Part 2

EVENTIDE

A thrush throbs out his mournful melody, And shadowy fingers of approaching Dusk Clutch vaguely at the trees And shroud the purple hills:

And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir, Bedewing tearful kisses on the buds That freeze in filmy fold: The waters, icy-chill,

Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birds Stand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd, To join the woeful chant, The dirge of waning day.

GIPPSLAND HILLS, 1917.

_H. J. HOPE_ (_CHRIST CHURCH_)

THE PATROL

All night we prowled the stricken No Man's Land, And the high stars looked down dispassionate. I wondered if they could but understand That we poor grovelling things were fighters yet. Fighters, O God! Begrimed, intent to kill, But starting at all the secret noises near. We'd sent our hearts to sleep; but mind and will Fought the cold duel with children's night-born fear. The haunted silence quenched the stir of fight, The tainted wind no word of courage spoke. We turned at last: sudden the grass dew-white Smelt as it does at home: my heart awoke. God sent one bird to sing: the old sun came And lit the Eastern skies with orange flame.

THE MONK'S FANCY

The old monk down by the sea-beach listening, Thought that the waves were singing a song, And the wheeling gulls in the sea-spray glistening Wheeled with the music that bore them along.

Day after day by the sea-beach dreaming, The old monk heard what the sea-song told, And he set the tale in the great book gleaming With beautiful colours and letters of gold.

But one word only he set to flame there, And naught of the tale but that golden word, And sadly said all the men that came there That none could know what the old monk heard.

AN ALPINE PICTURE

The earth beneath this awful snow No feet have ever trod, These icy peaks could never know The smile of any God. And as I watch I know again Cruel tales I dare not tell, Of legions of forsaken men Who freeze in Dante's hell.

_G. H. JOHNSTONE_ (_MERTON_)

OXFORD IN MAY

When we have snapped the chain of tranquil youth, And run to revel in the loud World's Fair, And straddled on the painted roundabouts, Clapping our hands at clowns, and horns that blare;

O heart of mine, when it grows late, and all The noisy tents flap dully on the grey Shivers of evening, and the Showman locks The clamorous booths, and sends the crowd away;

When we have found how terrible is age, And how men piped for us to dance, and we Danced, till we caught them laughing through the tune, And turned away, sick at their mockery:

Then in the silent room, with the lamp lit, We shall remember the still summer nights, The gold moon rising over Magdalen Bridge, And how the curving High was gemmed with lights.

_C. H. B. KITCHIN_ (_EXETER_)

SOMME FILM, 1916

For you at least, sweet wanderers in the dark, There is no cause to cry from cypress-trees To a forgetful world; since you are seen Of all twice nightly at the cinema, While the munition-makers clap their hands.

ESCHATOLOGICAL SONNET

Before the final darkness, side by side We watched the huge red sun glow in the sky Malevolently dim, longing to die, As though his dull and sullen face would chide Slow-footed time that forced him to abide Unnumbered ages in death-agony, While at our feet the sea bore sluggishly The burden of a salt-encumbered tide. No word we spoke, but gazed with solemn eyes Where the last sunset slowly passed away And left the sky a sheet of endless grey, Seeing the world, God's careful sacrifice, The victim of an infinite decay, And thinking of the worm that never dies.

EPILOGUE

We are the silk which other limbs have worn, Those passive folds admired and kept with care, Till fashion changes, and, no longer rare, The garment is dishonoured, swept with scorn Into the massive wardrobe of the night, Where neither hands shall fondle preciously Nor eyes shall gaze on us in charity-- The wasted fabric of an old delight.

* * * * *

The night is huge and rich with hidden song Of its eternal victims grandly singing A threnody, whose fragrance ever clinging To night's embroidery still hands along The endless chain of unrepentant years, Rejoicing in the gift of human tears.

Ruler of infinite austerity From whom, long listening through ecstatic hours, Men seek a spiritual mutilation And guidance to the unperturbed serene, Yours was the voice at which our grasping hands Refrained from clutching at iniquity Still warm with flame that licks the roof of hell, But having will of us you are transfigured With an attractive aureole whose glare Is colder than a mist around the moon; Wherefore in wisdom meditate on this That when outworn incessantly with kneeling On penitential stone, the flesh of man, Delirious with fasting and sweet wounds Self-loved and self-inflicted, cries for peace, It is for you the spirit sings with joy The chant ineffable of hidden spheres; For you it finds delight voluptuous In weakness through the curtains of the night, --Not for the abstract law which you devise.

_JOHN LANGDON-DAVIES_ (_ST. JOHN'S_)

QUITS!

Beyond the last hill stands a row Of poplars sighing, Amid the dwellings where dreams go. When they are dying.

One side the stream, a pleasure ground Where they carouse; On the far side, with yew-trees bound, The lazar-house.

And when the night has riven with stars The veil of day, I see their drunken half-shapes pass By the stream way.

"O dreams, O guests, who poisoned night With leprosy; Amid the stream and the moonlight Oh, think on me!"

_P. H. B. LYON_ (_ORIEL_)

THE SECRET PLAYROOM

(_Graudenz, 1918._)

To-day has been a holiday; From our high room, with dumb desire, I have been watching through the wire The German boys and girls at play.

As music, knitting tongues in one, To each in his own language sings, So echo in their laughter rings Of happy voices I have known.

O children I have loved so well, In Hampshire wood or Cornish moor, On many a littered schoolroom floor, In Surrey garden, Yorkshire dell,

The friends of long sea holidays, Or playmates of an afternoon, All you whose memories are strewn Like flowers about my ordered ways,

Here in my lone heart I have made A playroom worthy of your love, With yellow walls, a frieze above, A tall lamp with a golden shade,

And old prints hung on picture-hooks, Red window-curtains, chairs straight-backed, An acting chest, a cupboard stacked With ragged treasures, story-books

Jostling the grammars on the shelves, A chipped white service set for three, A broidered cosy for the tea, All, all is there, save you yourselves.

But should your hearts recall me yet By any trick of word or thought, Some book I read, some game I taught, Then--in that instant of regret--

Your spirit flies across the sea On starry pinions through the night, Into my chamber of delight Your spirit flies to play with me.

THE SONG OF STRENGTH

We have washed our hands of the blood, we have turned at length From the strait blind alleys of death to the way of peace; Gladly we labour, singing the song of our strength, The strength of man long-fettered that finds release:

The splendid body of man; O hand and eye Working in trained accord! O flying feet! The play of muscle in leg and shoulder and thigh, Strong to endure or to strive, sublime, complete:

Man, who has bound the waters, enslaved the wind, Tamed the desolate places, set his span O'er the abyss, unconquered and unconfined, Spending his strength in toil for the glory of man:

The climber setting his foot on the perilous slope, The hunter driving the wild thing from its lair, The traveller steering his course by the star of his hope, Never too faint to believe, too weak to dare:

The fisherman facing the storm while landsmen sleep, The swimmer--poised for an instant against the sky, Filling the eye with beauty, plunging deep, With wet white shoulders thrusting the billows by:

The airman hovering, sweeping above the hill, The engine driving a furrow of flame through the night, The long ships breasting the waves,--they are with us still, The strong clean things we have made for our heart's delight.

Strength of the mind and will despising sloth, Seeking the task unfinished, the goal unguessed, Sowing the seed in faith, entrusting the growth To the strength of their children, after their hands have rest:

Strength of the maker, serving a distant age, The poet shaping his dream to a deathless rhyme, The doctor fighting disease, the chemist, the sage, Grappling with nature, challenging space and time!

So shall we sing as we labour, till faint hearts hear And turn from their sorrow to listen, to cry at length, "Lo, we have put away doubt, and cast off fear; Come, let us fashion the world to the song of our strength!"

THE DESERTED GARDEN

Now these are gone, these beautiful playfellows, Gone from the green lawns under my balcony, Gone, and the house no more, the orchard Echoes no more to their happy laughter.

How oft I watched them playing, the innocent Boy friend and girl friend under the cedar-tree, Till through the soft dusk rose the twinkling Stars, and the lamps in the lane were shining.

Fair head to dark head leaning and whispering, Old games and new games, pirates and Indians, Short skirts and bare knees madly racing, Climbing aloft on the cedar branches.

Day comes and night comes, summer and holiday, Swift, ah! the bright hours, merry adventurers! Tears now, a first shy kiss at parting, Tears--and a hand at the corner waving....

White through the dawn-mist, careless of yesterday, Life stretches onward, life the attainable White road along dim hills of dreamland; Childhood is dead, and the leaves drift over.

Yet here in bleak house slumbers the memory, Here, here in green lawn, orchard and cedar-tree, Fair head and dark head, laughter, laughter, Evening, and voices across the starlight.

_G. A. MOSTYN_ (_BALLIOL_)

LES MISÉRABLES

Lips burning lips in passionate caress, Clasped, slightly swaying, pallid as the moon, Two wretches, cleaving to each other, press Their aching bodies into semi-swoon.

All the night through, till the stars droop and fail, The girdle of their arms is not undone, And when the night is finished, flaccid, pale, Two ghosts rise up, and gaze upon the sun,

And turning from each other go their ways Drunken with horror, reeling with sick shame, Calling a curse on God for all their days Of ravening, all their fierce nights of flame.

And lo! before the coming of the night They meet and greet again in shame's despite.

_September, 1919._

_A. S. MOTT_ (_MERTON_)

UMBRA

I love the shadows of things; Pale, grey, patternings In the aqueous wonder of dawn: Elm branches distort, Outrageously wrought On a woven texture of lawn. Cloud shadows that go In stateliest pacing Of nebulous gracing Down valleys of tumbled loam: Faint shapes in the snow Intricately interlacing, Of moonlight tracing: The shifting shadow of foam on foam.

_K. MOUNSEY_ (_HOME STUDENT_)

TO A LITTLE HOUSE IN OXFORD

Through the half-opened door the light streams out Across the street, And lays a path of gold on stones worn grey By passing feet. I catch a glimpse of flowers in quaint old bowls Standing in gloom, And many books on intimate low shelves Go round the room.

_R. M. S. PASLEY_ (_UNIVERSITY_)

THE DIVER

I saw a figure standing in the mist Dim and alone upon a column's height Which fell in marble precipice of white Down to the sea. Sudden the clean sun kissed His arms wide-stretching to the finger-tips, And showed his supple body glistening Clear in the naked heaven, and the ring Of a gay laugh broke eager from his lips;

So would I stand upon the dizzy ledge When I have lived, shake back my tumbled hair, Deliberately toe the empty edge, Laugh out my last defiance to the air, Then raise my arms, and, drinking one deep breath, Eye-open plunge into the sea of Death.

_V. DE S. PINTO_ (_CHRIST CHURCH_)

STATION

Late at night in the station It is cold: the gas lamps shine, Down-pointing pyramids of yellow light In a long, solemn line.

People are waiting on the platform, Pacing to the end and back, Or sitting huddled, drowsy, on the seats, All dressed in black.

Their faces look pale and delicate like ivory; Far off in the night, Like the sinister eye of a wild beast, Winks a green light.

So still, so still: a faint scream in the distance, Then silence and the train Crashes in, a golden horse, fiercely triumphant, Tossing his fiery mane.

SWANS

You too have seen the great white swans, who glide Upon the lonely waters of the world, Curving their delicate necks with queenly pride Above the shining mirror, wherein is whirled All the wild seething mob of human things, The riot of men and those strange gods and kings, They set up on great golden thrones and crown With garlands of bright stars, then drag them down Into the mud with fierce tumultuous cries. Yes, all these wild reflections soon will pass, The drunken laughter and the vast distress, And the waters will be clear as polished glass, Imaging only calm unruffled skies, And the swans will still sail on in their proud loveliness.

_H. S. REID_ (_SOMERVILLE_)

A DREAM

I sailed among the Orcades In the green encircling seas. So near the isles our nest did glide I picked a flower at the waterside; And just so quickly were we sped That I bruised the stalk and plucked the head.

There was no foam upon the waves, They swelled to glassy hills and caves; But foam white were the thorns that grew Among the meadow flowers blue. Laus tibi Domine, That gavest such a dream to me.

_E. RENDALL_ (_HOME STUDENT_)

EPITAPH

(FOR JULIA)

Here lies a Costermonger, Tall was she, Just the very size you'd wish a Christmas tree to be. All life long she stood a-hawking Small delights, Merry scornings, gay good-mornings, Kind good-nights. Bright balloons of mirth she'd cry you, Apples of jest, Laces--but you found them heartstrings-- Of the best, Quips and kisses, April laughter, Had you a mind There were posies--all she sold you Paid for in kind. Scraps of fun and fluffs of fancy, Trayfuls of toys For stock-in-trade: for customers Grown-up girls and boys. Here lies a Costermonger, Dark the world to me As when they've put the candles out On a Christmas tree.

_D. L. SAYERS_ (_SOMERVILLE_)

FOR PHAON

WITH "THAT ETERNITIE PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET."

Why do you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire, Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire, Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing? Less than myself I give not, and am _I_ a little thing? I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell, And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell, For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold, And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told; When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name, And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame, The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.

SYMPATHY

I sat and talked with you In the shifting fire and gloom, Making you answer due In delicate speech and smooth-- Nor did I fail to note The black curve of your head And the golden skin of your throat On the cushion's golden-red. But all the while, behind, In the workshop of my mind, The weird weaver of doom Was walking to and fro, Drawing thread upon thread With resolute fingers slow Of the things you did not say And thought I did not know, Of the things you said to-day And had said long ago, To weave on a wondrous loom, In dim colours enough, A curious, stubborn stuff-- The web that we call truth.

VIALS FULL OF ODOURS

The hawthorn brave upon the green She hath a drooping smell and sad, But God put scent into the bean To drive each lass unto her lad.

And woe betide the weary hour, For my love is in Normandy, And oh! the scent of the bean-flower Is like a burning fire in me.

Fair fall the lusty thorn, She hath no curses at my hand, But would the man were never born That sowed the bean along his land!

_W. FORCE STEAD_ (_QUEEN'S_)

THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

(SONGS FROM A LYRICAL DRAMA, "THE BURDEN OF BABYLON")

Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms, And the Chaldees' excellency, Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah, Whom God overthrew by the sea.

Never again inhabited, Babylon, O Babylon! Even the wandering Arabian From thy weary waste is gone. Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there, Nor any green herb be grown: It cometh in the night-time suddenly, And Babylon is overthrown.

Woeful are thy desolate palaces, Where doleful creatures cry, And wild beasts out of the islands In thy fallen chambers cry. Where now are the viol and the tabret? But owls hoot in moonlight: And over the ruins of Babylon The satyr leaps by night.

Babylon is fallen, is fallen! And never shall be known again: Drunken with the blood of my Beloved, And trampling on the sons of men. But God is awake and aware of thee, And sharply shines His sword, Where over the earth spring suddenly The hidden hosts of the Lord: Armies of right and of righteousness, Huge hosts, unseen, unknown: And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory, Where the wind goes, they are gone.

_L. A. G. STRONG_ (_WADHAM_)

AT PUNNET'S TOWN

A swell within her billowed skirts, Like a great ship with sails unfurled, The madwoman goes gallantly Upon the ridges of her world.

With eagle nose and wisps of grey She strides upon the Westward Hills, Swings her umbrella joyously, And waves it to the waving mills,

Talking and chuckling as she goes, Indifferent to sun or rain, With all that merry company The singing children of her brain.

DALLINGTON

Clouds all tumbled and white, Frowning clouds and grey; Dallington high on the hilltop, Dallington hears what they say.

"Oh, I have come from the Channel." "And I from the Westward Hill Where Punnet's Town blinks at the sunset Between a mill and a mill."

"I have showered on field and fallow Till I'm empty and dry," says one. "I scowled at the people in Cross-in-Hands, And was driven away by the sun."

"Oh, I am primed for a fight, And if I can find one more To challenge my path in the heavens There'll be rumblings and flashes galore."

"Oh, I have a hatful of hail." "And I have a share of sleet." "So shall we go cruising to battle And rattle it down on their street?"

Clouds all tumbled and white, Frowning clouds and grey; Dallington high on the hilltop, Dallington hears what they say.

EENA-MENA-MINA-MO

Eena-mena-mina-mo, Catch a nigger by ees toe, If 'e olleys, let'n go. O-U-T spells out And out you must go. You'm of it O!

Children playing on the green: Joe Treguddick, deathly ill, Hears them very clearly still.

Silently, with blinking eyes, Two great sons have dragged his bed To the window, till he dies.

Now his mind is in his fields Where all things lose their certain shape.

The cows in munching quiet lie, And on the orange of the sky The trees stand out like scissored crape.

With deep cool breaths he drinks the night: Then, in a sudden sweat of pain, He twists upon his bed again.

The children's voices die away, And seldom now the footsteps pass. A hobnailed tread upon the road Falls sudden silent on the grass.

Still with throb and throb of pain He hears the children at their play Chanting insistent in his brain.

Coughs: and with a whistling breath, Though he knows how the count will fall, Turns to play a game with Death,

Turns to the last game of all.

Eena-mena-mina-mo, Catch a nigger by ees toe. If 'e olleys, let'n go. O-U-T spells out And out you must go. You'm of it, Joe!

_D. A. E. WALLACE_ (_SOMERVILLE_)

IMPROMPTU IN MARCH

I will cut you wands of willow, I will fetch you catkins yellow For a sign of March.... I've a snowy silken pillow For my head, you foolish fellow-- I've no love for March!

Get me buckles, bring me laces, Amber beads and chrysoprases, Fans and castanets!... Lady, in the sunny places I can find you early daisies And sweet violets.

IN NEW COLLEGE CLOISTERS

Time sleeps-- Hush ye: go light-- Time sleeps By day and by night. Be your tread Softer than feet of the dead, Lest he wake And his heart break.

Stern bells, Muffle your chime; He dreams-- Suffer the dreams of Time! To the patter of ilex leaves, To the sound of birds in the eaves, To the sibilant wings of a dove Time dreams--of his love.

THE BEGGAR-MAIDEN

There has come to me a lover, O ye winds and waters, With a house for my abiding Full of looking-glass and silk, And a palfrey for my riding White as milk, And the tresses of kings' daughters Spun with pearls, my head to cover! There has come to me a lover, O ye winds and waters!

And I kissed him for his kindness To a beggar-maiden.... I, with strong white feet for going At my fancy everywhere; With the wind of heaven blowing Through my hair: With my dwelling star-beladen-- Verily I mocked his blindness! But I kissed him for his kindness To a beggar-maiden.

_J. L. WING_ (_MAGDALEN_)

LOUIS ONZE

Who is this I see? A King! Leaden saints all in a ring Round his hat! His gait is slow! And his back is bending low! This a King? His quivering frame Shakes! Pray tell me now his name. Louis Onze, it is you say, Greatest King of all his day!

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, other variations in spelling, accents and punctuation are as in the original.

Several poems do not have titles, but are referenced by first line. These have been left as printed.

The erratum on page 7 has not been corrected to avoid changing the structure of the book.

Italics are indicated thus _italic_.