Chapter 2

My roses are battered into pulp: And there swells up in me Sudden desire for something changeless, Thrusts of sunless rock Unmelted by hissing wheels.

ARRIVAL

Here is too swift a movement, The rest is too still.

It is a red sea Licking The housefronts.

They quiver gently From base to summit. Ripples of impulse run through them, Flattering resistance.

Soon they will fall; Already smoke yearns upward. Clouds of dust, Crash of collapsing cubes.

I prefer deeper patience, Monotony of stalled beasts. O angle-builders, Vainly have you prolonged your effort, For I descend amid you, Past rungs and slopes of curving slippery steel.

WALK

Sudden struggle for foothold on the pavement, Familiar ascension.

I do not heed the city any more, It has given me a duty to perform. I pass along nonchalantly, Insinuating myself into self-baffling movements. Impalpable charm of back streets In which I find myself: Cool spaces filled with shadow. Passers-by, white hammocks in the sunlight.

Bulging outcrush into old tumult; Attainment, as of a narrow harbour, Of some shop forgotten by traffic With cool-corridored walls.

'BUS-TOP

Black shapes bending, Taxicabs crush in the crowd. The tops are each a shining square Shuttles that steadily press through woolly fabric.

Drooping blossom, Gas-standards over Spray out jingling tumult Of white-hot rays.

Monotonous domes of bowler-hats Vibrate in the heat.

Silently, easily we sway through braying traffic, Down the crowded street. The tumult crouches over us, Or suddenly drifts to one side.

TRANSPOSITION

I am blown like a leaf Hither and thither. The city about me Resolves itself into sound of many voices, Rustling and fluttering, Leaves shaken by the breeze.

A million forces ignore me, I know not why, I am drunken with it all. Suddenly I feel an immense will Stored up hitherto and unconscious till this instant. Projecting my body Across a street, in the face of all its traffic.

I dart and dash: I do not know why I go. These people watch me, I yield them my adventure.

Lazily I lounge through labyrinthine corridors, And with eyes suddenly altered, I peer into an office I do not know, And wonder at a startled face that penetrates my own.

Roses--pavement-- I will take all this city away with me-- People--uproar--the pavement jostling and flickering-- Women with incredible eyelids: Dandies in spats: Hard-faced throng discussing me--I know them all. I will take them away with me, I insistently rob them of their essence, I must have it all before night, To sing amid my green.

I glide out unobservant In the midst of the traffic Blown like a leaf Hither and thither, Till the city resolves itself into a clamour of voices, Crying hollowly, like the wind rustling through the forest, Against the frozen housefronts: Lost in the glitter of a million movements.

PERIPETEIA

I can no longer find a place for myself: I go.

There are too many things to detain me, But the force behind is reckless.

Noise, uproar, movement Slide me outwards, Black sleet shivering Down red walls.

In thick jungles of green, this gyration, My centrifugal folly, Through roaring dust and futility spattered, Will find its own repose.

Golden lights will gleam out sullenly into silence, Before I return.

MID-FLIGHT

We rush, a black throng, Straight upon darkness: Motes scattered By the arc's rays.

Over the bridge fluttering, It is theatre-time, No one heeds.

Lost amid greenness We will sleep all night; And in the morning Coming forth, we will shake wet wings Over the settled dust of to-day.

The city hurls its cobbled streets after us, To drive us faster.

We must attain the night Before endless processions Of lamps Push us back. A clock with quivering hands Leaps to the trajectory-angle of our departure.

We leave behind pale traces of achievement: Fires that we kindled but were too tired to put out, Broad gold fans brushing softly over dark walls, Stifled uproar of night.

We are already cast forth: The signal of our departure Jerks down before we have learned we are to go.

STATION

We descend Into a wall of green. Straggling shapes: Afterwards none are seen.

I find myself Alone. I look back: The city has grown.

One grey wall Windowed, unlit. Heavily, night Crushes the face of it.

I go on. My memories freeze Like birds' cry In hollow trees.

I go on. Up and outright To the hostility Of night.

F. S. FLINT

F. S. FLINT

TREES

Elm trees and the leaf the boy in me hated long ago-- rough and sandy.

Poplars and their leaves, tender, smooth to the fingers, and a secret in their smell I have forgotten.

Oaks and forest glades, heart aching with wonder, fear: their bitter mast.

Willows and the scented beetle we put in our handkerchiefs; and the roots of one that spread into a river: nakedness, water and joy.

Hawthorn, white and odorous with blossom, framing the quiet fields, and swaying flowers and grasses, and the hum of bees.

Oh, these are the things that are with me now, in the town; and I am grateful for this minute of my manhood.

LUNCH

Frail beauty, green, gold and incandescent whiteness, narcissi, daffodils, you have brought me Spring and longing, wistfulness, in your irradiance.

Therefore, I sit here among the people, dreaming, and my heart aches with all the hawthorn blossom, the bees humming, the light wind upon the poplars, and your warmth and your love and your eyes ... they smile and know me.

MALADY

I move; perhaps I have wakened; this is a bed; this is a room; and there is light....

Darkness!

Have I performed the dozen acts or so that make me the man men see?

The door opens, and on the landing-- quiet! I can see nothing: the pain, the weariness!

Stairs, banisters, a handrail: all indistinguishable. One step farther down or up, and why? But up is harder. Down! Down to this white blur; it gives before me.

Me?

I extend all ways: I fit into the walls and they pull me.

Light?

Light! I know it is light.

Stillness, and then, something moves: green, oh green, dazzling lightning! And joy! this is my room; there are my books, there the piano, there the last bar I wrote, there the last line, and oh the sunlight!

A parrot screeches.

ACCIDENT

Dear one! you sit there in the corner of the carriage; and you do not know me; and your eyes forbid.

Is it the dirt, the squalor, the wear of human bodies, and the dead faces of our neighbours? These are but symbols.

You are proud; I praise you; your mouth is set; you see beyond us; and you see nothing.

I have the vision of your calm, cold face, and of the black hair that waves above it; I watch you; I love you; I desire you.

There is a quiet here within the thud-thud of the wheels upon the railway.

There is a quiet here within my heart, but tense and tender....

This is my station....

FRAGMENT

... That night I loved you in the candlelight. Your golden hair strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows and the counterpane. O the darkness of the corners, the warm air, and the stars framed in the casement of the ships' lights! The waves lapped into the harbour; the boats creaked; a man's voice sang out on the quay; and you loved me. In your love were the tall tree fuchsias, the blue of the hortensias, the scarlet nasturtiums, the trees on the hills, the roads we had covered, and the sea that had borne your body before the rocks of Hartland. You loved me with these and with the kindness of people, country folk, sailors and fishermen, and the old lady who had lodged us and supped us. You loved me with yourself that was these and more, changed as the earth is changed into the bloom of flowers.

HOUSES

Evening and quiet: a bird trills in the poplar trees behind the house with the dark green door across the road.

Into the sky, the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys thrust their cowls. The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain.

No wind; the trees merge, green with green; a car whirs by; footsteps and voices take their pitch in the key of dusk, far-off and near, subdued.

Solid and square to the world the houses stand, their windows blocked with venetian blinds.

Nothing will move them.

EAU-FORTE

On black bare trees a stale cream moon hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds.

Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low, tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram.

Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square; and round the bend six bullocks come.

A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides their clattering feet to death and shame.

D. H. LAWRENCE

D. H. LAWRENCE

BALLAD OF ANOTHER OPHELIA

Oh, the green glimmer of apples in the orchard, Lamps in a wash of rain, Oh, the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard, Oh, tears on the window pane!

Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples, Full of disappointment and of rain, Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples Of Autumn tell the withered tale again.

All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen, Cluck, and the rain-wet wings, Cluck, my marigold bird, and again Cluck for your yellow darlings.

For the grey rat found the gold thirteen Huddled away in the dark, Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen, Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

* * * * * *

Once I had a lover bright like running water, Once his face was laughing like the sky; Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter On the buttercups--and buttercups was I.

What then is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom, What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen? 'T is the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom-- What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men?

Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom, And her shift is lying white upon the floor, That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

Oh, the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples, Oh, the golden sparkles laid extinct--! And oh, behind the cloud sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples, Did you see the wicked sun that winked?

ILLICIT

In front of the sombre mountains, a faint, lost ribbon of rainbow, And between us and it, the thunder; And down below, in the green wheat, the labourers Stand like dark stumps, still in the green wheat.

You are near to me, and your naked feet in their sandals, And through the scent of the balcony's naked timber I distinguish the scent of your hair; so now the limber Lightning falls from heaven.

Adown the pale-green, glacier-river floats A dark boat through the gloom--and whither? The thunder roars. But still we have each other. The naked lightnings in the heaven dither And disappear. What have we but each other? The boat has gone.

FIREFLIES IN THE CORN

_A Woman taunts her Lover_ Look at the little darlings in the corn! The rye is taller than you, who think yourself So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne Dark and proud in the sky, like a number of knights Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

And always likely!--Oh, if I could ride With my head held high-serene against the sky Do you think I'd have a creature like you at my side With your gloom and your doubt that you love me? O darling rye, How I adore you for your simple pride!

And those bright fireflies wafting in between And over the swaying cornstalks, just above All their dark-feathered helmets, like little green Stars come low and wandering here for love Of this dark earth, and wandering all serene--!

How I adore you, you happy things, you dears Riding the air and carrying all the time Your little lanterns behind you: it cheers My heart to see you settling and trying to climb The cornstalks, tipping with fire their spears.

All over the corn's dim motion, against the blue Dark sky of night, the wandering glitter, the swarm Of questing brilliant things:--you joy, you true Spirit of careless joy: ah, how I warm My poor and perished soul at the joy of you!

_The Man answers and she mocks_ You're a fool, woman. I love you and you know I do! --Lord, take his love away, it makes him whine. And I give you everything that you want me to. --Lord, dear Lord, do you think he ever _can_ shine?

A WOMAN AND HER DEAD HUSBAND

Ah, stern cold man, How can you lie so relentless hard While I wash you with weeping water! Ah, face, carved hard and cold, You have been like this, on your guard Against me, since death began.

You masquerader! How can you shame to act this part Of unswerving indifference to me? It is not you; why disguise yourself Against me, to break my heart, You evader?

You've a warm mouth, A good warm mouth always sooner to soften Even than your sudden eyes. Ah cruel, to keep your mouth Relentless, however often I kiss it in drouth.

You are not he. Who are you, lying in his place on the bed And rigid and indifferent to me? His mouth, though he laughed or sulked Was always warm and red And good to me.

And his eyes could see The white moon hang like a breast revealed By the slipping shawl of stars, Could see the small stars tremble As the heart beneath did wield Systole, diastole.

And he showed it me So, when he made his love to me; And his brows like rocks on the sea jut out, And his eyes were deep like the sea With shadow, and he looked at me, Till I sank in him like the sea, Awfully.

Oh, he was multiform-- Which then was he among the manifold? The gay, the sorrowful, the seer? I have loved a rich race of men in one-- --But not this, this never-warm Metal-cold--!

Ah, masquerader! With your steel face white-enamelled Were you he, after all, and I never Saw you or felt you in kissing? --Yet sometimes my heart was trammelled With fear, evader!

You will not stir, Nor hear me, not a sound. --Then it was you-- And all this time you were Like this when I lived with you. It is not true, I am frightened, I am frightened of you And of everything. O God!--God too Has deceived me in everything, In everything.

THE MOWERS

There's four men mowing down by the river; I can hear the sound of the scythe strokes, four Sharp breaths swishing:--yea, but I Am sorry for what's i' store.

The first man out o' the four that's mowin' Is mine: I mun claim him once for all: --But I'm sorry for him, on his young feet, knowin' None o' the trouble he's led to stall.

As he sees me bringin' the dinner, he lifts His head as proud as a deer that looks Shoulder-deep out o' th' corn: and wipes His scythe blade bright, unhooks

His scythe stone, an' over the grass to me! --Lad, tha 's gotten a chilt in me, An' a man an' a father tha 'lt ha'e to be, My young slim lad, an' I'm sorry for thee.

SCENT OF IRISES

A faint, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table A fine proud spike of purple irises Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable To see the class's lifted and bended faces Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable.

I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast You with fire on your brow and your cheeks and your chin as you dipped Your face in your marigold bunch, to touch and contrast Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks Dissolved in the golden sorcery you should not outlast.

You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, You sitting in the cowslips of the meadows above, --Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love-- You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, You, with your face all rich, like the sheen on a dove--!

You are always asking, do I remember, remember The buttercup bog-end where the flowers rose up And kindled you over deep with a coat of gold? You ask again, do the healing days close up The open darkness which then drew us in, The dark that swallows all, and nought throws up.

You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night Burnt like a sacrifice;--you invisible-- Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! --And yes, thank God, it still is possible The healing days shall close the darkness up Wherein I breathed you like a smoke or dew.

Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God, The golden fire has gone, and your face is ash Indistinguishable in the grey, chill day, The night has burnt you out, at last the good Dark fire burns on untroubled without clash Of you upon the dead leaves saying me yea.

GREEN

The sky was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in the sun, The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers undone, For the first time, now for the first time seen.

AMY LOWELL

AMY LOWELL

VENUS TRANSIENS

Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli's vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady, Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver?

For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet.

THE TRAVELLING BEAR

Grass-blades push up between the cobblestones And catch the sun on their flat sides Shooting it back, Gold and emerald, Into the eyes of passers-by.

And over the cobblestones, Square-footed and heavy, Dances the trained bear. Tho cobbles cut his feet, And he has a ring in his nose Which hurts him; But still he dances, For the keeper pricks him with a sharp stick, Under his fur.

Now the crowd gapes and chuckles, And boys and young women shuffle their feet in time to the dancing bear. They see him wobbling Against a dust of emerald and gold, And they are greatly delighted.

The legs of the bear shake with fatigue And his back aches, And the shining grass-blades dazzle and confuse him. But still he dances, Because of the little, pointed stick.

THE LETTER

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon.

GROTESQUE

Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me When I pluck them; And writhe, and twist, And strangle themselves against my fingers, So that I can hardly weave the garland For your hair? Why do they shriek your name And spit at me When I would cluster them? Must I kill them To make them lie still, And send you a wreath of lolling corpses To turn putrid and soft On your forehead While you dance?

BULLION

My thoughts Chink against my ribs And roll about like silver hail-stones. I should like to spill them out, And pour them, all shining, Over you. But my heart is shut upon them And holds them straitly.

Come, You! and open my heart; That my thoughts torment me no longer, But glitter in your hair.

SOLITAIRE

When night drifts along the streets of the city, And sifts down between the uneven roofs, My mind begins to peek and peer. It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens, And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples, Amid the broken flutings of white pillars. It dances with purple and yellow crocuses in its hair, And its feet shine as they flutter over drenched grasses. How light and laughing my mind is, When all the good folk have put out their bed-room candles, And the city is still!

THE BOMBARDMENT

Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!

The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the _étagère_. Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the _étagère_. It lies there formless and glowing, with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it--" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!

It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long broken spears of disheveled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom!--Boom!--Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom!

A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook." Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. Boom!