Part 3
White arms, Love, you have, and thin fingers with glittering nails, And the soft blue smoke curls up from your parted mouth! The delicate rose of your cheeks never varies nor pales, And your frocks and your furs are perfection—devourer of youth!
It is thrilling to think of your room and you, wicked, inside— Adorable snake, with a snake’s unflickering eyes, And an intimate smile (to share which, fools have died) And lips soft as a girl’s and like a siren’s, wise!
Devourer of youth! You are never alone by your fire, You have always a boy there, who thinks you a goddess, ill-used, And adores you with passion, and brings you the gifts you desire— And the fiercer he burns, Dear, the better he keeps you amused!
_Ritz_
(_July, 1914_)
White teeth, neat black moustache and lovely eyes— Face bronzed and beautiful, like a young god— Tired Rollo is the dreaming school girl’s prize.
He leans against the wall, perhaps will dance If they ask very nicely: sweet young things! He’s “an observer,” and he can’t conceal He’s frightfully bored with all this sort of crowd. He prefers artists, men of genius; He has a soul above the idle rich— “A looker-on, you know, at the world’s game.” Rude persons laugh. Adonis, rather hot, Twirls the ineffable moustache and smiles. —He is so much that other men are not.
1914.
_A Triumphal Ode_
_Written on the occasion of the grand MARCH PAST of British Poets and Men of Letters, which took place under the Auspices of the League of National & Civic Idiocy on VICTORY DAY, July 19th, 1919_
Of Shavian prophets, bearded, and the bleat Of infant Sitwells baying at the moon; Of abstruse Eliot, and the effete Vieux Gosse—Sing Boom! Sing Boom!
See, here they come! The martial music swells; Northcliffe, beflagged, leads on, with H. G. Wells; And prancing solemnly, and prancing slow, Come Hueffer, Shorter and Sir Sidney Low! Now, there’s a murmuring as of asphodels, The while each poet mouthes his roundelay— The bards, the bards! Be still my heart, ’tis they!
Here’s J. C. Squire, and here the laurell’d Shanks; There’s Ezra’s circle of performing Yanks; And here that ardent and enduring one Who, with cool madness, faced th’ opposing Hun Until—flick! Flick!—they fell down every one. And here is Lewis, blasting as he goes— He plays his one-man-band, yet keeps the pose! Here’s Secker with his owl; the Coterie; And gentle John with “gray dog Timothy”: Here’s sly Monro with Chapbook under arm And fair aspirants round him in a swarm; Here is our Centaur, with desponding lyre; And here the Wufflet with adoring sire!
Now come the veterans of Victorian years— Kipling in khaki, Binyon in tears, Here Yeats, with eyes distraught, and tangled hair, Moans the lost vogue of Deirdre, in Mayfair; While aged Moore, detached, a little bored, Tells doubtful tales to Mrs. Humphry Ward.
See, now, Dame Propaganda lifts her gamp And shelters under it each scribbling scamp. Hola, Sir Hall! Hail Beith! Hail Buchan bland! See, Dame Corelli takes Hugh Walpole’s hand; And Dora and Censora hover nigh, To tempt Sassoon and Read. They cannot buy; So Bennett weeps, and Beaver heaves a sigh.
Now comes a rabble foul—avert the eyes— Of arm-chair “patriots” and Lloyd-Georgian spies. Hurl them from off Parnassus, with a shout— Even from the Press Club let them be kicked out! Chase them from London’s pubs, and bid them go Across the foam, to lunch with Clemenceau! Chase them with odorous eggs and hunks of cheese! Be quiet, Muse, I will not sing of these.
Of all the Georgian and Edwardian potes, Of all the Mile End Yidds in velvet coats, Of all the sets, the circles and the cliques Who boost each other’s works in their critiques, Of all on whom E. M. has ever smiled; Of all whom Galloway has ever kyled; Of “marvellous boys,” and of youth’s soulful loom— Sing Boom! Sing Boom! Sing Boom!
_Part III_
_Moritura_
Leave the radiant sun, Of drowsy rest the giver; Leave the song of the birds and leave The sob of the river.
Break loose from his passionate arms, And awake from thy dream of bliss: King Death hath marked thy charms And fain would kiss.
1902.
_The Voices_
“Oh, hear them in the Valley— The wailing voices cry! They count the yearly tally Of lost girls that must die. Cold fingers in the gloaming, Will grope one night for me; I daren’t go heather-roaming, For fear the ghosts will see.
“And now the rain is falling, They’ll cry the whole long night, I tremble at their calling— O take and hold me tight! Each of those warning spirits Was once a girl, betrayed; O wayward love, be true to me Who am no more a maid.”
1909.
_Cuckfield Park_
The deer stand outlined on a sky That glows to red and pales to green: The restless pine-trees shake and sigh, And troubled spirits move, unseen.
A brooding quiet holds the night. It is the hour of dreams, of fears, When day’s defiant dying light Fades, with a sombre hint of tears.
We hardly speak, we hardly dare, Our steps are noiseless on the grass, And shadows haunt your eyes and hair. Does love pass as these moments pass?
1910.
“_Now slants the moonlight ..._”
Now slants the moonlight through the trees And bathes the pathway through the wood: The large leaves wrangle in the breeze And sigh, as if they understood.
Dear Heart, it is so still and warm, —A lovelier night there has not been— But lonely I have left the farm, And lonely I have crossed the green.
1910.
“_Sang a Maid at Peep of Day_”
Sang a maid at peep of day To the blackbird in the yew— “My true heart has flown away, Seeking other heart as true.”
“Bird, my heart has taken wings,” Whispered she, with sorrowful eyes. “In the raging wind it sings, In the sun it cries, it cries.”
1910.
_A Home-Coming_
“He was a wilful chap,” said one “—The kind that often dies alone.”
“He shamed us all,” another said: “’Tis just as well that he be dead.”
“Poor Jack, poor Jack,” a third one sighed. “He swam to Bere against the tide
“And beat John Hawkins, on the green. It’s long since such a lad was seen.”
A fourth one laughed: “’Twould seem the town He loved so well has let him down.
“A poor thin corpse ’tis, to be sure, That he’s brought home to make manure.”
They swathed his body, tall and slim, Then screwed the oak lid down on him.
They put him in his deep-dug hole, And bawled responses for his soul.
But, ere the gaping earth did close, One frail hand threw a frail white rose.
_The Kiss_
Cold it was, Dear, when you kissed me: Still I hear the steady drips Of the wet from leaves and branches As we huddled ’neath the tree: I can feel your arms about me, And your lips upon my lips, And it’s you alone I dream of, —Though you’ve soon forgotten me.
_On the Promenade_
(_March Winds: Seaford_)
“I never will see you again, Nor go walking with you, nor be friends; You have rumpled my hair in the rain— This foolishness ends! You can carry your kisses elsewhere: I call it low To paw one about like a bear— You can go!”
“Oh, you baby, to take it like that— Why, you’d better sit down in the shelter And polish your shoes on the mat— I’m off to the downs, helter-skelter! For it’s Heaven to race in the wind, With the rain in your eyes, on your cheek, And perhaps, on the top of the hill, by the cliff, I shall find A fairy will speak!
“Oh, yes, there are fairies up there, With faces fresh in the dew— The wild wind kisses their wild long hair, And they run by the side of you.
“I’m sorry you’re angry, like this, But I don’t think I want to be friends—”
“If I gave you your kiss— Would that make amends?”
_June_
The clasped hand, the low laugh and the trill of love, Intimate whisper and long look and sinking head That sinks but to be captured, while, above, The stars stand motionless, the tree seems dead.
Cold, in the stillness, looks the thin moon down; Far off are murmuring sea and restless town— As far as life and death and common things— For two to-night know joy, a joy that sings.
_To ——_
Sleep sound, Oh my love —Closed eyes, gentle breath— While I whisper, so you will not hear, Things I cannot tell you this side death.
_The Case of Pierrot_
When I lie down in my bed Forty devils guard my head, They don’t let me sleep, They laugh when I weep. All night long they sneer and sneer:
“Dead heart, cruel heart, Do you know where she is? How she moans! Don’t you hear? Under the madman’s kiss.
“See, she’s fallen on her knees! —Dead heart, take your ease— Cries for pity, none to care. Happy Pair!
“Now the Marquis cracks the whip! Justine up-to-date. Cannot give _this_ fiend the slip, For his name is Fate.”
Forty devils guard my head When I lie down in my bed. All night long they rave and jeer And I cannot choose but hear.
1920.
_Pompes Funèbres_
_Round and round in a circle, slowly,_ _Two by two go the mitred mutes:_ _Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,_ _Death for the pretty girls,_ _Death for the brutes!_
Two black horses with two black tails, And the long black coach with its four black wheels; Black-edged handkerchiefs, black crêpe veils— But who minds now what the dead dog feels?
For a corpse is foul as the rose is fair And the young must love—and the old don’t care. To-night it’s the dance, to-morrow the fair. Bury him quick, with a carriage and pair!
_Round and round in a circle, slowly,_ _Two by two go the mitred mutes:_ _Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,_ _Death for the pretty girls,_ _Death for the brutes!_
_Ah! You Moon_
Ah! you moon, you fickle one, Traitor, like the cruel sun! You’ve disowned me now I lie Underneath this alien sky— Mad, because I cannot die.
Once you liked us, long ago, When the woods were flower-scented, When my love, with tender eyes, Listened to familiar lies In the forest of St. Cloud. You were friend to those who woo ... Moon you might have warned, prevented Us from battening on hope, Thrown us down an end of rope! _This_ was coming, and _you knew_, Could you treat a lover so!
Ah! you moon, you fickle one, Traitor, like the cruel sun.
_A Little Poem on Sin_
Christ, since I turned my back upon your altars Joy has deserted me, the world is dull; The cry of passion fades away and falters, And what may be is no more beautiful.
Hand me the scourge again, forsaken Master, Open your doors and bid me enter in, Then shall my pulses throb, my heart beat faster, And rapture kiss me with the lips of sin.
1920.
_Heart and Soul_
The worn heart called the soul that flew, That soared on high, with fiery wing: “Once in a house of flesh, we two Dwelt silent, sorrowing.
“I fled you for all false delights, Sister, I let you sleep and fade, While in the breathless summer nights With deathly joys I played.”
The tired heart wailed and sank and died, Died terribly, a thousand deaths: Strange things that passed like wild-birds cried; The ghosts drew icy breaths.
“Too late! My jewel, Bird of Hope, You slipt my grasp: now firm and free You soar to that Olympian slope Where every soul would be—”
The dead voice failed; the soul flew by, Nor turned her course, nor dropped her wing: A cold wind shivered through the sky: The pale ghosts heard her sing.
The sister of the weary heart, The bright-winged bird, the bird of fire, Flew onwards swiftly, and apart, Towards the heart’s desire.
_The Singer’s Journey_
I
On the closed door I knocked and knocked again. It was so cold without: the wind and rain Buffeted me, and made me sick and sore, And no birds sang, and night came on, and o’er The surging wind rose pitiful sad cries From all the souls cast out of Paradise ... On the closed door I knocked and knocked again Till I grew tired with bitterness and pain. I made no fine resolve, I shed no tear: I knew that God was good, that she was dear, Only I wondered why these things had been, Why I was glad I loved, that she had seen. She was too pure to care, perhaps too cold, So, in the wilderness I should grow old, With but the memory of her wide grave eyes To comfort me, shut out from Paradise. On the closed door I knocked and knocked again, And suddenly it opened on a chain And I peered close, and, eager, looked inside— Then turned me to the world that waited, wide: ’Twas not for pride I suffered, not for sin; I was barred out to let a loved one in.
II
And so from Paradise I turned my feet, And the earth claimed me, and I ran to meet The salutation of the wind and rain, That swept across a desolate, sad plain. Then called the mountains and the grassy hills, Broad seas and rivers, and small tinkling rills: And there were forests wonderful and dark, And when the shrill wind ceased, sweet sang the lark, And I forgot lost love, in pleasant places, For I found other heavens, and sweeter faces Smiled from the lake, or laughed behind the reeds; —But in the night the heart that’s stricken bleeds. Then once at dawn-time, by a quiet pool, A goat-legged fellow cried: “Come hither, fool, And learn the tune that makes the world roll round: Life, lust and laughter mingle in the sound: ’Twas made with longing and with tears and fire, But laughter conquered it, and mocked desire.” And then he took his pipe, this goat-legged man, And all the winds cried: “Hark, the song of Pan: Pan who is god of flocks and herds, who dwells Deep in the woods a-weaving curious spells And tunes that sob for joy, that thrill and weep— That charm to laughter and that soothe to sleep.”
III
And by and by Pan made a flute for me, And when I took the flute I seemed to see Visions of bodied-thoughts, gay-clothed or dark, And each thought made a sound: and some the lark Took for his song—the gayest did he take— But I for mine took sombre ones, to make A mournful wail for my lost love, but while I sang I did forget my grief and smile. And then the sweetness of the tunes I made Thrilled me, and sorrow vanished and I played Enraptured, with the sounds that charmed me best; And I made songs for pleasure, while the West Crimsoned behind the dark, enchanted woods. Still by the silent pool, in varying moods, All night beneath the stars I laughed and sang, And through the shadows joyful echoes rang, And presently dryads slipt from tree to tree; Nymphs from the field and stream crept close to me And stealthy satyrs; and web-footed men Climbed from the lake; and from a fairy glen Came trooping little people with bright eyes, Who listened while I made them melodies. Then slender women, with white limbs and hair Dusky as night, sought out my reedy lair To hear my singing, and the loveliest one Lay in my arms until the night was done.
1909.
_Part IV_
_Brighton Beach_
(_Whit-Monday, 1909_)
Chocolates and brandy balls and butterscotch, “Tit-Bits,” “The Mother’s Friend” and “Woman’s Life,” Sixpenny photographs, a silver watch, A “little wonder” of a pocket-knife— All these for sale: the sunshine, given free, Beats down upon the beach and on the sea Where ma and brats—fat legs and little feet— Paddle and laugh and redden in the heat. All through the happy day they call and shout, Shriek with delight and giggle and “hooray”; And two alone look gloomy and put out, Causing a lady to her pal to say: “’Oo’s that young man wot give ’is girl a shove?” “O them poor sulky devils, they’re in love!”
_Beaugency-sur-Loire_
A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the heart grows merry! But I think of a little farm slid by, and a dark girl at the ferry. The sun dies, and a bird cries, and a bright star’s gleaming: And I afloat, and all alone, with the long night for dreaming....
A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the stream swirls under; And here am I by the still white town, in a sad, hush’d wonder. Lovers sigh and the leaves sigh—and bright eyes peeping: A boy laughs and a girl laughs ... and ah! who’s weeping?
1912.
_In Picardy_
Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea— A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines That might shine round the Graal; and we Stand very silent, underneath the pines.
Oh, swift expresses for the spirit’s flight! Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know, Looking roguishly back and flying onward—so I follow, flashing after. Blessed night!
1912.
_Calle Memo O Loredan_
We were staying (that night) in a very old palace— Very dark, very large, and sheer to the water below. The rooms were silent and strange, and you were frightened: The silver lamp gave a feeble, flickering glow.
And the bed had a high dark tester and carved black posts. And behind our heads was a glimmer of old brocade. Do you remember? you thought the shadows were full of ghosts, And the sound of the lapping water made you afraid.
Ah, and your face shone pale, in the gleam of that quivering flame! And your bosom was rich with the round pearls row on row; And you looked proud and jewelled, and passionate without shame— Like some Princess who stooped to her lover, a long while ago.
1912.
_Barcelona_
A squalid station, tramcars, dusty palms In a great square; and then the surging streets That cut the town in two, where its heart beats. Crowds jostle to and fro, brats cadge for alms, Sell lottery tickets, hand their sister’s card (With her address, nude photograph and hours); Men offer little birds, old women flow’rs; Red-coated guards loaf by; a half-blind bard Drones out stale tunes; and amorous ladies stare (Clad in rich clothes, with very bad black eyes) At men with Brownings bulging at their thighs Who’ll fight for a Republic—when they dare.
1914.
_Juillac-le-Coq_
(_Charente_)
It’s to Juillac-le-coq, where the vines stretch o’er the plain, And the little streams are running eau-de-vie and the sweet champagne, That I’d take my pipe and smoke it, sitting on some garden wall, And kick my heels and dream my dreams, and never work at all. _For the sun’s bright, and the moon’s bright, and all the women’s eyes_ _Are bright there; and joy’s there, and love that fools despise._
It’s a little dusty village, full of laughing men and girls; At the thought of it my breath comes short, my tired brain spins and whirls. I must tramp along and find it, choose my sunny white-washed wall, And sing my songs, and dream my dreams, and never work at all. _There are vines there, and wines there, and straight, long dazzling ways_ _That shine white, on a fine night, when high the full moon sways._
1910.
_Roads_
Long roads that stretch out hard and white, Long roads that climb into the sky, They haunt me in this London night: I knew them well in days gone by—
Knew them and loved them! Bright they shone— They led to that enchanting land, Where all the throneless gods live on And where men go, who understand;
Where hills too lovely to be true Rise dazzling, in diviner air, And under heavens for ever blue Love grows to friendship fine and rare.
Far from a bitter world of toil They led, those roads of long ago: They climbed the skies to fairy soil, They glittered like a line of snow.
1910.
_Envoi_
_Ars Longa_
They hanged the poet up next day. It was a rare and curious treat; They never had seen so much meat Suspended, juicily, in May.
They sat them down and made a feast, And, carving him, they sang his songs Of lovely girls, and shameful wrongs, And amorous customs in the East.
But Gubbins, nosey man for pelf, Denounced their joyous foozaloo And piously dispersed the crew— Then ate the poet’s soul himself....
_Some Press Opinions of Mr. Goldring’s Verses._
_James Elroy Flecker_ (in _The Cambridge Review_): “Mr. Goldring is a young poet; his technique in these days, when so high a standard is set, is careless ... yet one feels that a book like his ‘Country Boy’ ought to sell thousands, not mere hundreds, so full it is of the joy of life, of modern love and sorrow. It is a book about the people, for the people. It is full of the magic of proper names:
‘And ere he went to London Our maidens pleased him well, As little Rose from Yeovil And dozens more can tell.’
Is there not all the honey and sweetness and summer of the West Country in the sound of her—‘little Rose from Yeovil.’ Could anything give the weariness of suburban pavements, yet make them sublime, better than this:
‘On 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.’
For he knows, as all true modern poets know, that the world has become a fairy world again, and that the name of Camden Town can haunt us as much as Xanadu, nay more. We cannot place him with Mr. Yeats, Mr. Housman or Mr. Masefield: but he should be loved by thousands, and the student of the future will treasure his work as a document of fine English sentiment and feeling long after our Francis Thompson, our Watson and our Trench are forgotten.”
_Birmingham Daily Post_: “If Mr. Douglas Goldring does not belie the promise of his first book, a good deal will be heard of him, and the attractively produced little volume before us will become precious to the collector. What matters above all else in a young poet is personality—individuality of feeling and outlook. Possessing this, his style may safely be left to develop itself; and this quality is unmistakably present on every page of ‘A Country Boy, and Other Poems.’... Already his individuality of vision is beginning to make its own music.”
_Edward Thomas_: (In the London _Bookman_): “His book ‘Streets’ consists of experiments in capturing the soul, or one of the souls, of twenty or thirty London streets. In some he speaks of his own feeling towards them; in others he speaks for them as if he were an inhabitant. His methods vary almost as much as his streets, from the downright to the romantic, but he is invariably interesting, often brilliant.”
_Sunday Times_: “Mr. Douglas Goldring has caught the glamour of London’s highways and by-ways ... there is real poetry in this slender volume, and Mr. Goldring has the art of suffusing with ecstasy apparently commonplace things....”
_Evening Standard_: “Poems of London streets remarkable for their freshness. They are short and impressionistic, at times suggesting comparison with the work of Mr. Davies and Mr. James Stephens.... But the poet has his own thoughts, and his own methods of expression admirably suited to them. This little volume deserves recognition.”
_Morning Post_: “Mr. Goldring’s book has been a great comfort to us. All lovers of London will love it.”
_Rebecca West_ (_Star_): “I insist on saying that his volume ‘Streets’ contains some of the loveliest verse that has ever been written about London.”
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_
End of Project Gutenberg's Streets, and Other Verses, by Douglas Goldring