Part 2
THE EARTH-CHILD IN THE GRASS
In the very early morning Long before Dawn time I lay down in the paddock And listened to the cold song of the grass. Between my fingers the green blades, And the green blades pressed against my body. “Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?” Sang the grass. “Why does she weep on my bosom, Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover? Foolish little earth child! It is not yet time. One day I shall open my bosom And you shall slip in--but not weeping. Then in the early morning Long before Dawn time Your lover will lie in the paddock. Between his fingers the green blades And the green blades pressed against his body ... My song shall not sound cold to him In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses. Long and long he will lie there ... Laughing--not weeping.”
1911.
TO GOD THE FATHER
To the little, pitiful God I make my prayer, The God with the long grey beard And flowing robe fastened with a hempen girdle Who sits nodding and muttering on the all-too-big throne of Heaven. What a long, long time, dear God, since you set the stars in their places, Girded the earth with the sea, and invented the day and night. And longer the time since you looked through the blue window of Heaven To see your children at play in a garden.... Now we are all stronger than you and wiser and more arrogant, In swift procession we pass you by. “Who is that marionette nodding and muttering On the all-too-big throne of Heaven? Come down from your place, Grey Beard, We have had enough of your play-acting!” It is centuries since I believed in you, But to-day my need of you has come back. I want no rose-coloured future, No books of learning, no protestations and denials-- I am sick of this ugly scramble, I am tired of being pulled about-- O God, I want to sit on your knees On the all-too-big throne of Heaven, And fall asleep with my hands tangled in your grey beard.
1911.
THE OPAL DREAM CAVE
In an opal dream cave I found a fairy: Her wings were frailer than flower petals, Frailer far than snowflakes. She was not frightened, but poised on my finger, Then delicately walked into my hand. I shut the two palms of my hands together And held her prisoner. I carried her out of the opal cave, Then opened my hands. First she became thistledown, Then a mote in a sunbeam, Then--nothing at all. Empty now is my opal dream cave.
1911.
SEA
The Sea called--I lay on the rocks and said: “I am come.” She mocked and showed her teeth, Stretching out her long green arms. “Go away!” she thundered. “Then tell me what I am to do,” I begged. “If I leave you, you will not be silent, But cry my name in the cities And wistfully entreat me in the plains and forests; All else I forsake to come to you--what must I do?” “Never have I uttered your name,” snarled the Sea. “There is no more of me in your body Than the little salt tears you are frightened of shedding. What can you know of my love on your brown rock pillow.... Come closer.”
1911.
JANGLING MEMORY
Heavens above! here’s an old tie of yours-- Sea-green dragons stamped on a golden ground. Ha! Ha! Ha! What children we were in those days.
Do you love me enough to wear it now? Have you the courage of your pristine glories? Ha! Ha! Ha! You laugh and shrug your shoulders.
Those were the days when a new tie spelt a fortune: We wore it in turn--I flaunted it as a waist-belt. Ha! Ha! Ha! What easily satisfied babies.
“I think I’ll turn it into a piano duster.” “Give it to me, I’ll polish my slippers on it!” Ha! Ha! Ha! The rag’s not worth the dustbin.
“Throw the shabby old thing right out of the window; Fling it into the faces of other children!” Ha! Ha! Ha! We laughed and laughed till the tears came!
1911.
THERE WAS A CHILD ONCE
There was a child once. He came to play in my garden; He was quite pale and silent. Only when he smiled I knew everything about him, I knew what he had in his pockets, And I knew the feel of his hands in my hands And the most intimate tones of his voice. I led him down each secret path, Showing him the hiding-place of all my treasures. I let him play with them, every one, I put my singing thoughts in a little silver cage And gave them to him to keep ... It was very dark in the garden But never dark enough for us. On tiptoe we walked among the deepest shades; We bathed in the shadow pools beneath the trees, Pretending we were under the sea. Once--near the boundary of the garden-- We heard steps passing along the World-road; O how frightened we were! I whispered: “Have you ever walked along that road?” He nodded, and we shook the tears from our eyes.... There was a child once. He came--quite alone--to play in my garden; He was pale and silent. When we met we kissed each other, But when he went away, we did not even wave.
1912.
THE SECRET
In the profoundest ocean There is a rainbow shell, It is always there, shining most stilly Under the greatest storm waves And under the happy little waves That the old Greek called ‘ripples of laughter.’ And you listen, the rainbow shell Sings--in the profoundest ocean. It is always there, singing most silently!
1912.
SEA SONG
I will think no more of the sea! Of the big green waves And the hollowed shore, Of the brown rock caves No more, no more Of the swell and the weed And the bubbling foam.
Memory dwells in my far away home, She has nothing to do with me.
She is old and bent With a pack On her back. Her tears all spent, Her voice, just a crack. With an old thorn stick She hobbles along, And a crazy song Now slow, now quick Wheeks in her throat.
And every day While there’s light on the shore She searches for something, Her withered claw Tumbles the seaweed; She pokes in each shell Groping and mumbling Until the night Deepens and darkens, And covers her quite, And bids her be silent, And bids her be still.
The ghostly feet Of the whispery waves Tiptoe beside her. They follow, follow To the rocky caves In the white beach hollow ... She hugs her hands, She sobs, she shrills, And the echoes shriek In the rocky hills. She moans: “It is lost! Let it be! Let it be! I am old. I’m too cold. I am frightened ... the sea Is too loud ... it is lost, It is gone...” Memory Wails in my far away home.
1913.
COUNTRYWOMEN
These be two Country women. What a size! Grand big arms And round red faces; Big substantial Sit down places; Great big bosoms firm as cheese Bursting through their country jackets; Wide big laps And sturdy knees; Hands outspread, Round and rosy, Hands to hold A country posy Or a baby or a lamb-- And such eyes! Stupid, shifty, small and sly Peeping through a slit of sty, Squinting through their neighbours’ plackets.
1914.
STARS
Most merciful God Look kindly upon An impudent child Who wants sitting on. This evening late I went to the door And then to the gate There were more stars--more Than I could have expected, Even I! I was simply amazed Almighty, August! I was utterly dazed, Omnipotent! Just In a word I was floored, Good God of Hosts--Lord! That at this time of day They should still blaze away, That thou hadst not rejected Or at least circumspected Their white silver beauty-- Was it spite ... Was it duty..?
1914.
DEAF HOUSE AGENT
That deaf old man With his hand to his ear-- His hand to his head stood out like a shell, Horny and hollow. He said, “I can’t hear,” He muttered, “Don’t shout, I can hear very well!” He mumbled, “I can’t catch a word; _I_ can’t follow.” Then Jack with a voice like a Protestant bell Roared--“Particulars! Farmhouse! At 10 quid a year!” “I dunno wot place you are talking about,” Said the deaf old man. Said Jack, “What the HELL!”
But the deaf old man took a pin from his desk, picked a piece of wool the size of a hen’s egg from his ear, had a good look at it, decided in its favour and replaced it in the aforementioned organ.
1914.
POEMS AT THE VILLA PAULINE 1916
VILLA PAULINE
But, ah! before he came You were only a name: Four little rooms and a cupboard Without a bone, And I was alone! Now with your windows wide Everything from outside Of sun and flower and loveliness Comes in to hide, To play, to laugh on the stairs, To catch unawares Our childish happiness, And to glide Through the four little rooms on tip-toe With lifted finger, Pretending we shall not know When the shutters are shut That they still linger Long, long after. Lying close in the dark He says to me: “Hark, Isn’t that laughter?”
1916.
CAMOMILE TEA
Outside the sky is light with stars; There’s a hollow roaring from the sea. And, alas! for the little almond flowers, The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago, In that horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee.
Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see.
1916.
WAVES
I saw a tiny God Sitting Under a bright blue Umbrella That had white tassels And forkèd ribs of gold. Below him His little world Lay open to the sun. The shadow of His hat Lay upon a city. When he stretched forth His hand A lake became a dark tremble. When he kicked up His foot It became night in the mountain passes.
But thou art small! There are gods far greater than thou; They rise and fall, The tumbling gods of the sea. Can thy heart heave such sighs, Such hollow savage cries, Such windy breath, Such groaning death? And can thy arm enfold The old, The cold, The changeless dreadful places Where the herds Of horned sea-monsters And the screaming birds Gather together? From those silent men That lie in the pen Of our pearly prisons, Canst thou hunt thy prey? Like us canst thou stay Awaiting thine hour, And then rise like a tower And crash and shatter?
There are neither trees nor bushes In my country, Said the tiny God. But there are streams And waterfalls And mountain-peaks Covered with lovely weed. There are little shores and safe harbours, Caves for cool and plains for sun and wind. Lovely is the sound of the rivers, Lovely the flashing brightness Of the lovely peaks. I am content.
But Thy kingdom is small, Said the God of the Sea. Thy kingdom shall fall; I shall not let thee be. Thou art proud! With a loud Pealing of laughter, He rose and covered The tiny God’s land With the tip of his hand, With the curl of his fingers: And after--
The tiny God Began to cry.
1916.
THE TOWN BETWEEN THE HILLS
The further the little girl leaped and ran, The further she longed to be; The white, white fields of jonquil flowers Danced up as high as her knee And flashed and sparkled before her eyes Until she could hardly see. So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood, It was solemn and grave; A sound like a wave Sighed in the tree-tops And then sighed no more. But she was brave, And the sky showed through A bird’s-egg blue, And she saw A tiny path that was running away Over the hills to--who can say? She ran, too. But then the path broke, Then the path ended And wouldn’t be mended.
A little old man Sat on the edge, Hugging the hedge. He had a fire And two eggs in a pan And a paper poke Of pepper and salt; So she came to a halt To watch and admire: Cunning and nimble was he! “May I help, if I can, little old man?” “Bravo!” he said, “You may dine with me. I’ve two old eggs From two white hens And a loaf from a kind ladie: Some fresh nutmegs, Some cutlet ends In pink and white paper frills: And--I’ve--got A little hot-pot From the town between the hills.”
He nodded his head And made her a sign To sit under the spray Of a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her hands And said the grace she had learned to say, The little old man gave two dreadful squeals And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels As he tumbled, tumbled With his two old eggs From two white hens, His loaf from a kind ladie, The fresh nutmegs, The cutlet-ends In the pink and white paper frills. And away rumbled The little hot-pot, So much too hot, From the town between the hills.
1916.
VOICES OF THE AIR
But then there comes that moment rare When, for no cause that I can find, The little voices of the air Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey And sighing, sighing double notes Of double basses, content to play A droning chord for the little throats--
The little throats that sing and rise Up into the light with lovely ease And a kind of magical, sweet surprise To hear and know themselves for these--
For these little voices: the bee, the fly, The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks, The breeze on the grass-tops bending by, The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
1916.
SANARY
Her little hot room looked over the bay Through a stiff palisade of glinting palms, And there she would lie in the heat of the day, Her dark head resting upon her arms, So quiet, so still, she did not seem To think, to feel, or even to dream.
The shimmering, blinding web of sea Hung from the sky, and the spider sun With busy frightening cruelty Crawled over the sky and spun and spun. She could see it still when she shut her eyes, And the little boats caught in the web like flies.
Down below at this idle hour Nobody walked in the dusty street A scent of dying mimosa flower Lay on the air, but sweet--too sweet.
1916.
TO L. H. B. (1894–1915)
Last night for the first time since you were dead I walked with you, my brother, in a dream. We were at home again beside the stream Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red. “Don’t touch them: they are poisonous,” I said. But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam. “Don’t you remember? We called them Dead Man’s Bread!” I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar Of the dark water tumbling on the shore. Where--where is the path of my dream for my eager feet? By the remembered stream my brother stands Waiting for me with berries in his hands ... “These are my body. Sister, take and eat.”
1916.
POEMS 1917–1919
NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK
White, white in the milky night The moon danced over a tree. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to swim in the lake!” Someone whispered to me.
“Oh, do--do--do!” cooed someone else, And clasped her hands to her chin. “I should so love to see the white bodies-- All the white bodies jump in!”
The big dark house hid secretly Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree, But there was a sound of music--music rippled and ran Like a lady laughing behind her fan, Laughing and mocking and running away ... “Come into the garden--it’s as light as day!”
“I can’t dance to that Hungarian stuff, The rhythm in it is not passionate enough,” Said somebody. “I absolutely refuse...” But he took off his socks and his shoes And round her spun. “It’s like Hungarian fruit dishes Hard and bright--a mechanical blue!” His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes ... Someone cried: “I want to dance, too!”
But one with a queer Russian ballet head Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead. And another, shadowy--shadowy and tall-- Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall, Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom, His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom.
“Don’t you think perhaps ...” piped someone’s flute ... “How sweet the flowers smell!” I heard the other say-- Somebody picked a wet, wet pink Smelled it and threw it away. “Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?” Asked somebody. Nobody would tell. The faces and the hands moved in a pattern As the music rose and fell, In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern Like flowers nodding under the sea ...
The music stopped and there was nothing left of them But the moon dancing over the tree.
1917.
NOW I AM A PLANT, A WEED ...
Now I am a plant, a weed, Bending and swinging On a rocky ledge; And now I am a long brown grass Fluttering like flame; I am a reed; An old shell singing For ever the same; A drift of sedge; A white, white stone; A bone; Until I pass Into sand again, And spin and blow To and fro, to and fro, On the edge of the sea In the fading light-- For the light fades.
But if you were to come you would not say: “She is not waiting here for me; She has forgotten.” Have we not in play Disguised ourselves as weed and stones and grass While the strange ships did pass Gently, gravely, leaving a curl of foam That uncurled softly about our island home ... Bubbles of foam that glittered on the stone Like rainbows? Look, darling! No, they are gone. And the white sails have melted into the sailing sky ...
1917.
THERE IS A SOLEMN WIND TO-NIGHT
There is a solemn wind to-night That sings of solemn rain; The trees that have been quiet so long Flutter and start again.
The slender trees, the heavy trees, The fruit trees laden and proud, Lift up their branches to the wind That cries to them so loud.
The little bushes and the plants Bow to the solemn sound, And every tiniest blade of grass Shakes on the quiet ground.
1917.
OUT IN THE GARDEN
Out in the garden, Out in the windy, swinging dark, Under the trees and over the flower-beds, Over the grass and under the hedge border, Someone is sweeping, sweeping, Some old gardener. Out in the windy, swinging dark, Someone is secretly putting in order, Someone is creeping, creeping.
1917.
FAIRY TALE
Now folds the Tree of Day its perfect flowers, And every bloom becomes a bud again, Shut and sealed up against the golden showers Of bees that hover in the velvet hours.... Now a strain Wild and mournful blown from shadow towers, Echoed from shadow ships upon the foam, Proclaims the Queen of Night. From their bowers The dark Princesses fluttering, wing their flight To their old Mother, in her huge old home.
1919.
COVERING WINGS
Love! Love! Your tenderness, Your beautiful, watchful ways Grasp me, fold me, cover me; I lie in a kind of daze, Neither asleep nor yet awake, Neither a bud nor flower. Brings to-morrow Joy or sorrow, The black or the golden hour?
Love! Love! You pity me so! Chide me, scold me--cry, “Submit--submit! You must not fight!” What may I do, then? Die? But, oh, my horror of quiet beds! How can I longer stay! “One to be ready, Two to be steady, Three to be off and away!”
Darling heart--your gravity! Your sorrowful, mournful gaze-- “Two bleached roads lie under the moon, At the parting of the ways.” But the tiny, tree-thatched, narrow lane, Isn’t it yours and mine? The blue-bells ring Hey, ding-a-ding, ding! And buds are thick on the vine.
Love! Love! grief of my heart! As a tree droops over a stream You hush me, lull me, darken me, The shadow hiding the gleam. Your drooping and tragical boughs of grace Are heavy as though with rain. Run! Run! Into the sun! Let us be children again.
1919.
FIRELIGHT
Playing in the fire and twilight together, My little son and I, Suddenly--woefully--I stoop to catch him. “Try, mother, try!”
Old Nurse Silence lifts a silent finger: “Hush! cease your play!” What happened? What in that tiny moment Flew away?
1919.
SORROWING LOVE
And again the flowers are come And the light shakes, And no tiny voice is dumb, And a bud breaks On the humble bush and the proud restless tree. Come with me!
Look, this little flower is pink, And this one white. Here’s a pearl cup for your drink, Here’s for your delight A yellow one, sweet with honey, Here’s fairy money Silver bright Scattered over the grass As we pass.
Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers On my cold fingers! You shall have no moss. Here’s a frail Hyacinth, deathly pale. Not for you, not for you! And the place where they grew You must promise me not to discover, My sorrowful lover! Shall we never be happy again? Never again play? In vain--in vain! Come away!
1919.
A LITTLE GIRL’S PRAYER
Grant me the moment, the lovely moment That I may lean forth to see The other buds, the other blooms, The other leaves on the tree:
That I may take into my bosom The breeze that is like his brother, But stiller, lighter, whose faint laughter Echoes the joy of the other.
Above on the blue and white cloud-spaces There are small clouds at play. I watch their remote, mysterious play-time In the other far-away.
Grant I may hear the small birds singing The song that the silence knows ... (The Light and the Shadow whisper together, The lovely moment grows,
Ripples into the air like water Away and away without sound, And the little girl gets up from her praying On the cold ground.)
1919.
THE WOUNDED BIRD
In the wide bed Under the green embroidered quilt With flowers and leaves always in soft motion She is like a wounded bird resting on a pool.
The hunter threw his dart And hit her breast,-- Hit her but did not kill. “O my wings, lift me--lift me! I am not dreadfully hurt!” Down she dropped and was still.
Kind people come to the edge of the pool with baskets. “Of course what the poor bird wants is plenty of food!” Their bags and pockets are crammed almost to bursting With dinner scrapings and scraps from the servants’ lunch. Oh! how pleased they are to be really _giving_! “In the past, you know you know, you were always so fly-away. So seldom came to the window-sill, so rarely Shared the delicious crumbs thrown into the yard. Here is a delicate fragment and here a tit-bit As good as new. And here’s a morsel of relish And cake and bread and bread and bread and bread.”
At night, in the wide bed With the leaves and flowers Gently weaving in the darkness, She is like a wounded bird at rest on a pool. Timidly, timidly she lifts her head from her wing In the sky there are two stars Floating, shining ... O waters--do not cover me! I would look long and long at those beautiful stars! O my wings--lift me--lift me! I am not so dreadfully hurt ...
1919.
CHILD VERSES 1907
A FAIRY TALE
Now this is the story of Olaf Who ages and ages ago Lived right on the top of a mountain, A mountain all covered with snow.
And he was quite pretty and tiny With beautiful curling fair hair And small hands like delicate flowers-- Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.
He lived in a hut made of pinewood Just one little room and a door A table, a chair, and a bedstead And animal skins on the floor.
Now Olaf was partly a fairy And so never wanted to eat He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.