Part 1
OXFORD POETRY
1919
_Uniform with this Volume_
OXFORD POETRY, 1914 (_Out of Print_) OXFORD POETRY, 1915 OXFORD POETRY, 1916 OXFORD POETRY, 1917 OXFORD POETRY, 1918
OXFORD POETRY 1919
EDITED BY T. W. E., D. L. S., and S. S.
OXFORD B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET 1920
The following authors wish to make acknowledgment for permission kindly given to reprint: Mr. E. Dickinson, to the editor of _Coterie_; Mr. P. H. B. Lyon, to the editor of the _Spectator_ ("The Song of Strength"); Mr. W. Force Stead, to the editor of the _Poetry Review_.
CONTENTS
H. M. ANDREWS (NEW COLLEGE) PAGE
SONG 1
T. H. W. ARMSTRONG (KEBLE)
HERITAGE 2 WATCHING 3 LONELINESS 4
P. BLOOMFIELD (BALLIOL)
TWILIGHT 5
VERA M. BRITTAIN (SOMERVILLE)
TO A V.C. 6
H. I. BURT (BALLIOL)
FROM THEIR DUST 7
F. W. BUTLER-THWING (NEW COLLEGE)
THE TRAMP-SHIP 8 PILOT AND CLOUDS 9
E. P. CHASE (MAGDALEN)
SEVEN MISTS 10
"I AM CLOTHED WITH FURTIVE LIGHT" 10
W. R. CHILDE (MAGDALEN)
LES HALLUCINÉS 11
E. A. C. CLARKE (KEBLE)
FLOWERS 12
L. M. COOPER (LADY MARGARET HALL)
LINES FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERODOTUS 13 CRUSOE WAS A VAGABOND 14
ERIC DICKINSON (EXETER)
THE GARDEN 16
B. EDWARDS (LADY MARGARET HALL)
THE MAN WHO HAS FORGOTTEN TIME 18 IN A CANOE (OXFORD) 19
RALPH W. W. FOX (MAGDALEN)
LOVE WEEPING AMONG THE CROSSES 20 ON HEARING THAT THE NAMES CARVED UPON AN OLD SCHOOL TABLE ARE TO BE REMOVED 22 THE ENVIOUS POETS 23
J. B. S. HALDANE (NEW COLLEGE)
COMPLAINT OF THE BLASPHEMOUS BOMBERS AT BEIT AIESSA 24
C. R. S. HARRIS (CORPUS)
SONNET 25
B. HIGGINS (B.N.C.)
GALLIPOLI: AN EPITAPH 26 EVENTIDE 27
H. J. HOPE (CHRIST CHURCH)
THE PATROL 28 THE MONK'S FANCY 29 AN ALPINE PICTURE 30
G. H. JOHNSTONE (MERTON)
OXFORD IN MAY 31
C. H. B. KITCHIN (EXETER)
SOMME FILM, 1916 32 ESCHATOLOGICAL SONNET 33 EPILOGUE 34 RULER OF INFINITE AUSTERITY 35
JOHN LANGDON-DAVIES (ST. JOHN'S)
QUITS! 36
P. H. B. LYON (ORIEL)
THE SECRET PLAYROOM 37 THE SONG OF STRENGTH 39 THE DESERTED GARDEN 41
G. A. MOSTYN (BALLIOL)
LES MISERABLES 42
A. S. MOTT (MERTON)
UMBRA 43
K. MOUNSEY (HOME STUDENT)
TO A LITTLE HOUSE IN OXFORD 44
R. M. S. PASLEY (UNIVERSITY)
THE DIVER 45
V. DE S. PINTO (CHRIST CHURCH)
STATION 46 SWANS 47
H. S. REID (SOMERVILLE)
A DREAM 48
E. RENDALL (HOME STUDENT)
EPITAPH 49
D. L. SAYERS (SOMERVILLE)
FOR PHAON 50 SYMPATHY 51 VIALS FULL OF ODOURS 52
W. FORCE STEAD (QUEEN'S)
THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 53
L. A. G. STRONG (WADHAM)
AT PUNNET'S TOWN 55 DALLINGTON 56 EENA-MENA-MINA-MO 57
D. A. E. WALLACE (SOMERVILLE)
IMPROMPTU IN MARCH 59 IN NEW COLLEGE CLOISTERS 60 THE BEGGAR-MAIDEN 61
J. L. WING (MAGDALEN)
LOUIS ONZE 62
_H. M. ANDREWS_ (_NEW COLLEGE_)
SONG
I met a sage at the break of day, And he welcomed me with a smile; He spoke his words of encouragement And we parted after a while.
I met a fair lady when all was bright, And the sun was burning on high; She turned to me with her deep, dark eyes And sold herself for a lie.
I met a child when the world was dark And I was drear and alone; The child spoke naught, But the dark became light; The day of glory had come.
The barren ground shone with splendour high, Bare branches dripped with gold, And the earth was transformed to heaven, Just as the sage foretold.
_T. H. W. ARMSTRONG_ (_KEBLE_)
HERITAGE
Here in my glass is blood of kings, The life-blood of a race that lies Long dead. The jewels burning in your rings Are an Egyptian woman's eyes.
Your beads are dead bones; even my breath Breathes hot words that were others' pain. Now these fair things are ours awhile, till death Brings us to quiet sleep again.
Then we shall put our love aside For lovers of a later birth, And leave to them this body's fragrant pride, For jewels, in the heart of earth.
WATCHING
Midnight at last! And you, I know, Are sleeping there Peaceful. Stars keep Great guard upon you. Calm, and still, and white You are. One moment all your pale swift hair Is quiet as the night.
Here in this mud, this beastliness Of war, the thought Of your soft sleep Soothes a tired mind as a rare ointment may Comfort a wound, sweet-scented ointment brought From strange lands, far away.
LONELINESS
I watched the moon behind the trees Float in a sea of sky. The aspen whispers in the breeze, The rest is silence now. And I Can feel my loneliness around Me fall. No human face There is. None speaks. Never a sound Save whispering leaves in this still place.
I have two friends, and they are dead, Perhaps about their graves Are trees that whisper overhead, While in the grass the nettle waves.
_P. BLOOMFIELD_ (_BALLIOL_)
TWILIGHT
The day grows fainter, moonlit evening fills With calm and cool the lilac-scented land, And I feel--were I on the western hills, At last, at last, now might I understand These mysteries of Life; how things began, And why I love my darling as I do, And how came longing to the soul of Man, And whether Death must sever me from you. Ah, hush! A spirit moves abroad, whose veil The poets would give all the world to raise, But, failing, tell some wistful fairy-tale, And laugh, and weep, and go their several ways. The birds are sleeping: nay, I do not know What's in the twilight, makes my heart beat so!
_VERA M. BRITTAIN_
(_SOMERVILLE_)
TO A V.C.
Because your feet were stayed upon that road Whereon the others swiftly came and passed, Because the harvest you and they had sowed You only reaped at last.
Tis not your valour's meed alone you bear Who stand the object of a nation's pride, For on that humble Cross you live to wear Your friends were crucified.
They shared with you the conquest over fear, Sublime self-disregard, decision's power, But Death, relentless, left you lonely here In recognition's hour.
Their sign is yours to carry to the end; The lost reward of gallant hearts as true As yours they called their leader and their friend Is worn for them by you.
_H. T. BURT_ (_BALLIOL_)
FROM THEIR DUST
Not in their immortality alone Live those bright spirits who for honour spent Their rich inheritance of years, and went Gay-heartedly to meet the wide unknown.
Not though the fields where their young limbs were strown Once more be chartered by the foeman's tent, And all the achieving of their tournament Be scattered to the winds or overthrown.
For from their memory and quickening dust Shall spring the flashing squadrons of the dawn; And they shall set their spears and ride afar To seek and battle, thrust and counterthrust, For grails from our beclouded eyes withdrawn, The champion warriors of a holier war.
ERRATUM.
_For_ H. I. Burt _read_ H. T. Burt, to whom also should be attributed "Pilot and Clouds" (page 9).
_F. W. BUTLER-THWING_ (_NEW COLLEGE_)
THE TRAMP-SHIP
Sailing over summer seas, Seeking ports of rest, Dancing with the dancing breeze, Host and guest.
Calmed beside the setting sun, Lifeless on the deep, Waiting till the halt be done And the sleep.
Driving 'gainst the sullen storm, Striking hard the foe, Gallant heart and gallant form Breast the snow.
Homeward, homeward in the years, All thy pennons fly; Bravely onward, smiles and tears, Home to die.
_July, 1911._
PILOT AND CLOUDS
Clouds, little clouds, tell me whither are you going to, Spun by the sun of the shearing of the sea? "Thither we are bound, where the West Wind is blowing to, Off on a holiday, merrymakers we."
Clouds, merry clouds, will you wait till I may fly to you, Share in the frolic of your gay company? "Nay, for the West Wind bids us say good-bye to you, Save if your chariot be speedier than he."
Swift are my steeds: at the thunderous career of them The high, lone silences that cradle you will flee. "Think you our hilarity will tremble at the fear of them, We who laugh in thunder and lighten in our glee?"
Then will I fly to you, dance with you, play with you, Hover on your breast where the shadow cannot be. "Hurry, brother, hurry, for we may not delay with you, Off on a holiday, merrymakers we."
_E. P. CHASE_ (_MAGDALEN_)
SEVEN MISTS
The beauty of the High is not in brilliance Nor in a florid sculpturing of stone, Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones, But the wide curve and placid flow,--and that St. Mary's spire and seven twilight mists Are hanging over Oxford towers to-night.
I am clothed with furtive light Reflected from that pallid sun When it sets, hardly bright, Behind Merton tower, daylight done.
When the moon, silver-hued, Through Cowley generated mist Tears its way and glimmers nude Above Magdalen tower, it keeps tryst
With that spirit of my soul Which would glide through Oxford streets, Still, unseen, without control, With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.
_W. R. CHILDE_ (_MAGDALEN_)
LES HALLUCINÉS
This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, As they stand at their booth-doors when brazen eve Covers the city of Chrysopolis Like the vast cup of an inverted flower, And into the pale blue cope of marble twilight Steal up men's souls like incense strange and pure.
"This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, To you, O seraphs, where you lean your breasts Upon the perfumed clouds of sunsetting, And your huge wings, enormous, like a swan's, Alone cover with silver plumes of fire Your long sides, strange as pictures in Toledo--
"O seraphs, with your melting eyes like girls', And rosy breasts embosomed in the eve, Vouchsafe to us a little rain of coins, Of golden sequins tumbling through our sleep; Give us of heavenly gold, we have none earthly, And stab our souls with seeds of sworded fire."-- _This_ is the singing of the sons of Hâli.
_E. A. C. CLARKE_ (_KEBLE_)
FLOWERS
Shining, never-thirsty flowers, That by the water-side Do never plaintive cry for showers To damp their local pride.
Lazy they wag their lovely heads, Nodding that way and this, Lithe bodies upon mossy beds With lips bedewed that kiss.
The kindly and generous stream That gently ripples by, An idle, silvery dream, Where sleeping fishes lie.
These delicate flowers of Mary Lie long and overgrown, While Martha's parched and weary Stand in the sun and groan
_L. M. COOPER_ (_LADY MARGARET HALL_)
LINES FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERODOTUS
No lover and no kinsmen pass To honour the deep-buried dead. The roads are covered up with grass That burned beneath th' Immortals' tread. No tramp of armed foe is heard, Nor bowstrings' twang, nor arrows' hiss, Nor sound to scare the nesting bird On rocky Salamis.
Yet runs the Royal Road to-day, From Sardis up to Suza town, And still above the Rhamnian Way The heights of Marathon look down: Still from the blue, Ægean wave The sea-wind sweeps with keen salt breath The hills that saw the Spartan brave Comb their long hair for death.
CRUSOE WAS A VAGABOND
Wise men pray for hearth and home, a comely wife to tend them, And dread to feed the little folks that clamber on their knee; Their fathers' fields to plough and sow--their old friends to befriend them, But Crusoe was a vagabond, and ran away to sea.
He strayed upon the docks of Hull, and smelt the tar and cordage, He saw the bales of foreign ware piled high upon the quay, He heard the seamen singing, and the outbound ship-bells ringing Across the fog and darkness;--and he ran away to sea.
He might have dwelt by barn and dyke our fathers made before us, And dipped his fat sheep yearly in the burn that turns the mill; He might have heard the harvest home go up in lusty chorus, When the last wain comes lumbering across the moonlit hill.
But he heard the loud surf thundering against the harbour wall, The brown be-earringed sailor-men all swearing on the quay; The salt was in his nostrils, and he cared no more at all For barn or byre or cattle; but he ran away to sea.
The boys he knew are grey, old men, and soon their sons shall lay them To rest beside the little church upon the spur of hill: The distant hum of chant and prayers, the feet of them that pray them, The sunlight and the blackbirds' song shall be about them still.
But he's a homeless wanderer from Rio Grande to Malabar, And God knows who shall stand by him, or what his end shall be. The wheeling gulls shall cry his dirge, the great waves drum his burial, When his poor old battered body slips into the greedy sea.
_ERIC DICKINSON_ (_EXETER_)
THE GARDEN
Blessed with the green of rains, charged sweet with scent of May, The garden paths caressed her as she walked with slow foot-fall; Slight was her frame, but took no pressure of decay, And age had found age beautiful as when youth gave youth all. Far over dreamy meadows bells toll the dying sun, And a quiet is on her spirit for the tender drooping balm Of the evening filled with perfume the spring has swiftly won, And the rising moon that greets her in the garden of her calm.
The ebony stick has brought her by the phlox and marigold, And a dream of one is with her who loved this place the best of all, Who was straight and clean of stature as Bayard was of old-- Who when the drummers beat the fields obeyed the drummers' call. His letters breathed a brighter hope than any she had heard, Nor any hint he gave to her that for his fairest youth Death leapt and chattered daily, and daily was deterred From staying all the transient joys that chased across his mouth.
The mother thrilled with sense of beauty infinite: For here it was the lithe, strong arms had pressed her to his breast, And his proud mouth had sealed on hers the proudest right That lovely tenderness may plan in gardens of the West. And so the moon grew white to silver all the lawns, While the garden wicket grows more white because a shadow near Has come to steal the wakened joy of any further dawns. The hand upon the wicket trembles, the vision is not clear
Of the one woman in the garden who is so quiet and still. At last the shadow enters and knows a form has sudden fled, And now is lonely weeping upon a haunted hill-- For with it entered a company of France's hidden dead. At the sound of feet she turns, while her heart has made such stir That makes her grip her stick more close and head grow more erect: She sees a priest's worn cassock, and priests are sore to her, For as a child she knew they moved where life's best ships were wrecked.
"Madame, your son is dead," said he, with lowered glance: "But he bade them say the lilies yet are strong within the gale, He died a hero's death for honour and for France!" Then the mother faced and fixed his eyes, but the cheeks were drawn and pale. "I thank you for these words, for I see God spared him speech Before he died, and there are mothers for whom no words atone For speech of those they love, and whom no tidings reach. I thank you. And now leave me, for I would be alone."
And there she sits so quiet in the light of the young moon, While the flowers are dead, and the fruits are dead along with the young life That someone sped to the depth of the last dim lagoon. But only the priest in the fields of youth hears the requiem guns of strife. And he knows that strife goes on and on, for ever on and on, While the harps of the world shall play no more, nor any more shall bring The maids and youths to laughter until that the end be won, And the eyes of men grow young again, and the heart of the world can sing.
_B. EDWARDS_ (_LADY MARGARET HALL_)
THE MAN WHO HAS FORGOTTEN TIME
The ancient man who has forgotten time Walks seldom in the hurried city street, Where is the man who has forgotten time? For we so seldom meet--
Only sometimes on mornings after rain, When feathers from the passing wings of night Linger in wide sky spaces after rain, I see the strangest sight--
The houses by the river melt away, And there are paths between the silent trees, And all the city's uproar melts away Into the hum of bees.
And by the water walks an ancient man, Who watches how the swift-tailed squirrels climb, And him I know to be the ancient man Who has forgotten time.
I often meet him pacing on the hills, Or near flat marshy wastes where no one goes, But very seldom will he leave the hills Or sea-cliffs that he knows.
And so I meet him rarely in the town, But I can always tell his face again, And sometimes I have seen him in the town At daybreak after rain.
IN A CANOE (OXFORD)
So many things you thought you knew Are different seen from a canoe: On either bank the grass is far Higher than other grasses are, And all the willows make a roof Fretted with branches--not aloof Like trees in gardens and in squares Which never hit you unawares.
_RALPH W. W. FOX_ (_MAGDALEN_)
LOVE WEEPING AMONG THE CROSSES
Cupid has broken his bow, His arrows are shattered and lost. Oh, look at him, look at him now, His pinions trailing the dust!
The beautiful boy is sad, The glory has left his glance, You would say he had never been glad, That his limbs did not know how to dance. Oh, look at him, look at him now, Hugging his broken bow, Forlornly he wanders about Dreaming forgotten things... Nobody heeds him now, Nobody hears if he sings.
Once at his wanton play Everyone railed and laughed, But nobody laughs to-day For love is so far away.
Beautiful sorrowing child, Hugging your broken bow, Your eyes grow suddenly wild, Anguish is twisting your face... So changed from the Cupid's we know, The Cupid of dimples and grace. Cupid is down on his knees, Down in the midst of the crosses; His glorious, childish head Is bowed on his lovely arms... But the young of the world are dead And heedless of Cupid's charms. Oh, look at him, look at him now, The delicate shoulders shake. Hugging his broken bow Cupid is weeping now. Cupid is weeping as though His wonderful heart would break.
ON HEARING THAT THE NAMES CARVED UPON AN OLD SCHOOL TABLE ARE TO BE REMOVED
Gaze long upon this length of lifeless deal, Carved with rude cipher or with ill-cut name. Here youthful hands have wrought to set their seal Of immortality. No idle fame For those too-soon-forgotten names they sought, Only that others, seeing them, might say, These too were young and here have something brought Of youth's high heart, ere going each his way.
These names, that thus have sung the joyous song Of youth's endeavour, now must fade and die 'Neath the cold malice that doth e'er belong To small minds wielding blind authority. So youth by age is ever vanquishèd And beauty smirched and soiled when youth is dead.
THE ENVIOUS POETS
You say we are happy, being poets, In our poor songs and tawdry tales. I tell you it is not true. There are those we envy above the gods, And they are the painters and carvers. With bright colour and cunning line They have the power to conjure up before them Great visions of all the loveliness they have known. A tree, the sea at night, A friend, The dear face of their belovèd, All these they can make live before them In colour, in marble. But what satisfaction do you think there is In a black printed word? I tell you we envy the painters and carvers.
_J. B. S. HALDANE_ (_NEW COLLEGE_)
COMPLAINT OF THE BLASPHEMOUS BOMBERS AT BEIT AIESSA
It was not our hand or our fathers' hand, Nor mortal malice and the hate of men, That drew us to this far disastrous land Where the old primal night comes on again. Thy hand, O God of battles, and Thy voice Drew friend and foe into one net of hell, Wherefore Thine angels glory and rejoice, Thine enemies shall perish. It is well.
We who had hoped in vain that for a season We might hold back Thy darkness from mankind, We who had trusted and obeyed our reason, We now are helpless and amazed and blind. Thou hast grudged the rich his little hours of pleasure, The little things of life that he held dear, The worker his fireside and evening leisure: Thou hast Thy will. One doom has drawn us here.
Therefore from this unhallowed desolation, Where these, the victims of Thy monstrous lust, Half-buried in the mud of their damnation, Crumble--how slowly!--into loathsome dust, We curse Thee, God, nor shall our sons and daughters Fall at Thy footstool as their fathers fell, But, tired of tears and loyalties and slaughters, Lie down in peace and laugh at heaven and hell.
_C. R. S. HARRIS_ (_CORPUS_)
SONNET
"Cum tacet omnis ager."--VIRGIL.
Oh for the stillness of the midnight hours, When all the earth is silent, and the breeze Rustles no more the branches of the trees, And makes no music in the leafy bowers, When Nature sleeps, and all earth's myriad flowers Folded in slumber take their dewy ease, And hushed is all the moaning of the seas, Lulled by the magic of enchanting powers. For then the green earth sleeps, and for a while Forgets her sorrow, and her heaving breast Is sunk in a deep calm and liquid rest. And the still waters of the silver sea, Bathed in the glory of the moon's cold smile, Reflect the splendour of eternity.
_B. HIGGINS_ (_B. N. C._)
GALLIPOLI: AN EPITAPH
The moan of centuries breaks around these shores, Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....
A land that bows beneath the crescent moon And shrinks within its glinting gaze--is this The mausoleum of our nation's dead? Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand! Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hills Are touched with sanctity: the Voice of God Thrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fields And lingers where these warriors lie entombed-- 'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies, Where sleep they in a hush of eventide, The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!
MELBOURNE, 1917.