Part 8

I stood beside the postern here, High up above the trampling sea, In shadow, shrinking from the spear Of light, not daring hence to flee.

The moon beyond the western cliff Had passed, and let the shadow fall, Across the water to the skiff That came on to the castle wall.

I heard below murmur of words Not loud, the splash upon the strand, And the long cry of darkling birds. The ivory horn fell from my hand.

THE NIGHT HUNT

In the morning, in the dark, When the stars begin to blunt, By the wall of Barn a Park Dogs I heard and saw them hunt; All the parish dogs were there, All the dogs for miles around, Teeming up behind a hare, In the dark, without a sound.

How I heard I scarce can tell-- 'Twas a patter in the grass-- And I did not see them well Come across the dark and pass; Yet I saw them and I knew Spearman's dog and Spellman's dog And, beside my own dog too, Leamy's from the Island Bog.

In the morning when the sun Burnished all the green to gorse, I went out to take a run Round the bog upon my horse; And my dog that had been sleeping In the heat beside the door Left his yawning and went leaping On a hundred yards before.

Through the village street we passed-- Not a dog there raised a snout-- Through the street and out at last On the white bog road and out Over Barna Park full pace, Over to the silver stream, Horse and dog in happy race, Rider between thought and dream.

By the stream, at Leamy's house, Lay a dog--my pace I curbed-- But our coming did not rouse Him from drowsing undisturbed; And my dog, as unaware Of the other, dropped beside And went running by me there With my horse's slackened stride.

Yet by something, by a twitch Of the sleeper's eye, a look From the runner, something which Little chords of feeling shook, I was conscious that a thought Shuddered through the silent deep Of a secret--I had caught Something I had known in sleep.

JOHN MASEFIELD

C. L. M.

In the dark womb where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.

Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind.

If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me.

What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my monthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?

What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed.

***

O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.

WHAT AM I, LIFE?

What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt Held in cohesion by unresting cells Which work they know not why, which never halt, Myself unwitting where their master dwells. I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin; A world which uses me as I use them, Nor do I know which end or which begin, Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn. So, like a marvel in a marvel set, I answer to the vast, as wave by wave The sea of air goes over, dry or wet, Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave, Or the great sun comes north, this myriad I Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.

HAROLD MONRO

JOURNEY

I

How many times I nearly miss the train By running up the staircase once again For some dear trifle almost left behind. At that last moment the unwary mind Forgets the solemn tick of station-time; That muddy lane the feet must climb-- The bridge--the ticket--signal down-- Train just emerging beyond the town: The great blue engine panting as it takes The final curve, and grinding on its brakes Up to the platform-edge... The little doors Swing open, while the burly porter roars. The tight compartment fills: our careful eyes Go to explore each other's destinies. A lull. The station-master waves. The train Gathers, and grips, and takes the rails again, Moves to the shining open land, and soon Begins to tittle-tattle a tame tattoon.

II

They ramble through the country-side, Dear gentle monsters, and we ride Pleasantly seated--so we sink Into a torpor on the brink Of thought, or read our books, and understand Half them and half the backward-gliding land: (Trees in a dance all twirling round; Large rivers flowing with no sound; The scattered images of town and field, Shining flowers half concealed.) And, having settled to an equal rate, They swing the curve and straighten to the straight, Curtail their stride and gather up their joints, Snort, dwindle their steam for the noisy points, Leap them in safety, and, the other side, Loop again to an even stride.

The long train moves: we move in it along. Like an old ballad, or an endless song, It drones and wimbles its unwearied croon-- Croons, drones, and mumbles all the afternoon.

Towns with their fifty chimneys close and high, Wreathed in great smoke between the earth and sky, It hurtles through them, and you think it must Halt--but it shrieks and sputters them with dust, Cracks like a bullet through their big affairs, Rushes the station-bridge, and disappears Out to the suburb, laying bare Each garden trimmed with pitiful care; Children are caught at idle play, Held a moment, and thrown away. Nearly everyone looks round. Some dignified inhabitant is found Right in the middle of the commonplace-- Buttoning his trousers, or washing his face.

III

Oh the wild engine! Every time I sit In any train I must remember it. The way it smashes through the air; its great Petulant majesty and terrible rate: Driving the ground before it, with those round Feet pounding, eating, covering the ground; The piston using up the white steam so You cannot watch it when it come or go; The cutting, the embankment; how it takes The tunnels, and the clatter that it makes; So careful of the train and of the track, Guiding us out, or helping us go back; Breasting its destination: at the close Yawning, and slowly dropping to a doze.

IV

We who have looked each other in the eyes This journey long, and trundled with the train, Now to our separate purposes must rise, Becoming decent strangers once again. The little chamber we have made our home In which we so conveniently abode, The complicated journey we have come, Must be an unremembered episode. Our common purpose made us all like friends. How suddenly it ends! A nod, a murmur, or a little smile, Or often nothing, and away we file. I hate to leave you, comrades. I will stay To watch you drift apart and pass away. It seems impossible to go and meet All those strange eyes of people in the street. But, like some proud unconscious god, the train Gathers us up and scatters us again.

SOLITUDE

When you have tidied all things for the night, And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, You'll pause a moment in the late firelight, Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood In sympathetic silence all the day With that old kindness of domestic wood; Nevertheless the haunted room will say: "Some one must be away."

The little dog rolls over half awake, Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you, Wags his tail very slightly for your sake, That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door.

Silence is scattered like a broken glass. The minutes prick their ears and run about, Then one by one subside again and pass Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear. Solitude walks one heavy step more near.

MILK FOR THE CAT

When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do, She has come in merely to blink by the grate, But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes Take a soft large milky haze, And her independent casual glance Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears, Or twists her tail and begins to stir, Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes One breathing, trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh; The two old ladies stroke their silk: But the cat is grown small and thin with desire, Transformed to a creeping lust for milk:

The white saucer like some full moon descends At last from the clouds of the table above; She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim, Buries her chin in the creamy sea; Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long dim ecstasy holds her life; Her world is an infinite shapeless white, Till her tongue has curled the last half drop, Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair, Lies defeated and buried deep Three or four hours unconscious there.

T. STURGE MOORE

SENT FROM EGYPT WITH A FAIR ROBE OF TISSUE TO A SICILIAN VINE-DRESSER.

276 B.C.

Put out to sea, if wine thou wouldest make Such as is made in Cos: when open boat May safely launch, advice of pilots take; And find the deepest bottom, most remote From all encroachment of the crumbling shore, Where no fresh stream tempers the rich salt wave, Forcing rash sweetness on sage ocean's brine; As youthful shepherds pour Their first love forth to Battos gnarled and grave, Fooling shrewd age to bless some fond design.

Not after storm! but when, for a long spell, No white-maned horse has raced across the blue, Put from the beach! lest troubled be the well-- Less pure thy draught than from such depth were due. Fast close thy largest jars, prepared and clean! Next weigh each buoyant womb down through the flood, Far down! when, with a cord the lid remove, And it will fill unseen, Swift as a heart Love smites sucks back the blood:-- This bubbles, deeper born than sighs, shall prove.

If thy bowed shoulders ache, as thou dost haul-- Those groan who climb with rich ore from the mine; Labour untold round Ilion girt a wall; A god toiled that Achilles' arms might shine; Think of these things and double knit thy will! Then, should the sun be hot on thy return, Cover thy jars with piles of bladder weed, Dripping, and fragrant still From sea-wolds where it grows like bracken-fern: A grapnel dragged will soon supply thy need.

Home to a tun-convey thy precious freight! Wherein, for thirty days, it should abide, Closed, yet not quite closed from the air, and wait While, through dim stillness, slowly doth subside Thick sediment. The humour of a day, Which has defeated youth and health and joy, Down, through a dreamless sleep, will settle thus, Till riseth maiden gay Set free from all glooms past--or else a boy Once more a school-friend worthy Troilus.

Yet to such cool wood tank some dream might dip: Vision of Aphrodite sunk to sleep, Or of some sailor let down from a ship, Young, dead, and lovely, while across the deep, Through the calm night, his hoarse-voiced comrades chaunt-- So far at sea, they cannot reach the land To lay him perfect in the warm brown earth. Pray that such dreams there haunt! While, through damp darkness, where thy tun doth stand, Cold salamanders sidle round its girth.

Gently draw off the clear and tomb it yet For other twenty days in cedarn casks! Where through trance, surely, prophecy will set; As, dedicated to light temple-tasks, The young priest dreams the unknown mystery. Through Ariadne, knelt disconsolate In the sea's marge, so welled back warmth which throbbed With nuptial promise: she Turned; and, half-choked through dewy glens, some great, Some magic drone of revel coming sobbed.

Of glorious fruit, indeed, must be thy choice, Such as has fully ripened on the branch, Such as due rain, then sunshine, made rejoice, Which, pulped and coloured, now deep bloom doth blanch; Clusters like odes for victors in the games, Strophe on strophe globed, pure nectar all! Spread such to dry,--if Helios grant thee grace, Exposed unto his flames Two days, or, if not, three; or, should rain fall; Stretch them on hurdles in the house four days.

Grapes are not sharded chestnuts, which the tree Lets fall to burst them on the ground, where red Rolls forth the fruit, from white-lined wards set free, And all undamaged glows 'mid husks it shed; Nay, they are soft and should be singly stripped From off the bunch, by maiden's dainty hand, Then dropped through the cool silent depth to sink (Coy, as herself hath slipped, Bathing, from shelves in caves along the strand)

Till round each dark grape water barely wink; Since some nine measures of sea-water fill A butt of fifty, ere the plump fruit peep, --Like sombre dolphin shoals when nights are still, Which penned in Proteus' wizard circle sleep, And 'twixt them glinting curves of silver glance If Zephyr, dimpling dark calm, counts them o'er.-- Let soak thy fruit for two days thus, then tread! While bare-legged bumpkins dance, Bright from thy bursting press arched spouts shall pour, And gurgling torrents towards thy vats run red.

Meanwhile the maidens, each with wooden rake, Drag back the skins and laugh at aprons splashed; Or youths rest, boasting how their brown arms ache, So fast their shovels for so long have flashed, Baffling their comrades' legs with mounting heaps. Treble their labour! still the happier they, Who at this genial task wear out long hours, Till vast night round them creeps, When soon the torch-light dance whirls them away; For gods who love wine double all their powers. Iacchus is the always grateful god! His vineyards are more fair than gardens far; Hanging, like those of Babylon, they nod O'er each Ionian cliff and hill-side scar! While Cypris lends him saltness, depth, and peace; The brown earth yields him sap for richest green; And he has borrowed laughter from the sky; Wildness from winds; and bees Bring honey.--Then choose casks which thou hast seen Are leakless, very wholesome, and quite dry!

That Coan wine the very finest is, I do assure thee, who have travelled much And learned to judge of diverse vintages. Faint not before the toil! this wine is such As tempteth princes launch long pirate barks;--From which may Zeus protect Sicilian bays, And, ere long, me safe home from Egypt bring, Letting no black-sailed sharks Scent this king's gifts, for whom I sweeten praise With those same songs thou didst to Chloe sing!

I wrote them 'neath the vine-cloaked elm, for thee. Recall those nights! our couches were a load Of scented lentisk; upward, tree by tree, Thy father's orchard sloped, and past us flowed A stream sluiced for his vineyards; when, above, The apples fell, they on to us were rolled, But kept us not awake.--O Laco, own How thou didst rave of love! Now art thou staid, thy son is three years old; But I, who made thee love-songs, live alone.

Muse thou at dawn o'er thy yet slumbering wife!-- Not chary of her best was nature there, Who, though a third of her full gift of life Was spent, still added beauties still more rare; What calm slow days, what holy sleep at night, Evolved her for long twilight trystings fraught With panic blushes and tip-toe surmise: And then, what mystic might-- All, with a crowning boon, through travail brought! Consider this and give thy best likewise!

Ungrateful be not! Laco, ne'er be that! Well worth thy while to make such wine 'twould be; I see thy red face 'neath thy broad straw hat, I see thy house, thy vineyards, Sicily!-- Thou dost demur, good but too easy friend! Come, put those doubts away! thou hast strong lads, Brave wenches; on the steep beach lolls thy ship Where vine-clad slopes descend, Sheltering our bay, that headlong rillet glads, Like a stripped child fain in the sea to dip.

A SPANISH PICTURE

Thy life is over now, Don Juan: Thy fingers are so shrunk That all their rings from off their cold tips crowd, Where limp thy hand hath sunk;

On a trestle-table laid, Don Juan, A half-mask near thine ear, A visor black in which void gape two gaps Where through thou oft didst leer.

Thou waitest for the priests, Don Juan, To bear thee to thy grave; Thou'rt theirs at length beyond all doubt, but ha! Hast now no soul to save.

Thou wast brought home last night, Don Juan, Upon a stable door; Beneath a young nun's casement, found dropped dead, Where thou hadst wooed of yore:

To pay their trouble then, Don Juan, Those base grooms took thy sword; A rapier to fetch gold, with shagreened sheath, Wrought hand-grip, and silk cord;

Which, with thy fame enhanced, Don Juan, Were worth hidalgo's rent; Yet on which now, at most, some few moidore May by some fop be spent.

Dull brown a cloak enwraps, Don Juan, Both thy lean shanks, one arm, That old bird-cage thy breast, where like magpie Thy heart hopped on alarm.

Yet out beyond thy cloak, Don Juan, Thrust prim white-stocking'd feet--Silk-stocking'd feet that in quadrille pranced round-- Slippers high-heeled and neat;

Thy silver-buckled shoes, Don Juan, No more shall tread a floor, Beside their heels upon the board lies now A half-peeled onion's core:

Munching, a crone, that knew, Don Juan, Thy best contrived plots, Hobbles about the room, whose gaunt stone walls Drear echo as she trots;

She makes her bundle up, Don Juan; She'll not forget thy rings, Thy buckles, nor silk stockings; nay, not she! They'll go with her few things.

Those lids she hath pulled down, Don Juan, That lowered ne'er for shame; No spark from beauty more in thy brain pan, Shall make its tinder flame:

Thou hast enjoyed all that, Don Juan, Which good resolves doth daunt, Which hypocrites doth tempt to stake vile souls, Which cowards crave and want;

Thou wast an envied man, Don Juan, Long shalt be envied still; Thou hadst thy beauty as the proud pard hath, And instinct trained to skill.

A DUET

"Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air, "Flowers posied, flowers for the hair, "Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare-- "Oh, pick me some!"

"Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum, "Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper 'Come,' "Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb--" "Oh, let me hear!"

"Eyes so black they draw one trembling near, "Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear, "Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear--" "Oh, look at me!"

"Kisses sadly blown across the sea, "Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free, "Bob-a-cherry kisses 'neath a tree--" "Oh, give me one!"

Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon.

THE GAZELLES

When the sheen on tall summer grass is pale, Across blue skies white clouds float on In shoals, or disperse and singly sail, Till, the sun being set, they all are gone:

Yet, as long as they may shine bright in the sun, They flock or stray through the daylight bland, While their stealthy shadows like foxes run Beneath where the grass is dry and tanned:

And the waste, in hills that swell and fall, Goes heaving into yet dreamier haze; And a wonder of silence is over all Where the eye feeds long like a lover's gaze:

Then, cleaving the grass, gazelles appear (The gentler dolphins of kindlier waves) With sensitive heads alert of ear; Frail crowds that a delicate hearing saves,

That rely on the nostrils' keenest power, And are governed from trance-like distances By hopes and fears, and, hour by hour, Sagacious of safety, snuff the breeze.

They keep together, the timid hearts; And each one's fear with a panic thrill Is passed to an hundred; and if one starts In three seconds all are over the hill.

A Nimrod might watch, in his hall's wan space, After the feast, on the moonlit floor, The timorous mice that troop and race, As tranced o'er those herds the sun doth pour;

Like a wearied tyrant sated with food Who envies each tiniest thief that steals Its hour from his abstracted mood, For it living zest and beauty reveals.

He alone, save the quite dispassionate moon, Sees them; she stares at the prowling pard Who surprises their sleep and, ah! how soon Is riding the weakest or sleepiest hard!

Let an agony's nightmare course begin, Four feet with five spurs a piece control, Like a horse thief reduced to save his skin Or a devil that rides a human soul!

The race is as long as recorded time, Yet brief as the flash of assassin's knife; For 'tis crammed as history is with crime 'Twixt the throbs at taking and losing life;

Then the warm wet clutch on the nape of the neck, Through which the keen incisors drive; Then the fleet knees give, down drops the wreck Of yesterday's pet that was so alive.

Yet the moon is naught concerned, ah no! She shines as on a drifting plank Far in some northern sea-stream's flow From which two numbed hands loosened and sank.

Such thinning their number must suffer; and worse When hither at times the Shah's children roam, Their infant listlessness to immerse In energy's ancient upland home:

For here the shepherd in years of old Was taught by the stars, and bred a race That welling forth from these highlands rolled In tides of conquest o'er earth's face:

On piebald ponies or else milk-white, Here, with green bridles in silver bound, A crescent moon on the violet night Of their saddle cloths, or a sun rayed round,--

With tiny bells on their harness ringing, And voices that laugh and are shrill by starts, Prancing, curvetting, and with them bringing Swift chetahs cooped up in light-wheeled carts,

They come, and their dainty pavilions pitch In some valley, beside a sinuous pool, Where a grove of cedars towers in which Herons have built, where the shade is cool;

Where they tether their ponies to low hung boughs, Where long through the night their red fires gleam, Where the morning's stir doth them arouse To their bath in the lake, as from dreams to a dream.