancashire’s a splendid land for folk Who’d woo a lass or taste a knuckled fray.
And when we’re free, with Freedom’s cap fast on, How shall we bend new lives to jollity? What songs our Will and Tom would you have won Making the home-thatch rich for you and me?
Our Will, you’re young--the lathe you scorn to turn-- And sorrow life is not all Wigan Fair; While I’d seek luck beside a gipsy’s burn With a brace of whippets for a rabbits snare.
And you, Tom, you--what would you draw for prize? A quickened pulse for the lass within your arms-- With her to walk i’ the lanes at the moon’s rise, By the downland’s edge and over the sleeping farms.
My mates, you’re English and o’ the very best-- With no mean thought i’ the length or breadth o’ you: Not Galahads, but yet to stand confessed With finest hearts as ever heroes knew.
Because o’ simple, wide, and proudest worth As English soil may give to English rule. My head is bared before your richened birth, My hand grips yours in cider-time and Yule!
And so again--more wonderful respite I know not in the Inns of swinkèd lords, With you upon my left hand and my right And plenty of good ale upon the boards!
A health, a health, my lads, for very joy! With such as you beside for love and life We can with ease Dame Sorrowful destroy; E’en toast the maid who will not be my wife!
_T. W. EARP_
(_EXETER_)
OUR LADY OF LIGHT
On those eternal peaks of thought, Where her bright crystal towers shine, The many precious treasures brought Seem its clear walls to incarnadine.
For all the varied colours heaped There mingle in one general flush, As through that lovely place there leaped The rose-leaf burnish of a blush.
The golden arrowheads of wit, The laughters of refinèd sense, Diamond of sorrows infinite, Calm, open looks of innocence,
And rubies, lovers’ burning hearts-- With these she decks her diadem, Transmuting, by her learnèd arts, Each to its own peculiar gem.
The jostling, crowded jewels show In sparkling piles where colours dance, And with angelic rosy glow The ramparts of her palace glance.
And there she busied is, alone, To make of beauty beauties fresh, Or, seated queenly on her throne, Weaves fate into a glittering mesh.
For every soul she gazes through And sees its deepest-hid desires, As though we were but drops of dew, Transparent, lit by alien fires.
This one she chooses; it is clear And burns with an intenser flame; But that, for a long age’s year, Leaves to the darkness whence it came.
While time itself grows weary, she Still solitary sits to weave, Until that last eternity When all are taken, none to leave.
Then in her magic tissue hapt, The new-clothed, fragrant earth shall run In visionary radiance wrapped, A dazzling sister to the sun, And so Our Lady’s work be done.
_E. F. A. GEACH_
(_HOME STUDENT_)
ROMANCE
“_J’étais comme un autre Jason allant à la conquête de la toison d’or_.” (MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN).
Round the next corner and in the next street Adventure lies in wait for you. Oh, who can tell what you may meet Round the next corner and in the next street! Could life be anything but sweet When all is hazardous and new Round the next corner and in the next street? Adventure lies in wait for you.
RETROSPECT
Now I have fallen out of love A year or two, I hold review Of all the things I used to do, Turning with fingers rational The closed leaves of my passional. And I am quite amazed, by Jove! Wholly incredulous I smile-- So hard it is to reconcile With this, my mere immediate me The other self I used to be You with the you that once was you-- Now I have fallen out of love A year or two.
_E. F. A. GEACH_ (_HOME STUDENT_)
_D. E. A. WALLACE_ (_SOMERVILLE_)
BALLADE OF LADIES WHO DIED FOR LOVE
Ladies, why did ye all in vain Seek death to end your misery? Why did ye not forget your pain In new loves and new ecstasy? Ophelia racked with phantasy, And Sigismunda, sick with rue-- Ladies, why did ye choose to die When all the world was made for you?
Wild Phœdra by thy passion slain, Œnone, nymph of Thessaly, Dido and lily-white Elaine, O Queen who died for Antony, Sappho and all thy poesy, Juliet to thy dead love true-- Ladies, why did ye choose to die When all the world was made for you?
Fair Margaret distraught and fain Beside thy phantom love to lie, And Isabella who didst wane Over thy pot of porphyry, Aude and Isolde, tell me why, Your lovers direly stricken thro’, You chose by those same swords to die, When all the world was made for you?
ENVOY:
Love’s happiness had passed you by, But there were other things to do. Ladies, why did ye choose to die, When all the world was made for you?
_K. GIBBERD_
(_ST. HILDA’S HALL_)
WHEN I AM OLD
I often think that when I’m old and grey, Mechanically living through each day, That when like all the rest I’ve found my groove With little room for heart or mind to move, But just enough to eat and work and dress; And keep a failing temper more or less-- In tired sleep I’ll sometimes creep away Back down the years to some old Oxford way.
And on this daisied lawn again I’ll lie, And listen while the river folk go by; And through the trees I’ll sometimes see the flash Of punters’ poles and hear the rhythmic splash Of oars; and over there again I’ll see The petalled path beneath the cherry-tree, And love the hawthorn scent, the cuckoo’s cry, And Magdalen chiming while the spring runs by.
And you’ll be there, dear phantom friend, and you, And you familiar faces that I knew So well; and toward the ending of the day We’ll sit and talk--the old accustomed way, Till in the mutual calm we’ll see unfurled The immeasurable vastness of the world And I shall dream of all that I will do With Life--and so will you, and you and you.
_RUSSELL GREEN_
(_QUEEN’S_)
FAITH
When a foam of snow is hurled Under the bare black trees, And rain is on the seas, And winter on the world, Yet, when I think of her, I know where summer is.
When friends to-day forget Ardours of yesterday, And to-morrow turn away As if we never met, Yet, when I think of her, I know where constancy is.
HILLS
As I go inland Lo! my heart drooping As a bird’s in the grove when the shadow falls swooping Of the hawk’s wing down from a cloudless sky.
For the hills creep together, Murmuring, conspiring; Solitude, poverty, sorrow desiring For men that are born to dream and to die.
A prison land-locked, A grave for the living, And the ancient warders unsleeping, unforgiving, Cordon after cordon, massing behind me. I am in peril. I have left the sea.
_REGINALD HARRIS_
(_C. C. C._)
SONG
“_My heart was blithe at morning._”
My heart was blithe at morning, For he was by my side, And through the woods together We wandered far and wide.
My heart was gay at noon-tide Together on the lea We lay, and heard the murm’ring Of many a busy bee.
My heart was sad at even, For in the cold stars’ wake, I laid him in the dark, dark grave And, oh, my heart would break!
FRAGMENT FROM THE “LAMENT FOR BION,” OF MOSCHUS
Raise high, Sicilian Muses, Raise high the mournful cry, The mallows in the woodlands Whene’er they fade and die, And the dill, and the green parsley, When they grow wan and sere, Live on again, though dead a while, And flower another year.
But we, the great, the noble men, The mighty, and the wise, Whene’er our term of life is past, And our frail body dies, Lie down for ever, evermore Beneath earth’s hollow deep, And undisturbed for ever Lie low in death’s long sleep.
_MERCY HARVEY_
(_ST. HILDA’S HALL_)
SONG
Oh! who hath seen Twilight the solemn-eyed? When the earth with a weary sigh Turns unto her, as a widowed bride, With the light all gone from the sky. She walketh in solitariness, Where still, shadowy waters gleam, But her grey eyes are none the less As if full of a troubled dream.
_H. C. HARWOOD_
(_BALLIOL_)
INCOMPATIBILITY