Part 2

Beneath unfathomable seas, Deeper than dreams, Sounder than sleep, Beyond the magic of the trees Where never light nor gladness gleams, Where neither life nor love can glow; There, you lie low: Frozen, encased in crystal shape, Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape; And not until you start from sleep May you be drawn from cavern deep, And never till the earth has quaked Can you from fairy trance be waked.

You dance! You dance on tiptoe! Up from the grave of withered fears, The earth wind, rushing in your ears, Spirit of joy and youth, most fair, Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair; You dance! You dance on tiptoe! The grass just bending at your feet, The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet Onward you go, Upward you flow, Up through the leaves, a spiral flame, A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim, Whose mystic essence inter-blending Flows in a torrent never ending; Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil! (Mysterious tree, whose knotted base Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!) Emerging thence by rapture swayed You rise from leafy ambuscade Poised in the ether, to and fro, One moment, hesitating--so-- Flashing from elfin eyes one glance Still on tiptoe You dance! You dance!

Oh! earth-born spirit! Swift wonder child of flame; The essence of your being, Dull human eyes, unseeing, Can never hope to tame; You may be worshipped from afar! By faith, by hope, we see the star From whence, you came: Fleet as the wind amongst the hills Your spirit listeth as it wills; Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild, You dwell amongst us, undefiled! But if we falter at your door At one false step your shrine, before One discord note, one word awry You vanish straight from human eye: The earth unfolds herself to seize, Your laughter echoes in the trees; And you are known no more.

A. G. Webster

(_Painter_, _Rebel_, _and Lover of Music_)

Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone, Working, unnoticed, with a single aim, He lived and moved amongst you all unknown; You gave him neither honour nor civic fame; No Freedom of your city crowned his head; No recognition of his genius came: But--- Citizens of Lincoln--- I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead!

Oh, to be Home

Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming, Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming, Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay, And the country's ready for the harvest day; Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing, Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing, Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap, And in the sun, the horses lie asleep.

Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready, Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady, Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying, And the barley--white as driven snow--is dying; When overhead, the harvest moon rides full, And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool; While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn, And farmers smile across the level Hurn.

Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh, And swifts by millions, flit about the sky, When thatchers all get busy with their pegs, And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs; When inns at night, are full of tired men, Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen; Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam; Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home.

Give Soldiers a Vote?

Give soldiers a vote? Don't talk so blame silly! They've gone to the War To beat Kyzer Billy; And till that be done There's plenty of fun.

The war may be pressing But--Politics first! Let's keep up the Game, Though the Heavens should burst; Then we're sure of our pay, Till the very Last Day.

Great Scott! Don't you see How we stand on the brink? Give soldiers a vote? They would say what they think; And from power and pay We should rapidly sink.

So don't talk about it, Don't mention it now; Let the men go to war And the women to plough; We Statesmen will govern.... The Lord, He knows how!

Alone

How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road The night far darker than a pit surrounds, And only by the lightning's fitful stroke Can'st see the perils that beset thy course; Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed; Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn; Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar, And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done.

Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart! So cunning that thou hardly art discerned: In caverns never touched by light of day Thou stirrest unbeknown; At first as lusty As any pliant sapling in the spring, Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms; Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing; Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone.

Thy years have passed away in that Great Search, The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone; Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness, Some haven where the soul is not bereaved; Too often--my heart--hast thou been sorely bruised; And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze, Declared by flash against the pitiless night: 'The soul must die as it hath lived--alone.' Alone! The shuddering echo dies away; No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever, There is no anodyne for weary hearts; For him who stands alone at this cross-road The only hope is death.

From nothingness to nothingness thou passest! As thou wert born-- As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die! Death is the only refuge: at his visage All other spectres flee. Remorse that teareth Like the undying worm, and Failure, That sheeted gibberer, his brother, Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode, Must vanish at his touch: And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over, Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulness Thou shalt sleep well.

Flesh of our Flesh

There is but one irrevocable bond, Heart of my heart! None other counteth here, All claims beside must fail, however fond, But this is surety never to be broken By us Beloved! the eternal token Of love made manifest beyond our fear: Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl! Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain, The world, to part us, rageth now in vain And life new-born through life doth bind us ever: Strange incarnation! out of each made whole! No prayer avails, no penances can sever: The Holy Ghost--the Spirit--releaseth never When flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul.

This Town is Hell

This town is Hell, and all the people in it Are devils, roasting for their sins like cinders; They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet, For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows, They have no air to breathe, no room to rove, And crowd so closely that you cannot move; Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders: In towns, there is no Providence above.

If Providence there is above this city, The fog and smoke must cover it from pity, For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking, To catch--they know not what--all nonsense talking. Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you! And if my time came back, I wouldn't part: You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon, And peaceful days and quietness of heart.

For here, no happiness can come at all, The nights are cursed by idle folk at play; Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay, Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall; No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower, No drowsy sound of bees among the clover; But only hooters, droning every hour; With smoke and dirt and misery all over.

Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human place I have remembered me the days so dear, And seen again the horses out at plough, Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear: The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise, To think that I am down Long Martin Fen; It brings the tears into my aching eyes, To dream that I am farming once again.

Timberland Bells

I used to hear them faintly Those evening bells for prayer, Across the fields of Tilney, Beyond the sunset's glare.

I heard them in my childhood, Those bells of Timberland, When I was always happy, Holding my father's hand.

Enchanted in the distance, They rode upon the air, Seeming to float from Heaven; I knew not how nor where.

All through life's dusty pathway, I heard those bells ring out, A chiming in the distance, That sung, my path about.

My father--how I miss him-- Lies in the churchyard there, He takes my hand no longer He knows not how I fare.

But I would give up everything To hold again his hand, And hear across the meadows The bells of Timberland.

'Dame Peach'

Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in her reach, She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she was ready for each; She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price for her best china ware, Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, if only you dare; Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although you'd have backed her to lose in a race, Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and nobody ever could stand in her place.

Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at the roughest of tricks, She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was driven, her profit to fix. Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or other had met her somehow, A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at midnight to sell you a cow; She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the Wold they found theirsens sold, While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they tried they was out in the cold.

The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo of tea, She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of furniture, just for a spree, Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she is there is business ahead, But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends that are gone and the days that are fled; When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy in-gathering all she could reach: A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, our Old Mrs. Peach.

Friends

Years ago, Simply ages; I don't know How the deuce they go: Like turning pages!

We're still friends at any rate; Nothing can invalidate The fun we had, Good or bad, Always together, Not caring whether Earthquake or thunder, Over or under; Joy in each heart; Singing like thrushes Young in bushes: Now--we're apart.

I've never been so happy since then: They talk of the love of women and men, It's not half so true as that of friends; Not passionate, not selfish, Never ends ... Not our fault to be forced away, Destiny came: A wedge: We could not turn its edge; And so it fell upon that bitter day.

We might have had such times! But--No! No! It wouldn't go; And after that 'twas never the same; I can't encompass it by rhymes, Halting and tame; There it lies-- Not to be altered by tears or sighs: We meet, stealing; Eyes on the door; With banished feeling-- But--No more!

Charing Cross--1916

Round Charing Cross in carrion row The crowd press in; a sight to see; Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow, With morbid curiosity.

Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces! Humanity all broken down! The ghostly grim procession races: Hell's handicraft in London Town.

The bestial throng with pampered eyes-- Faces of goat or sheep or bull-- All greedy with a glad surprise Of ghoulish horror drinking full.

Heroic citizens, well nourished, Who feast your eyes:--What sight to see? By you the Coliseum flourished; You thronged, as now, round Calvary.

Love not too much

Have you too greatly loved? Sister take warning! Once let your soul be moved, Sable your mourning; If he be satiate, Then an ingratiate, Waiteth the dawning.

Shew not the passion That stirs in your veins, Far more alluring To handle the reins, His love ensuring.... In masculine fashion If certain--he wanes.

He the pursuer Must ever press on, Passionate wooer Whilst you are a stone; Shew but a touch, Yet never too much And the battle is won.

Man is a monster Made to be stroked, Close then your arms Cover your charms; Great the enticement Of beauties when hidden, Of passion well cloaked.

Crazed, he shall plead, For what you yield gladly, Fiercer his greed, For what you give madly; You may have measure Of love's burning pleasure And still hold your treasure.... Sister take heed!

Niccolo Machiavelli

From thy serene abode thou lookest down With pitying eye upon a rabble rout Who strive and plot and fight and turn about, Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,-- Whether of kingdom or of some small town, Or village--or one single home--their own: They stumble, and with hurried steps awry Blindly they miss their opportunity; Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there, Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse, Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse.

Of all those who have striven to endow The world with garnered knowledge, only thou Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown; Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown; And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie; So that, alone, the stooping passer-by Undaunted by an epithet, may find; And treasuring like gold seven times refined, Open the casket with exultant air To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there.

Remorse

Pierce you another, pleasure bent, Or wound the helpless innocent; The Holy Ghost shall not relent.

Beyond the tortured body's cry Dread is the mind's dull misery; Remorse, the worm, can never die.

'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith: Who robs the innocent of breath, Certain shall live to welcome death.

The Mandrake's Horrid Scream

Why ain't the Mester back? Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours, An' when he's finished wi' his labours, He gallops off full crack! I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.' Them what's in towns has niver tried To live aloan, all terrified; They talk about churchyards at night, Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep In any place what made them creep! Coz allers they've a friend about To hear if they should give a shout! They dunno what it is to fear But--here-- _What's that?_ Only the cat! An' she's as black as Death's own self, She squats all loathly on yon shelf, Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me I wish the Devil-- No! Not _He_! I didn't mean to mention names, Nor interfere wi' others gaames: They saay as cats is really witches, Like Betty Williamson, now dead, What uster wear her husband's breeches An' ate the queerest food, foak said; She set beside her open door Wi' one foot allers off the floor, Quietly knitting; one eye cast To overlook you as you passed; An' just the same, yon nasty critter Stares at me now that soft an' bitter! Oh Dear! I wish my man would came! May ague twist, an' strike him dumb! May fairies nip his liver out An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. Forsaking me, all loansome here With iverything what's wrong and queer.

From out my winder, where I sit I see the willows round yon pit: Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found As some said,--accidental drowned!-- But I heard screechin', terrified, About the time he must a died! Having noa bottom, soa they say; It's dreadful secrets there must stay Until the Resurrection Day! Oh where the Devil is that Tom? I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam: The wind is moanin' round that Pit As if somebody wished to flit: There's Things in there what stirs by night An' if you see, yer hair turns white; Around, they say, the Mandrake grows What's pulled at dead of night by _those_ Who little care although it screams To wake poor mortals from their dreams. Our parson tells of Powers Evil: (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) Where should they laay, but in yon Pit? What makes me squirl to think on it: All gashly arms a-reachin' out To clamber up yer water spout An' reach you through-- Oh Lor! _Who's that?_ 'Tis something comin' I hear _it_ hummin'....

My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him! I was afraid of something grim-- I've bin a-wantin' you soa long-- You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed! I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed: 'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead.

One Day

I read you poems all the day, And all the night I dreamed of you, Wild nightmares riding sweet sleep through, Whilst all the time I longed to say More tenderly, my roundelay, And ardently with verse to woo.

I read you poems all the day; You gave them up again to me, For all the night I seemed to see Your face a vision on my way, As with the murmuring of streams Your voice commingled in my dreams.

I read you poems all the day; Ah! would that you could hear me now! Accepting the unuttered vow My spirit yearned but dare not say: Yet still though you are far away I read you poems all the day.

No Wife

Tom! Tom! What yer think? I've 'ed the Parson's wife The first time in 'er life, acrost our door!

What for?

What for? Why Tom, you'd niver niver guess! Not if you lived as old as Grammer Bess What's lately swore She's a hunder an' four-- _She wants us two, to go off an' git spliced!_

Oh Christ! What's got 'er now: The cow!

You well may swear; Coz 'ow she dare--an' why-- Will make you swear agen, or laugh--surelie! Just light yer pipe Now you look comfortable--so You're rough--old Tom--I know-- Black as a crow! But I'm fond on yer lad As any fool could see! An' whether we're good or bad You've bin maain good ter me.

But--blast 'er silly eyes! What yer say to 'er, then? I said a lot! I telled 'er what! A-comin' ere wi' 'er fancy airs, 'Er what's never known no cares, Lookin' that wise-- Just coz she catched a Parson! [An' noa great shaakes ayther-- She'd nowt of a feyther While 'er half-brother run away to sea An' took to blue water Wi' their ole cook's daughter] 'You talk of "sin" an' "shame,"' I sez, 'to me? You talks just like a fool Or a silly bairn at school Coz nobody about could doubt, But what we're happy together him an' me; Just look,' I sez, 'at any in this street What couple can you find about to beat My Tom an' me what's bin together years, Happy an' comfortable; Never noa serious trouble-- Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears-- Good reason why!' I sez--sez I-- 'Coz we're a free an' equal pair; We got to treat each other fair Or else we part.'

Well said now Missus! That were smart!

'To part!' sez she, 'lookin' all down her noaz, 'Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?' I sez--sez I--'that dudn't bother me Coz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz. I can maintain 'em by mysen,' sez I, 'An' would at any time o' day. I'm not a slave--an' anyway I'd manage if I 'ed to do, I'm not a slave,' I sez, 'like you!'

You didn't--Come!--

I did--I did! I meant it too. 'If your man turns up stunt,' sez I, 'You can't goa off, or let him fly; You can't maintain yoursen--not you!-- Lettin' aloan the bairns, you 'aint!' (That made her squirm all down her back!) ''Ow could you wok up on a stack? Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh; If your man drinks or starts to thresh You couldn't leave him coz he holds yer: You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer; Yer ain't like me, as free as air. I'm not afraid whoever stare, Nayther is Tom! We minds oursens An' thinks noa more of foaks than hens, Coz if I doant behave mysen-- Or him-- We parts!-- Why doant we? Why? Becoz we're free an' happy here, Becoz we treats each other fair!'

You giv 'er the rough o' yer tongue, old gel, But--what a sell!

Comin' 'ere to ride rough shod Coz she's a 'wife.' Why--bless my life She doesn't know she's born; She couldn't find her own corn! I sent 'er off wi' a flea in 'er ear! An' will again if she dost come near! But she weant! The white faced critter-- Wi' a noaz like a knife An' a smile that bitter As if she would kill. A wife! What does she know of life?-- Nowt! Nor ever will!-- But tomorrer's Sunday An' we'll go to Church!

What?

Yes! Just for once; an' sit together, Like birds of a feather! We aint ashamed to show our faces To them what thinks we be disgraces. We'll goa together Tom--for sure We'll goa this once an' then noa more-- If you be willin'?

Aye lass--I'm willin'-- I'll back you up as I've allers done, Agen Parson's wife or anyone. Aye; agen all the country round, Coz you're as good as could be found-- An' now--old gel--it's omost eight, Come on--yer know we moant be late, Off to the Ship for our glass of aale; This yarn of yourn'll make a taale! What's that--yer bunnet? All rate ... be quick-- I'll wait for yer agen the gate.

To an old Friend

A tongue of lambent living flame Stirs lightly when I hear your name, Your features delicate and rare, Quiver with every thought you bear; It ever was a strange delight To see your charming face alight, To sit with you awhile apart And hear the beating of your heart, Or watch the message from your brain Into your eyes then back again.

And still it is my fairest dream-- That delicate ethereal gleam, The fire that played behind your face, Lighting it with such fairy grace; Such intuition sweet and wild; Why should you always be a child?