Part 4

The house, that house, O now what change has come to it, Its crude red-brick façade, its roof of slate; What imperceptible swift hand has given it A new, a wonderful, a queenly state?

No hand has altered it, that parallelogram, So inharmonious, so ill arranged; That hard blue roof in shape and colour's what it was; No, it is not that any line has changed.

Only that loneliness is now accentuate And, as the dusk unveils the heaven's deep cave, This small world's feebleness fills me with awe again, And all man's energies seem very brave.

And this mean edifice, which some dull architect Built for an ignorant earth-turning hind, Takes on the quality of that magnificent Unshakable dauntlessness of human kind.

Darkness and stars will come, and long the night will be, Yet imperturbable that house will rest, Avoiding gallantly the stars' chill scrutiny, Ignoring secrets in the midnight's breast.

Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniac May howl their menaces, and hail descend; Yet it will bear with them, serenely, steadfastly, Not even scornfully, and wait the end.

And all a universe of nameless messengers From unknown distances may whisper fear, And it will imitate immortal permanence, And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear.

It stood there yesterday; it will to-morrow, too, When there is none to watch, no alien eyes To watch its ugliness assume a majesty From this great solitude of evening skies.

So lone, so very small, with worlds and worlds around, While life remains to it prepared to outface Whatever awful unconjectured mysteries May hide and wait for it in time and space.

BEHIND THE LINES

The wind of evening cried along the darkening trees, Along the darkening trees, heavy with ancient pain, Heavy with ancient pain from faded centuries, From faded centuries.... O foolish thought and vain!

O foolish thought and vain to think the wind could know, To think the wind could know the griefs of men who died, The griefs of men who died and mouldered long ago: "And mouldered long ago," the wind of evening cried.

ARAB SONG

When her eyes' sudden challenge first halted my feet on the path, I stood like a shivering caught fugitive, and strained at my breath, And the Truth in her eyes was the portent of Love and of Death, For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.

O you who have faded because girls were contemptuous and cold, I pitied you; but mine I have won, and her breast I enfold Despairing, and in agony long for the thing that I hold: For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.

She is fair; and her eyes in her hair are like stars in a stream. She is kind: never vaporous sleep-eddying maid in a dream Leaning over my darkness-drowned pillow more tender did seem. But her beauty and sweetness are as blasts from the sands of the South. Drink me, palsy me, flay me, bleed my veins, chain my limbs, choke my mouth, And make salt to my lips the wine that should temper my drouth: For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.

Death must come: it were best by a knife in her hand or my own. She'd not strike and I dare not, but here, as I wander alone, Should the wood topple over at a beast flying out like a stone I shall smile in its face at her image bending down from the sky, And its teeth in my neck will be hers, and its snarls as I die Will be gentle and sweet to my ears as the voice of the dove: For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.

THE STRONGHOLD

Quieter than any twilight Shed over earth's last deserts, Quiet and vast and shadowless Is that unfounded keep, Higher than the roof of the night's high chamber Deep as the shaft of sleep.

And solitude will not cry there, Melancholy will not brood there, Hatred, with its sharp corroding pain, And fear will not come there at all: Never will a tear or a heart-ache enter Over that enchanted wall.

But, O, if you find that castle, Draw back your foot from the gateway, Let not its peace invite you, Let not its offerings tempt you. For faded and decayed like a garment, Love to a dust will have fallen, And song and laughter will have gone with sorrow, And hope will have gone with pain; And of all the throbbing heart's high courage Nothing will remain.

TO A BULL-DOG

(_W. H. S., Capt. [Acting Major] R.F.A.; killed April_ 12, 1917)

We sha'n't see Willy any more, Mamie, He won't be coming any more: He came back once and again and again, But he won't get leave any more.

We looked from the window and there was his cab, And we ran downstairs like a streak, And he said "Hullo, you bad dog," and you crouched to the floor, Paralysed to hear him speak,

And then let fly at his face and his chest Till I had to hold you down, While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat. And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.

We went upstairs to the studio, The three of us, just as of old, And you lay down and I sat and talked to him As round the room he strolled.

Here in the room where, years ago Before the old life stopped, He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe, He would pick up the threads he'd dropped,

Fondling all the drawings he had left behind, Glad to find them all still the same, And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings ... Every time he came.

But now I know what a dog doesn't know, Though you'll thrust your head on my knee, And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness That you find so dull in me.

And all your life you will never know What I wouldn't tell you even if I could, That the last time we waved him away Willy went for good.

But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug Sleeping in the warmth of the stove, Even through your muddled old canine brain Shapes from the past may rove.

You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream, How we brought home a silly little pup. With a big square head and little crooked legs That could scarcely bear him up,

But your tail will tap at the memory Of a man whose friend you were, Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog When he found you on his chair;

Who'd make you face a reproving finger And solemnly lecture you Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish! And you'll dream of your triumphs too.

Of summer evening chases in the garden When you dodged us all about with a bone: We were three boys, and you were the cleverest, But now we're two alone.

When summer comes again, And the long sunsets fade, We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two That since the war we've played.

And though you run expectant as you always do To the uniforms we meet, You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers In even the longest street,

Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought, Even now were the old words said, If I tried the old trick and said "Where's Willy?" You would quiver and lift your head,

And your brown eyes would look to ask if I were serious, And wait for the word to spring. Sleep undisturbed: I sha'n't say that again, You innocent old thing.

I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa, While you lie asleep on the floor; For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of, And he won't be coming here any more.

THE LAKE

I am a lake, altered by every wind. The mild South breathes upon me, and I spread A dance of merry ripples in the sun. The West comes stormily and I am troubled, My waves conflict and black depths show between them. Under the East wind bitter I grow and chill, Slate-coloured, desolate, hopeless. But when blows A steady wind from the North my motion ceases, I am frozen smooth and hard; my conquered surface Returns the skies' cold light without a comment. I make no sound, nor can I; nor can I show What depth I have, if any depth, below.

PARADISE LOST

What hues the sunlight had, how rich the shadows were, The blue and tangled shadows dropped from the crusted branches Of the warped apple-trees upon the orchard grass.

How heavenly pure the blue of two smooth eggs that lay Light on the rounded mud that lined the thrush's nest: And what a deep delight the spots that speckled them.

And that small tinkling stream that ran from hedge to hedge, Shadowed over by the trees and glinting in the sunbeams, How clear the water was, how flat the beds of sand With travelling bubbles mirrored, each one a golden world To my enchanted eyes. Then earth was new to me.

But now I walk this earth as it were a lumber room, And sometimes live a week, seeing nothing but mere herbs, Mere stones, mere passing birds: nor look at anything Long enough to feel its conscious calm assault: The strength of it, the word, the royal heart of it.

Childhood will not return; but have I not the will To strain my turbid mind that soils all outer things, And, open again to all the miracles of light, To see the world with the eyes of a blind man gaining sight?

ACACIA TREE

All the trees and bushes of the garden Display their bright new green.

But above them all, still bare, The great old acacia stands, His solitary bent black branches stark Against the garden and the sky.

It is as though those other thoughtless shrubs, The winter over, hastened to rejoice And clothe themselves in spring's new finery, Heedless of all the iron time behind them.

But he, older and wiser, stronger and sadder of heart, Remembers still the cruel winter, and knows That in some months that death will come again; And, for a season, lonelily meditates Above his lighter companions' frivolity.

Till some late sunny day when, breaking thought, He'll suddenly yield to the fickle persuasive sun, And over all his rough and writhing boughs And tiniest twigs Will spread a pale green mist of feathery leaf, More delicate, more touching than all the verdure Of the younger, slenderer, gracefuller plants around.

And then, when the leaves have grown Till the boughs can scarcely be seen through their crowded plumes, There will softly glimmer, scattered upon him, blooms, Ivory-white in the green, weightlessly hanging.

AUGUST MOON

(_To F. S._)

In the smooth grey heaven is poised the pale half moon And sheds on the wide grey river a broken reflection. Out from the low church-tower the boats are moored After the heat of the day, and await the dark.

And here, where the side of the road shelves into the river At the gap where barges load and horses drink, There are no horses. And the river is full And the water stands by the shore and does not lap.

And a barge lies up for the night this side of the island, The bargeman sits in the bows and smokes his pipe And his wife by the cabin stirs. Behind me voices pass.

Calm sky, calm river: and a few calm things reflected. And all as yet keep their colours; the island osiers, The ash-white spots of umbelliferous flowers, And the yellow clay of its bank, the barge's brown sails That are furled up the mast and then make a lean triangle To the end of the hoisted boom, and the high dark slips Where they used to build vessels, and now build them no more.

All in the river reflected in quiet colours. Beyond the river sweeps round in a bend, and is vast, A wide grey level under the motionless sky And the waxing moon, clean cut in the mole-grey sky. Silence. Time is suspended; that the light fails One would not know were it not for the moon in the sky, And the broken moon in the water, whose fractures tell Of slow broad ripples that otherwise do not show, Maturing imperceptibly from a pale to a deeper gold, A golden half moon in the sky, and broken gold in the water.

In the water, tranquilly severing, joining, gold: Three or four little plates of gold on the river: A little motion of gold between the dark images Of two tall posts that stand in the grey water.

There are voices passing, a murmur of quiet voices, A woman's laugh, and children going home. A whispering couple, leaning over the railings, And, somewhere, a little splash as a dog goes in.

I have always known all this, it has always been, There is no change anywhere, nothing will ever change.

I heard a story, a crazy and tiresome myth.

Listen! behind the twilight a deep low sound Like the constant shutting of very distant doors,

Doors that are letting people over there Out to some other place beyond the end of the sky.

SONNET

There was an Indian, who had known no change, Who strayed content along a sunlit beach Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange Commingled noise; looked up; and gasped for speech. For in the bay, where nothing was before, Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes, With bellying cloths on poles, and not one oar, And fluttering coloured signs and clambering crews.

And he, in fear, this naked man alone, His fallen hands forgetting all their shells, His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone, And stared, and saw, and did not understand, Columbus's doom-burdened caravels Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land.

SONG

Eyes like flowers and falling hair Seldom seen, nor ever long, Then I did not know you were Destined subject for a song: Sharing your unconsciousness Of your double loveliness, Unaware how fair you were, Peaceful eyes and shadowy hair.

Only, now your beauty falls Sweetly on some other place, Lonely reverie recalls More than anything your face; Any idle hour may find Stealing on my captured mind, Faintly merging from the air, Eyes like flowers and falling hair.

A GENERATION (1917)

There was a time that's gone And will not come again, We knew it was a pleasant time, How good we never dreamed.

When, for a whimsy's sake, We'd even play with pain, For everything awaited us And life immortal seemed.

It seemed unending then To forward-looking eyes, No thought of what postponement meant Hung dark across our mirth;

We had years and strength enough For any enterprise, Our numerous companionship Were heirs to all the earth.

But now all memory Is one ironic truth, We look like strangers at the boys We were so long ago;

For half of us are dead, And half have lost their youth, And our hearts are scarred by many griefs, That only age should know.

UNDER

In this house, she said, in this high second storey, In this room where we sit, above the midnight street, There runs a rivulet, narrow but very rapid, Under the still floor and your unconscious feet.

The lamp on the table made a cone of light That spread to the base of the walls: above was in gloom. I heard her words with surprise; had I worked here so long, And never divined that secret of the room?

"But how," I asked, "does the water climb so high?" "I do not know," she said, "but the thing is there; Pull up the boards while I go and fetch you a rod." She passed, and I heard her creaking descend the stair.

And I rose and rolled the Turkey carpet back From the two broad boards by the north wall she had named, And, hearing already the crumple of water, I knelt And lifted the first of them up; and the water gleamed,

Bordered with little frosted heaps of ice, And, as she came back with a rod and line that swung, I moved the other board; in the yellow light The water trickled frostily, slackly along.

I took the tackle, a stiff black rubber worm, That stuck out its pointed tail from a cumbrous hook, "But there can't be fishing in water like this," I said. And she, with weariness, "There is no ice there. Look."

And I stood there, gazing down at a stream in spate, Holding the rod in my undecided hand... Till it all in a moment grew smooth and still and clear, And along its deep bottom of slaty grey sand

Three scattered little trout, as black as tadpoles, Came waggling slowly along the glass-dark lake, And I swung my arm to drop my pointing worm in, And then I stopped again with a little shake.

For I heard the thin gnat-like voices of the trout --My body felt woolly and sick and astray and cold-- Crying with mockery in them: "You are not allowed To take us, you know, under ten years old."

And the room swam, the calm woman and the yellow lamp, The table, and the dim-glistering walls, and the floor, And the stream sank away, and all whirled dizzily, And I moaned, and the pain at my heart grew more and more.

And I fainted away, utterly miserable. Falling in a place where there was nothing to pass, Knowing all sorrows and the mothers and sisters of sorrows, And the pain of the darkness before anything ever was.

RIVERS

Rivers I have seen which were beautiful, Slow rivers winding in the flat fens, With bands of reeds like thronged green swords Guarding the mirrored sky; And streams down-tumbling from the chalk hills To valleys of meadows and watercress-beds, And bridges whereunder, dark weed-coloured shadows, Trout flit or lie.

I know those rivers that peacefully glide Past old towers and shaven gardens, Where mottled walls rise from the water And mills all streaked with flour; And rivers with wharves and rusty shipping, That flow with a stately tidal motion Towards their destined estuaries Full of the pride of power;

Noble great rivers, Thames and Severn, Tweed with his gateway of many grey arches, Clyde, dying at sunset westward In a sea as red as blood; Rhine and his hills in close procession, Placid Elbe, Seine slaty and swirling, And Isar, son of the Alpine snows, A furious turquoise flood.

All these I have known, and with slow eyes I have walked on their shores and watched them, And softened to their beauty and loved them Wherever my feet have been; And a hundred others also Whose names long since grew into me, That, dreaming in light or darkness, I have seen, though I have not seen.

Those rivers of thought: cold Ebro, And blue racing Guadiana, Passing white houses, high-balconied, That ache in a sun-baked land, Congo, and Nile and Colorado, Niger, Indus, Zambesi, And the Yellow River, and the Oxus, And the river that dies in sand.

What splendours are theirs, what continents, What tribes of men, what basking plains, Forests and lion-hided deserts, Marshes, ravines and falls: All hues and shapes and tempers Wandering they take as they wander From those far springs that endlessly The far sea calls.

O in reverie I know the Volga That turns his back upon Europe, And the two great cities on his banks, Novgorod and Astrakhan; Where the world is a few soft colours, And under the dove-like evening The boatmen chant ancient songs, The tenderest known to man.

And the holy river Ganges, His fretted cities veiled in moonlight, Arches and buttresses silver-shadowy In the high moon, And palms grouped in the moonlight And fanes girdled with cypresses, Their domes of marble softly shining To the high silver moon.

And that aged Brahmapootra Who beyond the white Himalayas Passes many a lamassery On rocks forlorn and frore, A block of gaunt grey stone walls With rows of little barred windows, Where shrivelled young monks in yellow silk Are hidden for evermore....

But O that great river, the Amazon, I have sailed up its gulf with eyelids closed, And the yellow waters tumbled round, And all was rimmed with sky, Till the banks drew in, and the trees' heads, And the lines of green grew higher And I breathed deep, and there above me The forest wall stood high.

Those forest walls of the Amazon Are level under the blazing blue And yield no sound save the whistles and shrieks Of the swarming bright macaws; And under their lowest drooping boughs Mud-banks torpidly bubble, And the water drifts, and logs in the water Drift and twist and pause.

And everywhere, tacitly joining, Float noiseless tributaries, Tall avenues paved with water: And as I silent fly The vegetation like a painted scene, Spars and spikes and monstrous fans And ferns from hairy sheaths up-springing, Evenly passes by.

And stealthier stagnant channels Under low niches of drooping leaves Coil into deep recesses: And there have I entered, there To heavy, hot, dense, dim places Where creepers climb and sweat and climb, And the drip and splash of oozing water Loads the stifling air.

Rotting scrofulous steaming trunks, Great horned emerald beetles crawling, Ants and huge slow butterflies That had strayed and lost the sun; Ah, sick I have swooned as the air thickened To a pallid brown ecliptic glow, And on the forest, fallen with languor, Thunder has begun.

Thunder in the dun dusk, thunder Rolling and battering and cracking, The caverns shudder with a terrible glare Again and again and again, Till the land bows in the darkness, Utterly lost and defenceless, Smitten and blinded and overwhelmed By the crashing rods of rain.

And then in the forests of the Amazon, When the rain has ended, and silence come, What dark luxuriance unfolds From behind the night's drawn bars: The wreathing odours of a thousand trees And the flowers' faint gleaming presences, And over the clearings and the still waters Soft indigo and hanging stars.

* * * * *

O many and many are rivers, And beautiful are all rivers, And lovely is water everywhere That leaps or glides or stays; Yet by starlight, moonlight, or sunlight, Long, long though they look, these wandering eyes, Even on the fairest waters of dream, Never untroubled gaze.

For whatever stream I stand by, And whatever river I dream of, There is something still in the back of my mind From very far away; There is something I saw and see not, A country full of rivers That stirs in my heart and speaks to me More sure, more dear than they.

And always I ask and wonder (Though often I do not know it): Why does this water not smell like water? Where is the moss that grew Wet and dry on the slabs of granite And the round stones in clear brown water? --And a pale film rises before them Of the rivers that first I knew.

Though famous are the rivers of the great world, Though my heart from those alien waters drinks Delight however pure from their loveliness, And awe however deep, Would I wish for a moment the miracle That those waters should come to Chagford, Or gather and swell in Tavy Cleave Where the stones cling to the steep?

No, even were they Ganges and Amazon In all their great might and majesty, League upon league of wonders, I would lose them all, and more, For a light chiming of small bells, A twisting flash in the granite, The tiny thread of a pixie waterfall That lives by Vixen Tor.

Those rivers in that lost country, They were brown as a clear brown bead is, Or red with the earth that rain washed down, Or white with china-clay; And some tossed foaming over boulders, And some curved mild and tranquil, In wooded vales securely set Under the fond warm day.

Okement and Erme and Avon, Exe and his ruffled shallows, I could cry as I think of those rivers That knew my morning dreams; The weir by Tavistock at evening When the circling woods were purple, And the Lowman in spring with the lent-lilies, And the little moorland streams.