Part 2

Can death give you such dignity, and pride So beautiful it puts our grief to shame? For now we stumble as we speak your name, Yet you were just a boy before you died. We question blankly, pondering heavy-eyed, Can this be he we used to praise or blame In careless moments, ere the trial came When all the bravest hearts in anguish cried? Then, humbled, we beheld our poor disguise, False moods and manners clothed in empty speech Which drowned the silence--till there came a day That smote our vision to awakened eyes: For God bent down to bring you to our reach, But ere we touched you, you had gone away.

TELL ME, STRANGER

Tell me, Stranger, is it true There is magic happening, Are _all_ the dappled fields of Kew Bowing to their Lord the Spring?

Are the bluebells chaste and mute Dancing in each dale and hollow Dew-sprinkled, with a glad salute To omnipotent Apollo?

Tell me, do the feathered creatures Flutter as in days of yore, What are the “distinctive features” Of the Swallow’s Flying Corps?

Here there is no magic, Stranger. Save within our merry souls-- For some wanton god in anger Punches earth with gaping holes.

Yet the stifled land is showing Here and there a touch of grace, And the marshalled clouds are blowing Through the aerodromes of space.

Hate is strong, but Love is stronger, And the world shall wake to birth When the touch of man no longer Stays the touch of God from Earth.

Tell me, Stranger, is it true There is magic happening, Are _all_ the dappled fields of Kew Bowing to their Lord the Spring?

B. E. F., _April, 1917_.

SPRING IN THE TRENCHES

The racing clouds have borne her message down And blown a thrilling rumour, from the far Heart-centres of each crowded port and town, And up the flowing arteries of War. Life, life, green tales of corn in sprouting blades, Of swallows crowding with sea-sprinkled wings And ash-buds amber-gummed round close-furled green. High blossom mantling murmurous orchard glades In air a-tingle April-sweet and keen-- Ah, we have heard of wondrous happenings.

For now the magic carnivals begin The lilac broods in honeyed secrecy, And dappled lawns are changed: a Harlequin Has brushed the tangled carpet silently. We know how white narcissus fills the lake With dancing shadows; how in open blue A chestnut builds her clustered pyramids, And down below anemones awake; Long-hushed the violets open wide their lids And all the dreamed-of fantasy comes true.

Glad tidings thrill the re-awakened earth By daffodils and blue-bells heralded; Spring with her van imperial comes forth To herald Summer proudly canopied Beneath the bowing leaves. Persistent Spring Bestirs the seed enshrined in Winter’s store; And even round the parapet a breath Of far-flung prophecy is clamouring: “Behold new life within the tomb of death “Importunate and vivid as before.”

ON THE ROAD

We halted, with the urgent Spring behind Our straining teams, where all the land was black, And huddled woods lay beaten, starkly blind: Their mangled branches loomed athwart the track Grotesque and terrible. Yet near the way, A river, scatheless as the open sea, Flowed like a breathing hope that cannot die In desolation. Now, at setting day, Moored water lilies, pale as argent sky, Cling to the twilight fading silently.

Such is the tale of memory, ere night Had deepened, and our weary convoy slept Beside the way. Slow-rising points of light Twinkled amid the spangled netting swept Across the ebon desert; and a gleam Pierced the cloud-woven pillows of the moon. Now slumber freed me from the iron cage That bound the snarling war; and, in a dream, The panorama of a dawning age Unrolled, a world slow-waking from a swoon.

Before my gaze a teeming city loomed Gay with the bustling clamour of the street-- The very town an easy word had doomed And cast in ashes at the trampling feet Of mortal gods. Street, corner, square and place, Seemed woken from a long and squalid trance-- I saw a nation growing like a flower; A nation true and loyal to a race That forged an army of clean-soldiered power Wrought by the common chivalry of France.

Here was no arrogance of martial pride, The fireside boast that sows the fatal seed, For happiness had come from those who died Stark of delusion and the deadly creed Of false romance. I saw a world reborn-- The very battlefield was robed again In lines of chequered land, and bordered round With stretching roads and rills. The poppied corn Held rubies set in gold, and far beyond Lay a surf-ravelled sea and swarded plain.

I marvelled, till oblivion shadowed all, Blurred in the dawning light of every day. It was so true, I scarcely heard the call To feed and water and to move away. We stretched our limbs, and packed each heavy load; Moved on, and left the weary night behind, Through torn and withered trees that stared aghast; Yet, through the veil that shrouded all the road I saw new radiance in the land we passed, And heard a sudden murmur in the wind.

B. E. F., 1917.

KEATS, BEFORE ACTION

A little moment more--O, let me hear (The thunder rolls above, and star-shells fall) Those melodies unheard re-echo clear Before the shuddering moment closes all. They come--they come--they answer to my call, That Grecian throng of graven ecstasies, Hyperion aglow in blazing skies, And Cortez with the wonder in his eyes. In battle-wreaths of smoke they rise, and fall Beyond--beyond recall.

Now all is silent, still, and magic-keen (Yet thunder rolls above and star-shells fall) And slowly pacing, rides a faery queen Wild eyed and singing to a knight in thrall. Enough--enough--let lightning whip me bare And leave me naked in the howling air My body broken here, and here, and here. Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all, The very all in all.

THE SOMME

_From Amiens to Abbeville_ _My swollen waters race,_ _And silver-veined by many a rill_ _Green hamlets thrive apace._ _From Amiens to Abbeville_ _I labour at the listless mill,_ _And tempt the nodding daffodil_ _To blur my open face._ _But south of Amiens I flow_ _Past dumb Peronne and Brie,_ _The peopled land I used to know_ _Now all belongs to me._ _Yet phantom armies come and go,_ _And shadows hurry to and fro;_ _Again my seething battles grow_ _In murdered Picardy._

Behold the mother of a soil forlorn; I suckled towns, and fed the forest land, Behold my shattered villages and mourn How should I understand?

Why are those huts o’erpatched like dappled kine, What are those weary men in blue and brown, And humming craft that search my sinuous line; Why should my name re-echo with renown Past every phantom town? But still my lily-breasted waters shine, And still I chant my shadowy ripples down.

From peace through war my waters flow, To peace again at sea, The peopled land I used to know Now all belongs to me. Though battling armies come and go, I toil and spin, I reap and sow, And poppy-mantled meadows blow In murdered Picardy.

My eddies bear the clinging scent of lime To sweeten clouds of plume-tossed meadowsweet; My meadow grasses nestle with the thyme And flowering rushes tower in the heat. Low-brushing swifts and swallows splashed with white O’er flash my laden mirrors slow and deep That bear swift-merging canopies of sleep. Until the growing light Has chased marauding owls, and butterflies, Born of blue-woven skies, Flutter away like hare-bells spurred to flight. But who are these? The powdered butterfly Outshines that air leviathan that swings In rigid curves adown the barren sky, With cloudy satellites about her wings. And I have seen Dark horsemen ride with spears of tapered steel; And bellowing guns beneath the far balloons. And once a ponderous slug bedecked in green Crept, in the waning moon’s Still-darkening gloom, and at her giant heel White-gleaming, ran a train of hooded cars....

I triumph, triumph, search my sinuous line Amid the snarling impotence of wars. Turn where you will. Look, there a signboard shows The lair of guns; already round the sign White trumpeting convolvuli entwine Their clinging arms, across the placard blows A quiet-breathing rose. And still my lily-breasted waters shine And loud my chanting grows:

From peace through war my waters flow To peace again at sea, The peopled land I used to know Now all belongs to me. Though battling armies come and go I toil and spin, I reap and sow, And poppy-mantled meadows blow In murdered Picardy.

SOMME FLOWER TALK

Said the Cornflower to the Pimpernel, “O sudden scarlet eyes, You never bloomed till ploughing shell Laid bare earth’s sanctities!”

Then upward cried the Pimpernel: “Blue head in deeper blue, ’Tis strange this former waste of Hell Is Paradise anew.

“But who is Lord of Paradise And Commandant; and who Commands sky-faring butterflies All camouflaged in blue?

“Are dandelion parachutes His messages, and do Those armoured beetles clamber roots With news from Army Q?

“Above each water-lily ship The feathered red caps pipe. Because the pear has earned a pip, The tiger-moth a stripe.

“The gorse artillery has eyes We never knew before. And lady bees can organise The Honey Service Corps.

“Field-marshals rule the war behind The guns, but Summer shields Here in the clash of human kind Her marshal of the fields.”

TO THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.

“He too! He too!” The veteran paused, the sound Of a light paper fluttering to the ground Rustled the twilight peace. “He--too--is--dead--” His wife, scarce faltering from the words she read, Stared at the glowing sun, the while her eyes Shone mistily in nameless agonies. Five sons, and four were dead! The clock ticked desolation to their ears And silence gripped the moments as they passed Too terrible, too passionless for tears. At last, Stronger than he, she curbed herself and smiled And held him weeping like a weary child Before the first immensity of pain. Yet once again She conjured scenes beyond the darkened cloud That blurred the soul’s horizon, as aloud She spoke his name, and whispered little things More pregnant than the utterance of kings.

That night she moved, Spurred by devotion for the man she loved, Without a pause for sorrow, or a breath To murmur at the closing walls of death; Love-steeled and queenly every step she trod; She climbed unfaltering, serenely browed, Until she touched the very feet of God Undaunted and unbowed. And there in mystic awe Slow-turning wheels of evolution spun The poised and pulsing universe. She saw All life and death synonymous, and birth The dawn of human wonderment begun (Birth of all birth) in other realms afar. Below, ice pivoted revolved the earth, A traveller’s joy it seemed, a mile-stone star, Half-glowing, bathed in sun....

At dawn they met and found each other’s eyes, Asked the same questions, sought the same replies: Their last and youngest fought where harsh commands Still goaded forward lashed and driven bands, Where Vaux and Thiaumont twin sentinels Loomed stalwartly. And still a howl of shells Shattered the Verdun battlements in vain; Still domineered that keen death-tutored brain Behind an army deaf to angry scorn, The boast forgotten and the mask outworn. At length she spoke: “Go quickly now,” she said, “Quick, the next hurrying hour may see him dead. Find the Great Overlord and tell him all Quick, for our boy may pass beyond recall Meanwhile. He shall know happiness to come, He, the last scion of our stricken home, Shall blossom like a flower in early Spring I say it, I who bore him. Time shall bring The old primeval happiness to birth If there be any justice upon earth.” She ceased; it seemed her voice re-echoed still As strung with hope he hurried on until He reached the palace and besought for grace To see his royal master face to face.

That night in sudden joy he urged away Across Lorraine, for in his wallet lay An order blazoned with the royal seals. Hour after hour the car’s revolving wheels Rushed dizzily towards the high command That held his son in fee. Around, the land Awoke in changeless Spring. Four steady hours They travelled, till the bloom of passing flowers Brought tidings of the dawn. Then to his ears Rumbled a distant thunder, sudden fears Urged onward faster. Now the country showed First signs of war-flung tentacles, the road Lay pitted here and there, a wounded tree No longer framed its lordly symmetry. And soon the land whereon all life was stilled Became as Man had willed. At last his journey ended. Long delayed He sought his goal, now pressing on, now stayed, Until outside the place of high command The royal warrant burning in his hand He knocked--was bidden enter--tense and mute He faced the marshal with a grave salute And showed the royal word. The crowded room was silent, no man stirred-- A pause as long as death, then, dragged and slow, A voice--“Your son was killed an hour ago.” A clock importunately unconcerned Repeated tick--tick--tick. His eyes discerned A pen vague-sprawling, madly spiderwise. Not a man glanced--Yet all the room had eyes: Not a man spoke--Yet clamorous voices cried: Stumbling, he walked outside.

IN THE MESS

I sat alone although the mess Was full, when--quick as tears A song of naked happiness Came singing in my ears.

I summoned strength to kill a cry And mad desire to weep; Then, glancing round me guiltily, Found everyone asleep!

A TRENCH INCIDENT

We waited, as the thundering curtain swept Our sector, and torn shards of iron fell; Dust from the parapet in showers leapt Swirled up by bursting shell.

We waited, like a storm-bespattered ship That flutters sail to free her grounded keel; The tingling moments tightened every grip On rifles lanced with steel.

We knew the man who led us. All could hear His ringing voice re-echo loud and strong, Born of that higher bravery when fear. Is battled into song.

Then sudden fury lulled and far behind Like angered beasts our batteries replied-- And suddenly he stumbled, dazed and blind. He lay, but ere he died

He struggled for a while, then dimly smiled, Wrapped in the comradeship of happy things, Before he entered like a wondering child The heritage of kings.

REALITY

Below my room the noise and measured beat Of marching men re-echoed loud and clear; Now bobbing cavalry swung down the street; Now mules and rumbling batteries drew near. But all is dim--The rolling wagon-stream To Amiens between the aspen trees, The stables, billets, men and horses, seem Dead mummers of forgotten fantasies.

Only my dreams are still aglow, a throng Of scenes that crowded through a waiting mind A myriad scenes: For I have swept along To foam ashriek with gulls, and rowed behind Brown oarsmen swinging to an ocean song Where stately galleons bowed before the wind.

“WE POETS OF THE PROUD OLD LINEAGE”

Apart we labour, and alone we climb The barren heights; for we the singing throng Whose lives were hallowed by impassioned song Must die or prove unworthy of our rhyme. Man after man--we know the price of wars Who watched the mask of Night whilst others slept, And spread our laughter far and wide, but kept Our tears and terror privy to the stars.

0 magic gift omnipotent, to sing And conjure Heaven from surrounding Hell. Our lips and eyes are touched (for we have seen Celestial weavers at the loom of Spring). But O the iron bitterness and keen Of voices ever clamouring farewell!

III

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

SONG

Would I could commandeer the bees To hum you droning symphonies. I love the climbing thoughts that rise To the sheer heaven of your eyes, Wide laughter-dromes of wondering blue, Yes, yes, I do!

But when I sing of bubbling seas, The zephyr-clapping hands of trees Applauding in tumultuous skies, Or window-winged dragonflies, Or anything that’s good and true I sing of you-- Yes, yes, I do!

THE SHADOW

I stood one night where rivers pause to meet And mingle in the traffic-rumbling sea: The surge and clamour of a London street, In tides alternate, rolled, impassively. Before my feet Ran shouting boys, and through the pallid glare Loomed gaunt leviathans that swayed and roared Past glittering shops, and stations which outpoured Load after weary load; and everywhere Strange sounds, a snatch of laughter, shout or word, Sleek-coated motor-cars that softly purred Round corners sounding with the rustling beat Of hurried swarms of feet. And yet I seemed alone, and dumb-amazed Before a towering building, wherein blazed One staring patch of light, one amber square That shone enshrouded by the dome of night High in the naked air. And still I gazed Until a shadow passed across the blind: A shadow-woman pacing time away Beside a bed, wherein a poet lay Dying, dying. One whose mind (A womb of beauty whereof love was lord) Had fashioned symphonies of thought and word Impassionately sweet. And suddenly She paused--I saw the shadow of her hand Stretch out and shudder back. I saw her stand All sorrow-bound in graven dignity. She bowed her head, her shoulders taut with pain, Her figure burdened with the weight of tears. Then all grew dark. And in my waking ears The traffic surged again.

EVERYCHILD

We take you through Pacific seas To islands strange and new, Where howling monkeys scale the trees Alive with humming-birds and bees, Where shiny seals and porpoises Snort in the rolling blue.

Then quicker than a shaft of light We shear the arctic foam, And lounging bears of polar white Roar loudly through the dancing night, And drive the killer-whales to flight-- Upon the floor at home.

O hear the chant of Eastern song Beneath Arabian stars, Where camels slowly stalk along And gleaming Arabs, tall and strong, Buy gold and merchandise among The riot of bazaars!

The glow-worms crawl excitedly And trim their lamps o’ night; For often, ere the moon is high, Bat-harnessed walnut-shells flit by To bear them to the waiting sky And set the stars alight.

The nodding poplars understand And birds and beasts and flowers: And we shall wander hand in hand With better things than Peter Panned-- O what is footlight fairyland Beside this world of ours?

What matter if the clouds are grey Or winter-keen and wild, When you and I have found a way To turn November into May; For Everyjoy is Everyday And Everyman a child.

CHILD OF THE FLOWING TIDE

Away to the call of the racing sea-- (Child of the flowing tide) A hundred chargers of ivory, And two of them saddled for you and for me, Are pawing and stamping the surf to be free Where the wild sea-horses ride. The deep water shall roar as we race from the shore On the back of the flowing tide.

O hurry, the moon is away in the sky (Child of the flowing tide) With your heels well down, and your heart set high You’re saddled and bridled, and so am I; So gather your reins, for the foam will fly Where the wild sea-horses ride. Grip tight with your knees as you gallop the seas On the back of the flowing tide.

On the wide lagoon I’ll meet you to-night (Child of the flowing tide) When the moon swings high and the stars are alight And the roaring sea-chargers are ready to fight: Their manes are all foam and their coats are all white Where the wild sea-horses ride. The deep waters shall roar as we race from the shore On the back of the flowing tide.

EIGHT SONNETS

I

I Tremble at the outset, for I know How rhythm halts and rhyme rings falsely true. Yet courage, your disciple, bids me show That speech may offer sacrifice to you. Vain boast! For if success in splendour came Poised faultlessly in lines of perfect stress, I must fall short of it in very shame Unworthy of my sonnet’s worthiness.

But should I fail, and feel the words I sought Elusive, or bedecked with frail disguise Of tattered sentiment, that risk I dare Not hazard in the winding maze of thought, Lest I should stir the wonder in your eyes Or wind a little tangle in your hair.

II

So let me fail: what matter if the wise And worldly whisper, who so poor as they? For everywhere alike the common way Has now become an earthly paradise. And where you walk the very pavement cries Of blue-bells, April-chimed, and fawns at play; And London seems a sylvan holiday Of flower-hunting bees and butterflies.

So let me fail, for where I could succeed How mean the quest, a climber gazing down From the low vantage of some petty hill. But chance success would be the gambler’s thrill Who plays with God for worlds, and wins indeed The whole of Paradise for half-a-crown!

III

I Have no room for jealous gods, and find No ring of joy or laughter in the Creed, Nor shall my great possession be resigned In fear or favour of my spirit’s need. For joy is mine, and mine the teeming years Unfettered in a world impassionate; Not mine a sorrowed Calvary of tears Where love was vassal to the lords of hate.

Let others bow before a God unknown Enshrined in words they dimly understand. Let every man make Paradise his own-- My Goddess breathes and leads me by the hand O hush! I dare not speak of it alone, ’Tis all too wonderful and strangely planned!

IV

Day after day my growing pinions beat Impatiently. Yet, in a place unclean I sought the dwarfed, the petty and obscene, And aped the clownish mummers of the street; Till suddenly the world grew strangely sweet, All eager at a touch, and thrilling-keen; With half-forgotten hands I strove unseen To mould a little planet at your feet.

You spoke and there was light, and slowly grew My teeming world of verse, a brotherhood Of music, thought, and wonder, born anew, Alive, aglow, in every varied mood. And when the waking truth is bursting through I feel you bend to see that all is good.

V

If I had seen what hourly happiness In this my world your being could ordain, How then should I have trysted with distress And misery the cringing friend of pain? If I had seen beyond the looming years Your shadow, grief had haunted me in vain, For what are cataracts of human tears Beside the boundless laughter of the main?