Part 6

But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes, You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?

THE PILGRIMS

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go Always a little further: it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, Across that angry or that glimmering sea, White on a throne or guarded in a cave There lives a prophet who can understand Why men were born: but surely we are brave, Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

THE CHIEF MERCHANT

We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away!

ONE OF THE WOMEN

O turn your eyes to where your children stand. Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay!

THE MERCHANTS (_in chorus_)

We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

AN OLD MAN

Have you not girls and garlands in your homes, Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command? Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams!

THE MERCHANTS (_in chorus_)

We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE

Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells When shadows pass gigantic on the sand, And softly through the silence beat the bells Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.

A MERCHANT

We travel not for trafficking alone: By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned: For lust of knowing what should not be known We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN

Open the gate, O watchman of the night!

THE WATCHMAN

Ho, travellers, I open. For what land Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?

THE MERCHANTS (_with a shout_) We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

[_The Caravan passes through the gate_]

THE WATCHMAN (_consoling the women_)

What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus. Men are unwise and curiously planned.

A WOMAN

They have their dreams, and do not think of us.

VOICES OF THE CARAVAN (_in the distance, singing_) We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

ROBIN FLOWER

LA VIE CEREBRALE

I am alone--alone; There is nothing--only I, And, when I will to die, All must be gone.

Eternal thought in me Puts on the dress of time And builds a stage to mime Its listless tragedy.

And in that dress of time And on that stage of space I place, change, and replace Life to a wilful rime.

I summon at my whim All things that are, that were: The high incredible air, Where stars--my creatures--swim.

I dream, and from my mind The dead, the living come; I build a marble Rome, I give it to the wind.

Athens and Babylon I breathe upon the night, Troy towers for my delight And crumbles stone by stone.

I change with white and green The seasons hour by hour; I think--it is a flower, Think--and the flower has been.

Men, women, things, a stream That wavers and flows by, A lonely dreamer, I Build and cast down the dream.

And one day weary grown Of all my brain has wrought, I shall destroy my thought And I and all be gone.

THE PIPES

With the spring awaken other springs, Those swallows' wings are shadowed by other wings And another thrush behind that glad bird sings.

A multitude are the flowers, but multitudes Blossom and waver and breathe from forgotten woods, And in silent places an older silence broods.

With the spring long-buried springs in my heart awaken, Time takes the years, but the springs he has not taken, My thoughts with a boy's wild thoughts are mixed and shaken.

And here amid inland fields by the down's green shoulder I remember an ancient sea and mountains older, Older than all but time, skies sterner and colder.

When the swift spring night on the sea and the mountains fell In the hush of the solemn hills I remember well The far pipes calling and the tale they had to tell.

Sad was the tale, ah! sad beyond all saying The lament of the lonely pipes in the evening playing Lost in the glens, in the still, dark pines delaying.

And now with returning spring I remember all, On southern fields those mountain shadows fall, Those wandering pipes in the downland evening call.

SAY NOT THAT BEAUTY

Say not that beauty is an idle thing And gathered lightly as a wayside flower That on the trembling verges of the spring Knows but the sweet survival of an hour. For 'tis not so. Through dedicated days And foiled adventure of deliberate nights We lose and find and stumble in the ways That lead to the far confluence of delights. Not with the earthly eye and fleshly ear, But lifted far above mortality, We see at last the eternal hills, and hear The sighing of the universal sea; And kneeling breathless in the holy place We know immortal Beauty face to face.

JOHN FREEMAN

THE WAKERS

The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair, And cried, "Before thy flowers are well awake Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.

"Before the daisy and the sorrel buy Their brightness back from that close-folding night, Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake, Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!"

Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred Above the Roman bones that may not stir Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang: The grass stirred as that happy music rang.

O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere! The steady shadows shook and thinned and died, The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness, And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.

As if she had found wings, light as the wind, The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west, Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing all Her dews for happiness to hear morning call ...

But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed, I saw the fading edge of all delight. The sober morning waked the drowsy herds, And there was the old scolding of the birds.

THE BODY

When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was, And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed, I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping now no more: My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed.

"I did not think!" I cried, seeing that wavering shape That steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in June Lifts and falls in the wind--each fruit a fruit of light; And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.

As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near; I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away. Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still, Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.

Water falling, falling with the curve of time Over green-hued rock, then plunging to its pool Far, far below, a falling spear of light; Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:

Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast, Water falls as straight as her body rose, Water her brightness has from neck to still feet, Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.

But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed, Nor water such strength has. I joyed to behold How the blood lit her body with lamps of fire And made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold.

A flame in her arms and in each finger flame, And flame in her bosom, flame above, below, The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs;µ From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.

I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise, How the body's joy for more than body's use was made. I knew then how the body is the body of the mind, And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.

O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore, Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind, Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world, Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!

If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen-- The inward vision clear--how should I look for Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the world Over age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?

STONE TREES

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark. In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark. Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.

The cows astonished stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And comes to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid. From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought. Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Gray granite trees was music wrought. In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ... Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And shivered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds nocking sweep. Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd: Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light. And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

MORE THAN SWEET

The noisy fire, The drumming wind, The creaking trees, And all that hum Of summer air And all the long inquietude Of breaking seas--

Sweet and delightful are In loneliness. But more than these The quiet light From the morn's sun And night's astonished moon, Falling gently upon breaking seas.

Such quietness Another beauty is-- Ah, and those stars So gravely still More than light, than beauty pour Upon the strangeness Of the heart's breaking seas.

WAKING

Lying beneath a hundred seas of sleep With all those heavy waves flowing over me, And I unconscious of the rolling night Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deep Risen, I felt the wandering seas no longer cover me But only air and light ...

It was a sleep So dark and so bewilderingly deep That only death's were deeper or completer, And none when I awoke stranger or sweeter. Awake, the strangeness still hung over me As I with far-strayed senses stared at the light.

I--and who was I? Saw--oh, with what unaccustomed eye! The room was strange and everything strange Like a strange room entered by wild moonlight; And yet familiar as the light swept over me And I rose from the night.

Strange--yet stranger I. And as one climbs from water up to land Fumbling for weedy steps with foot and hand, So I for yesterdays whereon to climb To this remote and new-struck isle of time. But I found not myself nor yesterday--

Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deep Risen, I felt the seas no longer over me But only air and light. Yes, like one clutching at a ring I heard The household noises as they stirred, And holding fast I wondered, What were they?

I felt a strange hand lying at my side, Limp and cool. I touched it and knew it mine. A murmur, and I remembered how the wind died In the near aspens. Then Strange things were no more strange. I travelled among common thoughts again;

And felt the new-forged links of that strong chain That binds me to myself, and this to-day To yesterday. I heard it rattling near With a no more astonished ear. And I had lost the strangeness of that sleep, No more the long night rolled its great seas over me.

--O, too anxious I! For in this press of things familiar I have lost all that clung Round me awaking of strangeness and such sweetness. Nothing now is strange Except the man that woke and then was I.

THE CHAIR

The chair was made By hands long dead, Polished by many bodies sitting there, Until the wood-lines flowed as clean as waves.

Mine sat restless there, Or propped to stare Hugged the low kitchen with fond eyes Or tired eyes that looked at nothing at all.

Or watched from the smoke rise The flame's snake-eyes, Up the black-bearded chimney leap; Then on my shoulder my dull head would drop.

And half asleep I heard her creep--Her never-singing lips shut fast, Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.

Then, at last, My lids upcast, Our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled, And I shut mine again and truly slept.

Was I that child Fretful, sick, wild? Was that you moving soft and soft Between the rooms if I but played at sleep?

Or if I laughed, Talked, cried, or coughed, You smiled too, just perceptibly, Or your large kind brown eyes said, O poor boy!

From the fireside I Could see the narrow sky Through the barred heavy window panes, Could hear the sparrows quarrelling round the lilac;

And hear the heavy rains Choking in the roof-drains:-- Else of the world I nothing heard Or nothing remember now. But most I loved

To watch when you stirred Busily like a bird At household doings; with hands floured Mixing a magic with your cakes and tarts.

O into me, sick, froward, Yourself you poured; In all those days and weeks when I Sat, slept, woke, whimpered, wondered and slept again.

Now but a memory To bless and harry me Remains of you still swathed with care; Myself your chief care, sitting by the hearth

Propped in the pillowed chair, Following you with tired stare, And my hand following the wood lines By dead hands smoothed and followed many years.

THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?--Venus, that brushes with her shining lips (Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks With hers its all ungentle wantonness?--Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of ships Creeping and creeping in their restlessness), The moon pouring strange light on things more strange, Looks she unheedfully on seas and lands Trembling with change and fear of counter-change?

O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars! The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering. I cannot look up to the crowded height And see the fair stars trembling in their light, For thinking of the starlike spirits of men Crowding the earth and with great passion quivering:-- Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity. I cannot look up to the naked skies Because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, Death, on the living world of sense; Because on my own land a shadow lies That may not rise; Because from bare grey hillside and rich city Streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence... How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?

Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity. An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the trees Wet mist shaped other trees that branching rose, Covering the woods and putting out the stars. There was no murmur on the seas, No wind blew--only the wandering air that grows With dawn, then murmurs, sighs, And dies. The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars, And the earth trembled when the stars were gone; And moving strangely everywhere upon The trembling earth, thickened the watery mist.

And for a time the holy things are veiled. England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hours Are trodden underfoot like wayside flowers, And every English heart is England's wholly. In starless night A serious passion streams the heaven with light. A common beating is in the air-- The heart of England throbbing everywhere. And all her roads are nerves of noble thought, And all her people's brain is but her brain; And all her history, less her shame, Is part of her requickened consciousness. Her courage rises clean again.

Even in victory there hides defeat; The spirit's murdered though the body survives, Except the cause for which a people strives Burn with no covetous, foul heat. Fights she against herself who infamously draws The sword against man's secret spiritual laws, But thou, England, because a bitter heel Hath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will, The conscience of the world, For this, England, art risen, and shalt fight Purely through long profoundest night,

Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee; And (if to thee the stars yield victory) Tempering their hate of the great foe that hurled Vainly her strength against the conscience of the world.

I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and saw The stars again and all their peace again. The moving mist had gone, and shining still The moon went high and pale above the hill. Not now those lights were trembling in the vast Ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth: Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours passed. And with less fear (not with less awe, Remembering, England, all the blood and pain) How look, I cried, you stern and solitary stars On these disastrous wars!

August, 1914.

SHADOWS

The shadow of the lantern on the wall, The lantern hanging from the twisted beam, The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.

The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate, The far train, the slow echo in the coombe, The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all.

The loveliness that is the secret shape Of once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness, The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all ...

A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through, And makes substantial insubstantial seem, And shapes immortal mortal as a dream; And eye and brain flicker as shadows do Restlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.

ROBERT GRAVES

STAR-TALK

"Are you awake, Gemelli, This frosty night?" "We'll be awake till reveille, Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, "It's no good trying to go to sleep: If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, But rest is hopeless to-night, But rest is hopeless to-night."

"Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?" "Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather to-night, It's bitter weather to-night."

"What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?" "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion And the Great Bear," says Orion, "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders to-night, To warm my shoulders to-night."

"Did you hear that, Great She-bear, This frosty night?" "Yes, he's talking of stripping _me_ bare Of my own big fur," says the She-bear. "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel to-night! And the frost so cruel to-night!"

"How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?" "Complaints is many and various And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, And the pump has frozen to-night, And the pump has frozen to-night."

TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS-- FOR THE FOURTH TIME

It doesn't matter what's the cause, What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, When we're to do the fighting! And since we lads are proud and true, What else remains to do?

Lucasta, when to France your man Returns his fourth time, hating war, Yet laughs as calmly as he can And flings an oath, but says no more, That is not courage, that's not fear--Lucasta he is Fusilier, And his pride sends him here.

Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray And so decide who started This bloody war, and who's to pay But he must be stout-hearted, Must sit and stake with quiet breath, Playing at cards with Death.

Don't plume yourself he fights for you; It is no courage, love or hate That lets us do the things we do; It's pride that makes the heart so great; It is not anger, no, nor fear--Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here.

NOT DEAD

Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough bark of the friendly oak. A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his. Turf burns with pleasant smoke; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile.

IN THE WILDERNESS

Christ of his gentleness Thirsting and hungering, Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. He heard the bittern's call From ruined palace wall, Answered them brotherly. He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety. Basilisk, cockatrice, Flocked to His homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barbed stings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries. And ever with Him went, Of all His wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scape-goat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept.

NEGLECTFUL EDWARD

_Nancy_

Edward back from the Indian Sea, "What have you brought for Nancy?"

_Edward_

"A rope of pearls and a gold earring, And a bird of the East that will not sing. A carven tooth, a box with a key--"

_Nancy_

"God be praised you are back," says she, "Have you nothing more for your Nancy?"

_Edward_

"Long as I sailed the Indian Sea I gathered all for your fancy: Toys and silk and jewels I bring, And a bird of the East that will not sing: What more can you want, dear girl, from me?"

_Nancy_

"God be praised you are back," said she, "Have you nothing better for Nancy?"

_Edward_

"Safe and home from the Indian Sea And nothing to take your fancy?"

_Nancy_

"You can keep your pearls and your gold earring, And your bird of the East that will not sing, But, Ned, have you _nothing_ more for me Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, "Have you nothing better for Nancy?"

JULIAN GRENFELL

_Born 1888_ _Killed in Action 1915_

TO A BLACK GREYHOUND

Shining black in the shining light, Inky black in the golden sun, Graceful as the swallow's flight, Light as swallow, winged one, Swift as driven hurricane, Double-sinewed stretch and spring, Muffled thud of flying feet-- See the black dog galloping, Hear his wild foot-beat.