Part 7

See him lie when the day is dead, Black curves curled on the boarded floor. Sleepy eyes, my sleepy-head-- Eyes that were aflame before. Gentle now, they burn no more; Gentle now and softly warm, With the fire that made them bright Hidden--as when after storm Softly falls the night.

INTO BATTLE

The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run, And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend, They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges' end.

The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing."

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts

And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy of Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind

Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still, Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

IVOR GURNEY

TO THE POET BEFORE BATTLE

Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes: Thy lovely things must all be laid away; And thou, as others, must face the riven day Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums, Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs The sense of being, the fear-sick soul doth sway, Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs Of praise the little versemen joyed to take Shall be forgotten: then they must know we are, For all our skill in words, equal in might And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make The name of poet terrible in just war, And like a crown of honour upon the fight.

SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTY

To M. M. S.

O may these days of pain, These wasted-seeming days, Somewhere reflower again With scent and savour of praise, Draw out of memory all bitterness Of night with Thy sun's rays.

And strengthen Thou in me The love of men here found, And eager charity, That, out of difficult ground, Spring like flowers in barren deserts, or Like light, or a lovely sound.

A simpler heart than mine Might have seen beauty clear When I could see no sign Of Thee, but only fear. Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty always In every happening here.

_In Trenches, March_ 1917.

RALPH HODGSON

EVE

Eve, with her basket, was Deep in the bells and grass, Wading in bells and grass Up to her knees, Picking a dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Down in the bells and grass Under the trees.

Mute as a mouse in a Corner the cobra lay, Curled round a bough of the Cinnamon tall...... Now to get even and Humble proud heaven and Now was the moment or Never at all.

"Eva!" Each syllable Light as a flower fell, "Eva!" he whispered the Wondering maid, Soft as a bubble sung Out of a linnet's lung, Soft and most silverly "Eva!" he said.

Picture that orchard sprite, Eve, with her body white, Supple and smooth to her Slim finger tips, Wondering, listening, Eve with a berry Half way to her lips.

Oh had our simple Eve Seen through the make-believe! Had she but known the Pretender he was! Out of the boughs he came Whispering still her name Tumbling in twenty rings Into the grass.

Here was the strangest pair In the world anywhere; Eve in the bells and grass Kneeling, and he Telling his story low.... Singing birds saw them go Down the dark path to The Blasphemous Tree.

Oh what a clatter when Titmouse and Jenny Wren Saw him successful and Taking his leave! How the birds rated him, How they all hated him! How they all pitied Poor motherless' Eve!

Picture her crying Outside in the lane, Eve, with no dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Haunting the gate of the Orchard in vain...... Picture the lewd delight Under the hill to-night-- "Eva!" the toast goes round, "Eva!" again.

THE BULL

See an old unhappy bull, Sick in soul and body both, Slouching in the undergrowth Of the forest beautiful, Banished from the herd he led, Bulls and cows a thousand head.

Cranes and gaudy parrots go Up and down the burning sky; Tree-top cats purr drowsily In the dim-day green below; And troops of monkeys, nutting, some, All disputing, go and come;

And things abominable sit Picking offal buck or swine, On the mess and over it Burnished flies and beetles shine, And spiders big as bladders lie Under hemlocks ten foot high;

And a dotted serpent curled Round and round and round a tree, Yellowing its greenery, Keeps a watch on all the world, All the world and this old bull In the forest beautiful.

Bravely by his fall he came: One he led, a bull of blood Newly come to lustihood, Fought and put his prince to shame, Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head Tameless even while it bled.

There they left him, every one, Left him there without a lick, Left him for the birds to pick, Left him there for carrion, Vilely from their bosom cast Wisdom, worth and love at last.

When the lion left his lair And roared his beauty through the hills, And the vultures pecked their quills And flew into the middle air, Then this prince no more to reign Came to life and lived again,

He snuffed the herd in far retreat, He saw the blood upon the ground, And snuffed the burning airs around Still with beevish odours sweet, While the blood ran down his head And his mouth ran slaver red.

Pity him, this fallen chief, All his splendour, all his strength, All his body's breadth and length Dwindled down with shame and grief, Half the bull he was before, Bones and leather, nothing more.

See him standing dewlap-deep In the rushes at the lake, Surly, stupid, half asleep, Waiting for his heart to break And the birds to join the flies Feasting at his bloodshot eyes,--

Standing with his head hung down In a stupor, dreaming things: Green savannas, jungles brown, Battlefields and bellowings, Bulls undone and lions dead And vultures flapping overhead.

Dreaming things: of days he spent With his mother gaunt and lean In the valley warm and green, Full of baby wonderment, Blinking out of silly eyes At a hundred mysteries;

Dreaming over once again How he wandered with a throng Of bulls and cows a thousand strong, Wandered on from plain to plain, Up the hill and down the dale, Always at his mother's tail;

How he lagged behind the herd, Lagged and tottered, weak of limb, And she turned and ran to him Blaring at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

Dreaming maybe of a day When her drained and drying paps Turned him to the sweets and saps, Richer fountains by the way, And she left the bull she bore And he looked to her no more;

And his little frame grew stout, And his little legs grew strong, And the way was not so long; And his little horns came out, And he played at butting trees And boulder-stones and tortoises,

Joined a game of knobby skulls With the youngsters of his year, All the other little bulls, Learning both to bruise and bear, Learning how to stand a shock Like a little bull of rock.

Dreaming of a day less dim, Dreaming of a time less far, When the faint but certain star Of destiny burned clear for him, And a fierce and wild unrest Broke the quiet of his breast.

And the gristles of his youth Hardened in his comely pow, And he came to righting growth, Beat his bull and won his cow, And flew his tail and trampled off Past the tallest, vain enough,

And curved about in splendour full And curved again and snuffed the airs As who should say Come out who dares I And all beheld a bull, a Bull, And knew that here was surely one That backed for no bull, fearing none.

And the leader of the herd Looked and saw, and beat the ground, And shook the forest with his sound, Bellowed at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

Dreaming, this old bull forlorn, Surely dreaming of the hour When he came to sultan power, And they owned him master-horn, Chiefest bull of all among Bulls and cows a thousand strong.

And in all the tramping herd Not a bull that barred his way, Not a cow that said him nay, Not a bull or cow that erred In the furnace of his look Dared a second, worse rebuke;

Not in all the forest wide, Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen, Not another dared him then, Dared him and again defied; Not a sovereign buck or boar Came a second time for more.

Not a serpent that survived Once the terrors of his hoof Risked a second time reproof, Came a second time and lived, Not a serpent in its skin Came again for discipline;

Not a leopard bright as flame, Flashing fingerhooks of steel, That a wooden tree might feel, Met his fury once and came For a second reprimand, Not a leopard in the land.

Not a lion of them all Not a lion of the hills, Hero of a thousand kills, Dared a second fight and fall, Dared that ram terrific twice, Paid a second time the price....

Pity him, this dupe of dream, Leader of the herd again Only in his daft old brain, Once again the bull supreme And bull enough to bear the part Only in his tameless heart.

Pity him that he must wake; Even now the swarm of flies Blackening his bloodshot eyes Bursts and blusters round the lake, Scattered from the feast half-fed, By great shadows overhead.

And the dreamer turns away From his visionary herds And his splendid yesterday, Turns to meet the loathly birds Flocking round him from the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

THE SONG OF HONOUR

I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound Swung by and soon was nowhere found, I heard him calling half-way round, Holloing loud and deep; A pair of stars, faint pins of light, Then many a star, sailed into sight, And all the stars, the flower of night, Were round me at a leap; To tell how still the valleys lay I heard a watchdog miles away...... And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell, The mastiff in a slumber fell, I stared into the sky, As wondering men have always done, Since beauty and the stars were one, Though none so hard as I.

It seemed, so still the valleys were, As if the whole world knelt at prayer, Save me and me alone; So pure and wide that silence was I feared to bend a blade of grass, And there I stood like stone.

There, sharp and sudden, there I heard-- _Ah! some wild lovesick singing bird_ _Woke singing in the trees?_ _The nightingale and babble-wren_ _Were in the English greenwood then,_ _And you heard one of these?_

The babble-wren and nightingale Sang in the Abyssinian vale That season of the year! Yet, true enough, I heard them plain, I heard them both again, again, As sharp and sweet and clear As if the Abyssinian tree Had thrust a bough across the sea, Had thrust a bough across to me With music for my ear!

I heard them both, and oh! I heard The song of every singing bird That sings beneath the sky, And with the song of lark and wren The song of mountains, moths and men And seas and rainbows vie!

I heard the universal choir The Sons of Light exalt their Sire With universal song, Earth's lowliest and loudest notes, Her million times ten million throats Exalt Him loud and long, And lips and lungs and tongues of Grace From every part and every place Within the shining of His face The universal throng.

I heard the hymn of being sound From every well of honour found In human sense and soul: The song of poets when they write The testament of Beautysprite Upon a flying scroll, The song of painters when they take A burning brush for Beauty's sake And limn her features whole--

The song of men divinely wise Who look and see in starry skies Not stars so much as robins' eyes, And when these pale away Hear flocks of shiny pleiades Among the plums and apple trees Sing in the summer day-- The song of all both high and low To some blest vision true, The song of beggars when they throw The crust of pity all men owe To hungry sparrows in the snow, Old beggars hungry too-- The song of kings of kingdoms when They rise above their fortune men, And crown themselves anew,--

The song of courage, heart and will And gladness in a fight, Of men who face a hopeless hill With sparking and delight, The bells and bells of song that ring Round banners of a cause or king From armies bleeding white--

The songs of sailors every one When monstrous tide and tempest run At ships like bulls at red, When stately ships are twirled and spun Like whipping-tops and help there's none And mighty ships ten thousand ton Go down like lumps of lead--

And songs of fighters stern as they At odds with fortune night and day, Crammed up in cities grim and grey As thick as bees in hives, Hosannas of a lowly throng Who sing unconscious of their song, Whose lips are in their lives--

And song of some at holy war With spells and ghouls more dread by far Than deadly seas and cities are, Or hordes of quarrelling kings-- The song of fighters great and small, The song of pretty fighters all, And high heroic things--

The song of lovers--who knows how Twitched up from place and time Upon a sigh, a blush, a vow, A curve or hue of cheek or brow, Borne up and off from here and now Into the void sublime!

And crying loves and passions still In every key from soft to shrill And numbers never done, Dog-loyalties to faith and friend, And loves like Ruth's of old no end, And intermission none--

And burst on burst for beauty and For numbers not behind, From men whose love of motherland Is like a dog's for one dear hand, Sole, selfless, boundless, blind-- And song of some with hearts beside For men and sorrows far and wide, Who watch the world with pity and pride And warm to all mankind--

And endless joyous music rise From children at their play, And endless soaring lullabies From happy, happy mother's eyes, And answering crows and baby cries, How many who shall say! And many a song as wondrous well With pangs and sweets intolerable From lonely hearths too gray to tell, God knows how utter gray!

And song from many a house of care When pain has forced a footing there And there's a Darkness on the stair Will not be turned away--

And song--that song whose singers come With old kind tales of pity from The Great Compassion's lips, That makes the bells of Heaven to peal Round pillows frosty with the feel Of Death's cold finger tips--

The song of men all sorts and kinds, As many tempers, moods and minds As leaves are on a tree, As many faiths and castes and creeds, As many human bloods and breeds As in the world may be;

The song of each and all who gaze On Beauty in her naked blaze, Or see her dimly in a haze, Or get her light in fitful rays And tiniest needles even, The song of all not wholly dark, Not wholly sunk in stupor stark Too deep for groping Heaven--

And alleluias sweet and clear And wild with beauty men mishear, From choirs of song as near and dear To Paradise as they, The everlasting pipe and flute Of wind and sea and bird and brute, And lips deaf men imagine mute In wood and stone and clay;

The music of a lion strong That shakes a hill a whole night long, A hill as loud as he, The twitter of a mouse among Melodious greenery, The ruby's and the rainbow's song, The nightingale's--all three, The song of life that wells and flows From every leopard, lark and rose And everything that gleams or goes Lack-lustre in the sea.

I heard it all, each, every note Of every lung and tongue and throat, Ay, every rhythm and rhyme Of everything that lives and loves And upward, ever upward moves From lowly to sublime! Earth's multitudinous Sons of Light, I heard them lift their lyric might With each and every chanting sprite That lit the sky that wondrous night As far as eye could climb!

I heard it all, I heard the whole Harmonious hymn of being roll Up through the chapel of my soul And at the altar die, And in the awful quiet then Myself I heard Amen, Amen, Amen I heard me cry! I heard it all, and then although I caught my flying senses, oh, A dizzy man was I! I stood and stared; the sky was lit, The sky was stars all over it, I stood, I knew not why, Without a wish, without a will, I stood upon that silent hill And stared into the sky until My eyes were blind with stars and still I stared into the sky.

REASON HAS MOONS

Reason has moons, but moons not hers Lie mirror'd on her sea, Confounding her astronomers, But, O! delighting me.

JAMES JOYCE

STRINGS IN THE EARTH

Strings in the earth and air Make music sweet; Strings by the river where The willows meet.

There's music along the river For Love wanders there, Pale flowers on his mantle, Dark leaves on his hair.

All softly playing, With head to the music bent, And fingers straying Upon an instrument.

I HEAR AN ARMY

I hear an army charging upon the land, And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees: Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand, Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.

They cry unto the night their battle-name: I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter. They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

They come shaking in triumph their long green hair: They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore. My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

D. H. LAWRENCE

SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD

Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers.

And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears nor feels

The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

_Killed in Action, 1917,_

IN FRANCE

The silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams; And round me music-making rills And mingling waves of pastoral streams.

Whatever way I turn I find The path is old unto me still. The hills of home are in my mind, And there I wander as I will.

_February 3rd, 1917.

THOMAS MACDONAGH

He shall not hear the bittern cry In the wild sky, where he is lain, Nor voices of the sweeter birds Above the wailing of the rain.

Nor shall he know when loud March blows Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill, Blowing to flame the golden cup Of many an upset daffodil.

But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor, And pastures poor with greedy weeds, Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.

IN SEPTEMBER

Still are the meadowlands, and still Ripens the upland com, And over the brown gradual hill The moon has dipped a horn.

The voices of the dear unknown With silent hearts now call, My rose of youth is overblown And trembles to the fall.

My song forsakes me like the birds That leave the rain and grey, I hear the music of the words My lute can never say.

ROSE MACAULAY

TRINITY SUNDAY

As I walked in Petty Cury on Trinity Day, While the cuckoos in the fields did shout, Right through the city stole the breath of the may, And the scarlet doctors all about

Lifted up their heads to snuff at the breeze, And forgot they were bound for great St. Mary's To listen to a sermon from the Master of Caius, And "How balmy," they said, "the air is!"

And balmy it was; and the sweet bells rocking Shook it till it rent in two And fell, a torn veil; and like maniacs mocking The wild things from without passed through.

Wild wet things that swam in King's Parade The days it was a marshy fen, Through the rent veil they did sprawl and wade Blind bog-beasts and Ugrian men.

And the city was not. (For cities are wrought Of the stuff of the world's live brain. Cities are thin veils, woven of thought, And thought, breaking, rends them in twain.)

And the fens were not. (For fens are dreams Dreamt by a race long dead; And the earth is naught, and the sun but seems: And so those who know have said.)

So veil beyond veil inimitably lifted: And I saw the world's naked face, Before, reeling and baffled and blind, I drifted Back within the bounds of space.

***

I have forgot the unforgettable. All of honey and milk the air is. God send I do forget.... The merry winds swell In the scarlet gowns bound for St. Mary's.

THOMAS MACDONAGH

_Born 1878._

_Executed after Easter Week Rising, 1916._

INSCRIPTION ON A RUIN