Part 1

OXFORD POETRY

1921

_UNIFORM VOLUMES_

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Oxford Poetry 1917-19

BASIL BLACKWELL

OXFORD POETRY

1921

EDITED BY ALAN PORTER, RICHARD HUGHES, ROBERT GRAVES

OXFORD BASIL BLACKWELL MCMXXI

PRINTED AT THE SHAKESPEARE HEAD PRESS STRATFORD-UPON-AVON

The Editors of this year’s Oxford Poetry, the work of undergraduates who have been in residence since the date of the last collection, have attempted to make the volume more representative of Poetry and less representative merely of Oxford than its predecessors. There is always at Oxford a fashion in verse as much as in dress, and, to judge from the bulk of contributions submitted, this fashion has not changed materially since last noted and recorded in print. Mr Jones-Smith, of Balliol, still writes musically of brimming chalices, vermilion lips, chrysoprase, lotuses, arabesques and darkling spires against glimmering skies; Miss Smith-Jones, of Somerville, is equally faithful to her scarlet sins, beloved hearts, little clutching hands, little pattering feet, rosaries, eternity, roundabouts, and glimmering spires against darkling skies. Exclusion of these worn properties has given the fewer writers than usual represented here, extended elbow room, and a chance of showing some individual capacity for better or worse.

Most of the pieces have already appeared serially in _The London Mercury_, _The Spectator_, _The Westminster Gazette_, _The New Statesman_, _The Nation and Athenæum_, _The Observer_, and the other leading literary reviews.

For permission to use copyright poems, our thanks are due to Messrs Christophers, publishers of Mr Golding’s ‘Shepherd Singing Ragtime,’ and to Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, publishers of Mr Rickword’s new volume ‘Behind the Eyes.’

CONTENTS

F. N. W. BATESON (_Trinity_) Trespassers Page 1

EDMUND BLUNDEN (_Queen’s_) The Watermill 2 The Scythe 4 That Time is Gone 7 The South-West Wind 8 The Canal 9 The March Bee 11

LOUIS GOLDING (_Queen’s_) Ploughman at the Plough 12 Portrait of an Artist 13 Shepherd singing Ragtime 14 Ghosts Gathering 18 Silver-badged Waiter 20

ROBERT GRAVES (_St John’s_) Cynics and Romantics 21 Unicorn and the White Doe 22 Sullen Moods 25 Henry and Mary 27 On the Ridge 28 A Lover since Childhood 29

ROSALEEN GRAVES (_Home Student_) Night Sounds 30 ‘A Stronger than he shall come upon him ...’ 32 Colour 33

BERTRAM HIGGINS (_B.N.C._) White Magic 34

RICHARD HUGHES (_Oriel_) Singing Furies 35 The Sermon 37 Tramp 38 Gratitude 40 Judy 42 Ruin 43

ALAN PORTER (_Queen’s_) Introduction to a Narrative Poem 44 Summer Bathing 47 Country Churchyard 49 Museum 50 Lost Lands 52

FRANK PREWETT (_Christ Church_) Come Girl, and embrace 53 I went out into the Fields 54 Comrade, why do you weep? 56 The Winds caress the Trees 57

EDGELL RICKWORD (_Pembroke_) Complaint of a Tadpole confined in a jam-jar 58 Regret for the Depopulation of Rural Districts 60 Complaint after Psycho-Analysis 61 Desire 62 Trench Poets 63 Winter Prophecies 64

F. N. W. BATESON

TRESPASSERS

Gauntly outlined, white and still, Three haystacks peer above the hill; Three aged rakes thrust sprawlingly Fantastic tendons to the sky. In the void and dismal yard Farmer’s dog keeps rasping guard, Challenging night’s trespassers, The solemn legions of the stars; Growling ignominious scorn At Cancer and at Capricorn. The yellow stars, serene and prim, Tolerantly stare at him.

EDMUND BLUNDEN

THE WATERMILL

I’ll rise at midnight and I’ll rove Up the hill and down the drove That leads to the old unnoticed mill, And think of one I used to love: There stooping to the hunching wall I’ll stare into the rush of stars Or bubbles that the waterfall Brings forth and breaks in ceaseless wars.

The shelving hills have made a fourm Where the mill holdings shelter warm, And here I came with one I loved To watch the seething millions swarm. But long ago she grew a ghost Though walking with me every day; Even when her beauty burned me most She to a spectre dimmed away--

Until though cheeks all morning-bright And black eyes gleaming life’s delight And singing voice dwelt in my sense, Herself paled on my inward sight. She grew one whom deep waters glassed. Then in dismay I hid from her, And lone by talking brooks at last I found a Love still lovelier.

O lost in tortured days of France! Yet still the moment comes like chance Born in the stirring midnight’s sigh Or in the wild wet sunset’s glance: And how I know not but this stream Still sounds like vision’s voice, and still I watch with Love the bubbles gleam, I walk with Love beside the mill.

The heavens are thralled with cloud, yet gray Half-moonlight swims the fields till day, The stubbled fields, the bleaching woods;-- Even this bleak hour is stolen away By this shy water falling low, And calling low the whole night through, And calling back the long ago And richest world I ever knew.

The hop-kiln fingers cobweb-white With discord dim turned left and right, And when the wind was south and small The sea’s far whisper drowsed the night; Scarce more than mantling ivy’s voice That in the tumbling water trailed. Love’s spirit called me to rejoice When she to nothingness had paled:

For Love the daffodils shone here In grass the greenest of the year, Daffodils seemed the sunset lights And silver birches budded clear: And all from east to west there strode Great shafted clouds in argent air, The shining chariot-wheels of God, And still Love’s moment sees them there.

THE SCYTHE

A thick hot haze had choked the valley grounds Long since, the dogday sun had gone his rounds Like a dull coal half lit with sulky heat; And leas were iron, ponds were clay, fierce beat The blackening flies round moody cattle’s eyes. Wasps on the mudbanks seemed a hornet’s size, That on the dead roach battened. The plough’s increase Stood under a curse. Behold, the far release! Old wisdom breathless at her cottage door ‘Sounds of abundance’ mused, and heard the roar Of marshalled armies in the silent air, And thought Elisha stood beside her there, And clacking reckoned ere the next nightfall She’d turn the looking-glasses to the wall.

Faster than armies out of the burnt void The hour-glass clouds innumerably deployed; And when the hay-folks next look up, the sky Sags black above them; scarce is time to fly. And most run for their cottages; but Ward The mower for the inn beside the ford, And slow strides he with shouldered scythe still bare, While to the coverts leaps the great-eyed hare.

As he came in, the dust snatched up and whirled Hung high, and like a bell-rope whipped and twirled, The brazen light glared round, the haze resolved Into demoniac shapes bulged and convolved. Well might poor ewes afar make bleatings wild, Though this old trusting mower sat and smiled, For from the hush of many days the land Had waked itself: and now on every hand Shrill swift alarm-notes, cries and counter-cries, Lowings and crowings came and throbbing sighs. Now atom lightning brandished on the moor, Then out of sullen drumming came the roar Of thunder joining battle east and west: In hedge and orchard small birds durst not rest, Flittering like dead leaves and like wisps of straws, And the cuckoo called again, for without pause Oncoming voices in the vortex burred. The storm came toppling like a wave, and blurred In grey the trees that like black steeples towered. The sun’s last yellow died. Then who but cowered? Down ruddying darkness floods the hideous flash, And pole to pole the cataract whirlwinds clash.

Alone within the tavern parlour still Sat the gray mower, pondering his God’s will, And flinching not to flame or bolt, that swooped With a great hissing rain till terror drooped In weariness: and then there came a roar Ten-thousand-fold, he saw not, was no more-- But life bursts on him once again, and blood Beats droning round, and light comes in a flood.

He stares, and sees the sashes battered awry, The wainscot shivered, the crocks shattered, and by, His twisted scythe, melted by its fierce foe, Whose Parthian shot struck down the chimney. Slow Old Ward lays hand to his old working-friend, And thanking God Whose mercy did defend His servant, yet must drop a tear or two And think of times when that old scythe was new, And stands in silent grief, nor hears the voices Of many a bird that through the land rejoices, Nor sees through the smashed panes the sea-green sky, That ripens into blue, nor knows the storm is by.

THE TIME IS GONE

The time is gone when we could throw Our angle in the sleepy stream, And nothing more desired to know Than was it roach or was it bream? Sitting there in such a mute delight, The Kingfisher would come and on the rods alight.

Or hurrying through the dewy hay Without a thought but to make haste We came to where the old ring lay And bats and balls seemed heaven at least. With our laughing and our giant strokes The echoes clacked among the chestnuts and the oaks.

When the spring came up we got And out among wild Emmet Hills Blossoms, aye and pleasures sought And found! bloom withers, pleasure chills; Like geographers along green brooks We named the capes and tumbling bays and horseshoe crooks.

But one day I found a man Leaning on the bridge’s rail; Dared his face as all to scan, And awestruck wondered what could ail An elder, blest with all the gifts of years, In such a happy place to shed such bitter tears.

THE SOUTH-WEST WIND

We stood by the idle weir, Like bells the waters played, The rich moonlight slept everywhere As it would never fade: So slept our shining peace of mind Till rose a south-west wind.

How sorrow comes who knows? And here joy surely had been: But joy like any wild wind blows From mountains none has seen, And still its cloudy veilings throws On the bright road it goes.

The black-plumed poplars swung So softly across the sky: The ivy sighed, the river sung, Woolpacks were wafting high: The moon her golden tinges flung On these she straight was lost among.

O south-west wind of the soul, That brought such new delight, And passing by in music stole Love’s rich and trusting light, Would that we thrilled to thy least breath Now all is still as death.

THE CANAL

There so dark and still Slept the water, never changing, From the glad sport in the meadows Oft I turned me.

Fear would strike me chill On the clearest day in summer, Yet I loved to stand and ponder Hours together

By the tarred bridge rail-- There the lockman’s vine-clad window, Mirrored in the tomb-like water Stared in silence

Till, deformed and pale In the sunken cavern shadows, One by one imagined demons Scowled upon me.

Barges passed me by, With their unknown surly masters And small cabins, whereon some rude Hand had painted

Trees and castles high. Cheerly stepped the towing horses, And the women sung their children Into slumber.

Barges, too, I saw Drowned in mud, drowned, drowned long ages, Their gray ribs but seen in summer, Their names never:

In whose silted maw Swarmed great eels, the priests of darkness, Old as they, who came at midnight To destroy me.

Like one blind and lame Who by some new sense has vision And strikes deadlier than the strongest Went this water.

Many an angler came, Went his ways; and I would know them, Some would smile and give me greeting, Some kept silence--

Most, one old dragoon Who had never a morning hallo, But with stony eye strode onward Till the water,

On a silent noon, That had watched him long, commanded: Whom he answered, leaping headlong To self-murder.

‘Fear and fly the spell,’ Thus my Spirit sang beside me; Then once more I ranged the meadows, Yet still brooded,

When the threefold knell Sounded through the haze of harvest-- Who had found the lame blind water Swift and seeing?

THE MARCH BEE

A warming wind comes to my resting-place And in a mountain cloud the lost sun chills; Night comes, and yet before she shows her face The sun flings off the shadows, warm light fills The valley and the clearings on the hills, Bleak crow the moorcocks on the fen’s blue plashes, But here I warm myself with these bright looks and flashes. And like to me the merry humble bee Puts fear aside, runs forth to meet the sun And by the ploughlands’ shoulder comes to see The flowers that like him best, and seems to shun Cold countless quaking windflowers every one, Primroses too; but makes poor grass his choice Where small wood-strawberry blossoms nestle and rejoice. The magpies steering round from wood to wood, Tree-creepers flicking up to elms’ green rind, Bold gnats that revel round my solitude And most this pleasant bee intent to find The new-born joy, inveigle the rich mind Long after darkness comes cold-lipped to one Still hearkening to the bee, still basking in the sun.

LOUIS GOLDING

PLOUGHMAN AT THE PLOUGH

He behind the straight plough stands Stalwart, firm shafts in firm hands.

Naught he cares for wars and naught For the fierce disease of thought.

Only for the winds, the sheer Naked impulse of the year,

Only for the soil, which stares Clean into God’s face, he cares.

In the stark might of his deed There is more than art or creed;

In his wrist more strength is hid Than the monstrous Pyramid;

Stauncher than stern Everest Be the muscles of his breast;

Not the Atlantic sweeps a flood Potent as the ploughman’s blood.

He, his horse, his ploughshare, these Are the only verities.

Dawn to dusk with God he stands, The Earth poised on his broad hands.

PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST

I have been given eyes Which are neither foolish nor wise, Seeing through joy or pain Beauty alone remain.

I have been given an ear Which catches nothing clear, But only along the day A song stealing away.

My feet and hands never could Do anything evil or good: Instead of these things, A swift mouth that sings.

SHEPHERD SINGING RAGTIME

(_For F. V. Branford_)

The shepherd sings: ’_Way down in Dixie, Way down in Dixie, Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay...._’

With shaded eyes he stands to look Across the hills where the clouds swoon, He singing, leans upon his crook, He sings, he sings no more. The wind is muffled in the tangled hair Of sheep that drift along the noon. The mild sheep stare With amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June. Two skylarks soar With singing flame Into the sun whence first they came. All else is only grasshoppers Or a brown wing the shepherd stirs, Who, like a slow tree moving, goes Where the pale tide of sheep-drift flows.

See! the sun smites With molten lights The turned wing of a gull that glows Aslant the violet, the profound Dome of the mid-June heights. Alas! again the grasshoppers, The birds, the slumber-winging bees, Alas! again for those and these Demure things drowned; Drowned in vain raucous words men made Where no lark rose with swift and sweet Ascent and where no dim sheep strayed About the stone immensities, Where no sheep strayed and where no bees Probed any flowers nor swung a blade Of grass with pollened feet.

He sings: ‘_In Dixie, Way down in Dixie, Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay Scrambled eggs in the new-mown hay...._’

The herring-gulls with peevish cries Rebuke the man who sings vain words; His sheep-dog growls a low complaint, Then turns to chasing butterflies. But when the indifferent singing-birds From midmost down to dimmest shore Innumerably confirm their songs, And grasshoppers make summer rhyme And solemn bees in the wild thyme Clash cymbals and beat gongs, The shepherd’s words once more are faint, Once more the alien song is thinned Upon the long course of the wind, He sings, he sings no more.

Ah now the dear monotonies Of bells that jangle on the sheep To the low limit of the hills! Till the blue cup of music spills Into the boughs of lowland trees; Till thence the lowland singings creep Into the dreamful shepherd’s head, Creep drowsily through his blood; The young thrush fluting all he knows, The ring dove moaning his false woes, Almost the rabbit’s tiny tread, The last unfolding bud. But now, Now a cool word spreads out along the sea. Now the day’s violet is cloud-tipped with gold. Now dusk most silently Fills the hushed day with other wings than birds’. Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock, To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence. So too the shepherd gathers in his flock, Because birds journey to their dens, Tired sheep to their still fold.

A dark first bat swoops low and dips About the shepherd who now sings A song of timeless evenings; For dusk is round him with wide wings, Dusk murmurs on his moving lips.

_There is not mortal man who knows From whence the shepherd’s song arose: It came a thousand years ago._

_Once the world’s shepherds woke to lead The folded sheep that they might feed On green downs where winds blow._

_One shepherd sang a golden word. A thousand miles away one heard. One sang it swift, one sang it slow._

_Two skylarks heard, two skylarks told All shepherds this same song of gold On all downs where winds blow._

_This is the song that shepherds must Sing till the green downlands be dust And tide of sheep-drift no more flow;_

_The song two skylarks told again To all the sheep and shepherd men On green downs where winds blow._

GHOSTS GATHERING

You hear no bones click, see no shaken shroud. Though no tombs grin, you feel ghosts gathering. Crowd

On pitiful crowd of small dead singing men Tread the sure earth they feebly hymned; again

With fleshless hand seize unswayed grass. They seize Insensitive flowers which bend not. Through gross trees

They sift. Nothing withstands them. Nothing knows Them nor the songs they sang, their busy woes.

‘Hence from these ingrate things! To the towns!’ they weep, (If ghosts have tears). You think a wrinkled heap

Of leaves heaved, or a wing stirred, less than this. Some chance on the midnight cities. Others miss

The few faint lights, thin voices. Wretched these Doomed to beat long the windy vacancies!

Some mourn through forlorn towns. They prowl and seek --What seek they? Who knows them? If branches creak

And leaves flap and slow women ply their trade, Those all are living things, but these are dead,

All that they were, dead totally. What fool still Knows their extinguished songs? They had their fill Of average joys and sorrows. They learned how

Love wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now? But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may find Himself not utterly faded. Through his blind

Some old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. Sick Of his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tick

Troubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scans The opened book on the table. A flame fans,

A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins. No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and pains

Not suffered wholly for nothing! (The old man bends Over the book, makes notes for pious ends,

--Some curious futile work twelve men at most Will read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost,

Like some more ignorant moth circles the light... Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’

The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air, He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chair

Closer against the table. And sitting bowed Lovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.

SILVER-BADGED WAITER

Poor trussed-up lad, what piteous guise Cloaks the late splendour of your eyes, Stiffens the fleetness of your face Into a mask of sleek disgrace, And makes a smooth caricature Of your taut body’s swift and sure Poise, like a proud bird waiting one Moment ere he taunt the sun; Your body that stood foolish-wise Stormed by the treasons of the skies, Star-like that hung, deliberate Above the dubieties of Fate, But with an April gesture chose Unutterable and certain woes! And now you stand with discreet charm Dropping the napkin round your arm, Anticipate your tip while you Hear the commercial travellers chew. You shuffle with their soups and beers Who held at heel the howling fears, You whose young limbs were proud to dare Challenge the black hosts of despair!

ROBERT GRAVES

CYNICS AND ROMANTICS