Part 2

Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines, Gay visions come to tired eyes; How bright the Isle of Java shines Beneath what deep, cerulean skies!

Transported to that dazzling clime Where sunlight scalds a silver beach— We can forget the flight of time, And falterings of line and speech.

We can forget our isle of dream Is no more real than thoughts that fly— And follow close the magic gleam Which charms and haunts us till we die.

And so from out the hurrying throng We two have come to drink and talk; And I have made a little song, And he a drawing, done in chalk!

1908.

_The Poplars_

I

Oh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy, Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beam Stol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry, From lips new parted in some childish dream!

See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall, They stand like pillars against the darkling sky, And over the little lake their shadows fall.... See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by. If you can love this little, why not all? Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why....

II

Oh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow: Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours, And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I know That the treasure I seek you deny, And the heart of you, soul of you, keep.

III

I would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this, And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks out The shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss, And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.

Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes, But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon. Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries, And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon?

1911.

_West End Lane_

Now through the dripping, moonless night, Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise, They trace their footsteps by the light Of love that fills their weary eyes.

“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place, With far less joy in it than tears, To set my lips to your warm face Is worth a sight of dismal years!”

“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,” She whispers softly.... “See, the rain Has stopped, the clouds are broken through, The stars are shining clear again!”

Pausing, they gaze across the Heath Submerged in fog—a dim hush’d lake Wherein the wretched might seek death, And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.

Then clasping hands, and touching lips, They dream beneath great sombre trees, Whence large and solemn-falling drips Are shaken by the restless breeze.

“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear, As kisses in the quiet night: Lean close, and let me hold you near, Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!

“Why, should we wait, so cold and wise? We’re only human, Nell, we two; And even if love fades and dies— I shall remember this: won’t you?”

_Hampstead_

I

Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill! (All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still.) O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!

Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget! Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear. Under the golden moon, when the sun has set, Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!

II

I love those small old houses, with bright front doors, And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay: Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores) And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.

Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit, In autumn and winter. In summer a rose Climbs in through the open window, caressing it; And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.

III

Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes Bloom all to beauty of soft look and word.

Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.

IV

Do you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the right When you reach the top, which climb to a walk Shaded by elm-trees of great girth and height; And there are seats there, where lovers talk.

And all in front is a valley, wide and deep— In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs: In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep, Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....

V

It rained, the wet poured from the leaves; They by the churchyard; entered in And sheltered underneath the eaves— So sweetly close; yet firm her chin.

Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood; And she—half frightened and half kind— Whispered the warning words “be good,” But left his venturous arm entwined.

When the shower stopped his hopes sank low, Farewell kind walls and darkling spire! They walked forlornly down Church Row; Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire.

Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green— There parted, by a watery moon. His heart went throbbing “Might have been,” But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”

VI

At Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow light Pour from the bar upon a preacher’s head Who howls unheeded warnings to the night: Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed.

Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro And search the passing faces—some find mates; Against the railings leans a giggling row; An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.

The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam; Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips, While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream, And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.

VII

So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue You may spy cities, dim in the dim sky, Stretching-strange roadways to the inner view. See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....

_Oak Hill Way_

_He_: May I stop and kiss you here, O, my dear?

_She_: You may stop, but I’ll not stay: I’m going homewards now—Good day!

_He_: Here’s a lane, and quiet, too: ’Tis where the folks from London woo, Two and two.

_She_: It leads to Kilburn, where I live: I promised I’d be back at five— I must be quick or I’ll be late, No, no—I dare not wait.

_He_: See, Maggie, it’s called Lover’s Lane, So other’s girls are kind, that’s plain. This love’s a thing that all men know; There, link your arm in my arm—so.

_She_: I didn’t think you were so silly: Walk up—it’s chilly.

_He_: O, since in life there’s little bliss, And most of it lies in a kiss— Don’t turn those cruel lips away, But just one moment, Maggie, stay! ... Lor! here’s the blessed street. Oh! why....

_She_: You foolish lad, don’t _ask_. Good-bye!

_Spaniards’_

The moon shone withering, wild and white, And ruddy gleamed the bars, And far below, the city’s light Streamed up to meet the stars.

“Look down,” ses Tom, “them streets that shine, And look, the gaudy sky! By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine” —And glad enough was I.

Oh, why did blow so soft and warm That breeze on Spaniards’ Road! I never thought to take no harm, Nor bear so hard a load.

1913.

_Richmond Park_

I

What do I want with your little, shrinking love? See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above, I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart that cry— And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky! You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses, I will fly off and forget.... Ah!

II

How can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”: You will not answer now, “it grows so late”— And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!

Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word! Listen a little while—you turn away. What? Your head droops.... You are frightened? Run in and hide.

_Westminster Bridge_

(_June Night_)

The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink, Slide swiftly circlewise and fade To where the West is olive-pink And rosy mists the river shade.

And sullen, purposeful and strange The silent stream glides on, beneath The patient bridge that will not change, And all the city holds its breath.

Then gazing towards the sunken sun A pale girl eyes his lingering gleam, A soul whose little day is done, For whom will come no night, no dream.

1908.

_Gladstone Terrace_

A very sordid street of red and green— Red houses and green paint—but in between Each villa lies a little garden space Cherished on Summer Sundays. See his face, (A two-pound Clerk next morning) as he sweats, Tending the strawberries which his baby eats!

A fool is he, not virtuous, but content: He hears no wings of God omnipotent, Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath. Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride, For see, what hopes and longings here reside, What gracious mysteries of love and death.

_Front Doors_

(_Bayswater_)

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square The streets have an inhuman air, The houses—(six imposing floors; Dark, formidable, fierce front doors; Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind; Ball-room or billiard-room behind)— Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold, None but the ugly and the old....

Watch, as you wander hereabout, The people who go in and out! Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats, Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats, Flock in procession, pompous, grand, Or drive in motors to the Strand; And massive women, towering high, Dart glances from a hawklike eye, Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze, Then drive (to train for several teas), Snub the companion, pat the dog, Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.

Jerusalem no more golden is Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis! Her portals strike an awe profound— “Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground! Quell impropriety of tone; Hawkers and circulars begone”— For here the ruling race reside And guard our pledges and their pride. Her doors are sour: they never smile, But icily stare for mile on mile— Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard: Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

_The Ballad of the Brave Lover_

(_Thames Embankment_)

She wandered by the river’s brink, Her stricken heart stood still: She listened for his hastening step With mind to win or kill.

From Ipswich up to London town Long days, long nights walked she: And now had tracked the soldier down Who caused her shame to be.

She could not breathe, her throat grew dry, Her soldier looked so brave and strong: “Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry, “What brings you here along?”

“From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,” She moaned, “your broken promise gave.” He looked and laughed: “Poor little one! I’ve used you ill, I have.”

She sank, and saw him smile good-bye— She who had thought to kill or win. He was too fine, too bold to die, The weak must suffer for his sin.

_The Quarry_

All down that dismal villa’d street, With ugly green front doors, I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feet And wonder which was yours!

And when the bedroom candles shone And night fell deep and dark, The road would fade, and I’d press on Across some faery park.

And you before me, you so near! —Elusive, ’mid the trees. I the bold horseman, you the deer— What nights, what dreams were these?

Must Love and Beauty always fly The eager arms of men? Oh, I shall hunt you till I die, And when I live again!

_In a Taxi_

Come, give your hands to me, and lean Your dear bright head against my coat. Let me tear loose the furs that screen The ivory column of your throat.

Now, yield your hungry lips to mine, You passionate child! You cling so tight, The blood goes to my head like wine, As we race, breathless, through the night.

How the time flies! We’re nearly there. Now grow sedate and proud once more— Put back your furs, bind up your hair, But pause, awhile, outside your door.

No one can hear! So now, good-bye! Darling, to crush you, in the gloom, With kisses, would be ecstasy.... “Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

1908.

_In Praise of London_

_I, the son of London men,_ _Give thanks to London once again._ _Here was I born; and I will die_ _Under this friendly leaden sky—_ _Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I._

City of beauty, flower of cities all— Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar (Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall) While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore— Yours is a glamour which the years enhance And in your grimy streets lives all romance!

When I go out into the world To see the wonders there unfurl’d, Though marvelling much, when I lie down My thoughts fly back to my own town. Memories of familiar streets Comfort me under foreign sheets And Cockney humour brings the laugh When _bocks_ of foreign beer I quaff.

My thoughts fly home. I see again Remembered houses, roads and men. The great town grows before my eyes, I hear its murmurs and its sighs, Travel, in dreams, the streets I knew And roam from Greenwich Park to Kew.

I love to think of bland Pall Mall (Where Charles made love to Pretty Nell) And rich South Audley Street, and Wapping, And Bond Street and the Christmas shopping, Knightsbridge, the Inner Circle train, And Piccadilly and Park Lane; Kensington, where “nice” people live Who give you tea (top-hat) at five; And Church Street, and that little path Which leads to the Broad Walk and the Pond Where boys sail boats and sparrows bath— And the dear woodland slope beyond....

I love Hyde Park, the Serpentine, And Marble Arch at half-past nine, The graceful curve of Regent Street, The Queen Anne charm of Cheyne Walk (Its church, with Polyphemus’ eye, And those great chimneys, climbing the sky!)— The Inns of Court and that discreet Tavern where Johnson used to talk; The bustle of Fleet Street and the blare Of Oxford Circus, Leicester Square; Charing Cross Road, with books for all In shop and window, case and stall; Imperial Westminster, the Stores, Where Colonel Tompkins buys cigars; The Athenæum, where he snores; The “Troc,” and several other bars; The hall where Marie makes us roar With jokes our consciences deplore And where dear Vesta Tilley sings —Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!— Where Robey leaps on from the wings, And good old X forgets her part.

Then who can think of Richmond Hill In summertime, without a thrill?— Remembering days with Rose or Nan When friendship ended, love began, And glamorous evenings in the park Under the beech trees hush’d and dark— The deer at gaze with glistening eyes, The London lights aglow in the skies (But far away) and no sound there Save the caught breath and little sighs That come from joy too great to bear.

Richmond, all London lovers know Your upland glades, and how, below, The bright Thames twines about your knees Through the green tracery of your trees.... And just as I on Whitsunday, Have brought my girl to spend the day, So to your hill my fathers came And, sure, my son will do the same.

...

What sights there are, for those who know, In every part of this great city! Our men are mixed, it’s true, but oh, Are not our London maidens pretty?

Look! you may see them everywhere— Laughing in ball-rooms in Mayfair, At tea at Ranelagh, or walking On Sunday in Hyde Park and talking The latest nonsense! What a sight, In frocks adorable and costly! At Epping too (East-enders mostly) You’ll see good London girls at play; On Hampstead Heath—and every day They troop in crowds up Chancery Lane....

I’ll own, some Brixton girls are plain, The Ealing girls are proud and silly, They’re a queer lot in Piccadilly And—personally—I can’t stand The huzzies who infest the Strand. But in the bulk, far though you roam, You’ll find no girls like ours at home.

Then what good cheer is London cheer When welcoming the infant year; On Derby day; or Christmas even; Or when Aunt Jane pops off to Heaven!

In friendly restaurant or grill You drink your bottle, eat your fill, Digest, while watching Russian dancers, Drive next to supper at some pub, Then mingle with the rag-time prancers, In a night café—called a club.

And so to bed, should it be June, While the birds sing their morning tune And the sun flushes all the East And tips with rose chimney and roof. Heigho! the ending of the feast— The kiss good-bye, and no reproof!

I cannot praise as I would praise The mother of my nights and days. Mine only in rough notes to sing Songs of the streets from which I spring.

_I, the son of London men,_ _Give thanks to London once again._ _Here was I born and I will die_ _Under this friendly leaden sky—_ _Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I._

_Part II_

_Highbrow Hill_

Londonian Athens, I, thy hill sublime Will celebrate, in my unfeeling rhyme!

In Grave Tannhauser Street and New Thought Lane, Parsifal Avenue, and Shavian Road Dwells High Intelligence, with massive brain, Bearing like Atlas an almighty load— The burden of decision: “Yes” or “No”?— Can Nichols stay, or Vachel Lindsay go?

Here dwells the last arbitrament of art. How great is _he_? Is that one large or small? Here is the wanton poet made to smart, Here the uncurbed romancer takes his fall; Here they deal faithfully with Squiff and Noggs And here (for dinners) puff Sir Roller Loggs.

Fresh every day, when dawn makes Highbrow Hill Softened and rosy, blithe and gentle and sweet, The Intellectuals their quivers fill With poisonous darts, to fire from safe retreat.

Biffkin and Briggs and Solomon _and_ Snooks Must be put down, for they lead _awful lives_, And any simple souls who read their books Might kiss their housemaids or desert their wives. Earth must be purged, be cleaned from this disease! (And England does what Highbrow Hill decrees.)

_Post-Georgian Poet in Search of a Master_

I had been well brought up: I liked the best. My prose was modelled on Rebecca West, My “little things” erstwhile reflected tone, My brother poets claimed me as their own. In those blithe days, before the War began— Ah me, I was a safe young Georgian!

Now all is chaos, all confusion. Bolshes have cast E. M. from his high throne: Wild women have rushed in, and savage Yanks Blather of Booth and Heaven: and T. S. E. Uses great words that are as Greek to me. Tell me the Truth, and ah, forgo these pranks— Whom must I imitate? Who’s really It? On whose embroidered footstool should I sit?

There’s Podgrass now—he seems a coming man; Writes unintelligible stuff, half French, half Erse. He told me Philomela had technique But not much feeling; Crashaw knew his trade, But Keats had no idea of writing verse.... The thing to read (he said) had just come out, His latest work, entitled “Bloody Shout.”

And then there’s Father Michael, Secker’s pal, Who’s left dear Sylvia for the Clergy-house. Michael lives sumptuously: silver, old oak, Incunabula, the Yellow Book, Madonnas, Art; Excited wobblings on the brink of Rome; The “Inner Life,” birettas, candles, Mass; Fun with Church Times and Bishops; four hair shirts, And Mr. Percy Dearmer’s Parson’s Book. He talked to me of Antinomianism And stirred the incense, while two candles burned, Then read aloud his works, with eye upturned. (Somehow I felt I’d heard it all before— When I was “boat-boy,” in a pinafore.)

Are Sitwells really safe? Is Iris Tree A certain guide to higher poesy? Can Nichols be relied on, for a lead; Or should I thump it with Sassoon and Read? Or would it not be vastly better fun To write of Nymphs, with Richard Aldington? Or shall I train, and nervously aspire To join with Edward Shanks and J. C. Squire —A modest “chorus” in a well-paid choir?

I’ve thought of J. M. Murry and Sturge Moore, I’ve thought of Yeats (I thought of him before). I’ve toyed with Aldous Huxley and Monro— I don’t know where I am, or where to go.

Oh, mighty Mr. Gosse! Unbend, I pray! Guide one poor poet who has lost his way....

_Merveilleuses des nos Jours_

(1914)

“I will now call on Alberic Morphine to give us a reading.” ... The rows of young women look up; their eyes glisten; they shiver With the kind of emotion that’s really very misleading. All have fine eyes, yellow faces, vile clothes and “a liver.”

They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays; Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan; They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays; And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man.

_Daisymead_

The most intense resort in Highbrow Green (Where only those who _do_ things may be seen) Is known as Crookedwych—a sweet retreat, Serene and sunny, quite unlike a _street_. Herein is “Daisymead,” the Brownes’ abode, Where Jones encountered highbrows à la mode.

Jones was a very harmless sort of man, Not made on any esoteric plan, And when he struck this sanctuary of art Poor Jones felt quite unequal to his part.

Art maidens with short hair and naked toes Deprived him of his hat. They wore old rose And sang about their “little turtle dove” And asked him if he’d “sow the seeds of love?” (They were the Misses Browne). “I’ve come to call....”

“Then follow, to the house-place, sir,” they cried, “And make you featly welcome. Ma’s inside.” He followed. Ma received him in the hall. “I’m seventeen come Sunday, fol-de-lol,” She trilled untruly, pouring out the tea From leadless teapot into leadless cups. Then, “fol-de-lol-de-fol-de-diddle-dee,” —Handing nut tabloids to the waiting pups. And more, about the “wraggle gipsies, O.”

Jones murmured, “Pray excuse me. I must go. I think I am unwell ... the walk too much. Proteid? No thank you. No, I never touch Food before dinner ... I can find the door.” He found it and he fled. Ah, never more!

_Benevolence_

Mrs. Murgatroyd Martin thinks only of doing good: That is all that she lives for—to succour the _poor_, _poor_, poor. She wants them to lead nobler lives (that is understood): To the world of Culture she opens them wide a door.

She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde; Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas; Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child; Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas.

And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights, She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind, And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fights And black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!”

_Mr. Reginald Hyphen_

(_St. James’s Street_)

Mr. Reginald Hyphen is terribly “one of us;” He was born with a mouth just made for a silver spoon, And he’s always “dwedfully late” when he comes to dine. The thought of the Middle Classes makes him swoon, And he never will dance unless he is sure of the wine— And O, it was such an affair, when he took a ’bus!

And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart, He _thinks_ a great deal, and has a devotion to Art. He has read some Meredith, too—“Rather neat in its way”— And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.”

_She-Devil_

(_Davies Street_)