Chapter 2

God gave him passions, splendid as the sun, Meant for the lordliest purposes; a part Of nature’s full and fertile mother heart, From which new systems and new stars are spun. And now, behold, behold, what he has done! In Folly’s court and carnal Pleasures’ mart He flung the wealth life gave him at the start. (This, of all mortal sins, the deadliest one.)

At dawn he stood, potential, opulent, With virile manhood, and emotions keen, And wonderful with God’s creative fire. At noon he stands, with Love’s large fortune spent In petty traffic, unproductive, mean— A pauper, cursed with impotent desire.

COMPENSATIONS

I BLIND

When first the shadows fell, like prison bars, And darkness spread before me, like a pall, I cried out for the sun, the earth, the stars, And beat the air, as madmen beat a wall, Till, impotent, and broken with despair, I turned my vision inward. Lo, a spark— A light—a torch; and all my world grew bright; For God’s dear eyes were shining through the dark. Then, bringing to me gifts of recompense, Came keener hearing, finer taste, and touch; And that oft unappreciated sense, Which finds sweet odours, and proclaims them such; And not until my mortal eyes were blind Did I perceive how kind the world, how kind.

II DEAF

I can recall a time, when on mine ears There fell chaotic sounds of earthly life, Shrill cries of triumph, and hoarse shouts of strife; A medley of despairs, and hopes and fears. Then silence came, and unavailing tears. The stillness stabbed me, like a two edged-knife; Until I found the Universe was rife With subtle music of the neighbouring spheres. Such harmonies, such congruous sweet chords, Wherein each note conveys a healing balm. And now no more I miss men’s spoken words; For, in a quiet world of larger thought, I know the joy that comes from being calm.

III SHUT-IN

Across my window glass The moving shadows of the people pass. Sometimes the shadow’s pause; and through the hall Kind neighbours come to call, Bringing a word or smile To cheer my loneliness a little while. But as I hear them talk, These people who can walk And go about the great green earth at will, I wonder if they know the joy of being still, And all alone with thoughts that soar afar— High as the highest star. And oft I feel more free Than those who travel over land and sea. For one who is shut in, Away from all the outer strife and din, With faithful Pain for guide, Finds where Great Truths abide.

Across my window glass The moving shadows pass. But swifter moves my unimpeded thought, Speeding from spot to spot— Out and afar— High as the highest star.

SONG OF THE RAIL

Oh, an ugly thing is an iron rail, Black, with its face to the dust. But it carries a message where winged things fail; It crosses the mountains, and catches the trail, While the winds and the sea make sport of a sail; Oh, a rail is a friend to trust.

The iron rail, with its face to the sod, Is only a bar of ore; Yet it speeds where never a foot has trod; And the narrow path where it leads, grows broad; And it speaks to the world in the voice of God, That echoes from shore to shore.

Though the iron rail, on the earth down flung, Seems kin to the loam and the soil, Wherever its high shrill note is sung, Out of the jungle fair homes have sprung, And the voices of babel find one tongue, In the common language of toil.

Of priest, and warrior, and conquering king, Of Knights of the Holy Grail, Of wonders of winter, and glories of spring, Always and ever the poets sing; But the great God-Force, in a lowly thing, I sing, in my song of the rail.

ALWAYS AT SEA

Always at sea I think about the dead. On barques invisible they seem to sail The self-same course; and from the decks cry ‘Hail’! Then I recall old words that they have said, And see their faces etched upon the mist— Dear faces I have kissed.

Always the dead seem very close at sea. The coarse vibrations of the earth debar Our spirit friends from coming where we are. But through God’s ether, unimpeded, free, They wing their way, the ocean deeps above— And find the hearts that love.

Always at sea my dead come very near. A growing host; some old in spirit lore, And some who crossed to find the other shore But yesterday. All, all, I see and hear With inner senses, while the voice of faith Proclaims—there is no death.

THE SUITORS

There is a little Bungalow Perched on a granite ledge, And at its feet two suitors meet; (I watch them, and I know) One waits outside the casement edge; One paces to and fro.

The Patient Rock speaks not a word; The Sea goes up and down, And sings full oft, in cadence soft; (I listen, and have heard) Again he wears an angry frown By jealous passion stirred.

This dawn, the Rock was all aglow; Far out the mad Sea went; Beyond the raft, like one gone daft; (I saw them, and I know) While radiant and well content Smiled down the Bungalow.

That was at Dawn; ere day had set, The Sea with pleading voice Came back to woo his love anew; (I saw them when they met) And now I know not which her choice— (The Rock’s gray face was wet.)

THE JEALOUS GODS

‘Oh life is wonderful,’ she said, ‘And all my world is bright; Can Paradise show fairer skies, Or more effulgent light?’ (Speak lower, lower, mortal heart, The jealous gods may hear.)

She turned for answer; but his gaze Cut past her like a lance, And shone like flame on one who came With radiant glance for glance. (You spoke too loud, O mortal heart, The jealous gods were near.)

They walked through green and sunlit ways; And yet the earth seemed black, For there were three, where two should be; So runs the world, alack. (The listening gods, the jealous gods, They want no Edens here.)

GOD RULES ALWAY

Into the world’s most high and holy places Men carry selfishness, and graft and greed. The air is rent with warring of the races; Loud Dogmas drown a brother’s cry of need. The Fleet-of-Creeds, upon Time’s ocean lurches; And there is mutiny upon her decks; And in the light of temples, and of churches, Against life’s shores drift wrecks and derelicts. (God rules, God rules alway.)

Right in the shadow of the lofty steeple, Which crowns some costly edifice of faith, Behold the throngs of hungry, unhoused people; The ‘Bread Line,’ flanked by charity and death. See yonder Churchman, opulently doing Unnumbered deeds, which gladden and resound; The while his thrifty tenant is pursuing The white slave trade on sacred, untaxed ground. (God rules, God rules alway.)

For these are but the outward signs of fever; Those flaunting signs, which through delirium burn; And the clear-seeing eye of each Believer Can note the coming crisis. It will turn, For it has reached its summit. Convalescing, The sick world shall arise to strength and peace, And earth shall bloom, with each and every blessing Life waits to give, when wars and conflicts cease. (God rules, God rules alway.)

This is a mighty hour. No sounds of drumming, No flying flags, no heralds do appear; No Wise Men of the East proclaim His coming; Yet He is coming—nay, our Christ is here! And man shall leave his fever dreams behind him; Those dreams of avarice, and lust, and sin, And seek his Lord; yea, he shall seek and find Him, In his own soul, where He has always been. (God rules, God rules alway.)

Man longs for God. Before the Christ we wot of, With His brief mighty message, came to earth, Before His life, or creed, or cross were thought of, The love of love within man’s breast had birth. But blindly, through his carnal senses reaching, He plucked dead fruit, and nothing has sufficed; Nor can his soul find rest in any teaching, Until he knows that he, himself, is Christ. (God rules, God rules alway.)

Oh, when he knows this truth in all its splendour, What majesty, what glory crowns his life: And, one with God, his every thought is tender; He cannot enter into war, or strife. His love goes out to every race and nation; His whole religion lies in being kind. THIS IS THE CREED THAT MEANS THE WORLD’S SALVATION; THE BIRTH OF CHRIST IN EVERY MORTAL MIND. (God rules, God rules alway.)

THE CURE

You may talk of reformations, of the Economic Plan, That shall stem the Social Evil in its course; But the Ancient Sin of nations, must be got at in THE MAN. If you want to cleanse a river, seek the source.

Ever since his first beginning, Man has had his way, in lust. He has never learned the law of Self-Control; And the World condones his sinning, and the Doctors say he must, And the Churches shut their eyes, and take his toll.

And the lauded ‘Lovely Mothers’ send the son out into life With no knowledge-welded armour for the fight; ‘He will make his way like others, through the Oat field, to the Wife’; ‘He will somehow be led onward, to the light.’

Yes, his leaders, they shall find him. On the highways at each turn, (Since you did not choose to counsel or to warn,) They shall tempt him, then shall bind him; they shall blight, and they shall burn, Down to offspring and descendants yet unborn.

It can never end through preaching; it can never end through laws; This social sore, no punishment can heal. _It must be the mother’s teaching of the purpose_, _and the cause_, _And God’s glory_, _lying under sex appeal_.

She must feel no fear to name it to the children it has brought; She must speak of it as sacred, and sublime; She must beautify, not shame it, by her speech and by her thought; Till they listen, and respect it, for all time.

From the heart they rested under ere they saw the light of day, Must the daughters and the sons be taught this truth; Till they think of it with wonder, as a holy thing alway; While love’s wisdom guides them safely through their youth.

Oh, the world has made its devil, and the Mothers let it grow; And the Man has dragged their thoughts down to the earth. There will be no Social Evil, when each waking mind shall know All the grandeur and the beauty hid in birth.

When each Mother sets the fashion to win confidence, and trust, And to teach the mighty lesson, Self-Control, We can lift the great Sex passion from the darkness and the dust, And enshrine it on the altar of the soul.

THE FORECAST

_It may be that I dreamed a dream_; _it may be that I saw_ _The forecast of a time to come by some supernal law_.

I seemed to dwell in this same world, and in this modern time; Yet nowhere was there sight or sound of poverty or crime. All strife had ceased; men were disarmed; and quiet Peace had made A thousand avenues for toil, in place of War’s grim trade. From east to west, from north to south where highways smooth and broad Tied State to State, the waste lands bloomed, like garden spots of God. There were no beggars in the streets; there were no unemployed, For each man owned his plot of ground, and laboured and enjoyed. Sweet children grew like garden flowers; all strong and fair to see; And when I marvelled at the sight, thus spake a Voice to me: ‘All Motherhood is now an art; the greatest art on earth; And nowhere is there known the crime of one unwelcome birth From rights of parentage the sick and sinful are debarred; For Matron Science keeps our house, and at the door stands guard. We know the cure for darkness lies in letting in the light; And Prisons are replaced by Schools, where wrong views change to right. The wisdom, knowledge, study, thought, once bent on beast and sod, We give now to the human race, the highest work of God; And, as the gardener chooses seed, so we select with care; And as our Man Plant grows, we give him soil and sun and air. There are no slums; no need of alms; all men are opulent, For Mother Earth belongs to them, as was the First Intent.’

_It may be that I dreamed a dream_; _it may be that I saw_ _The forecast of a time to come by some supernal law_.

LITTLE GIRLS

Whether you frolic with comrade boys, Or sit at your studies, or play with toys, Whatever your station, or place, or sphere, For just one purpose God sent you here; And always and ever, you are to me— Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

So would I guard you from all mean things; From the dwarfing of wealth, and from poverty’s stings. And from silly mothers of fuss and show, And from dissolute fathers whose aims are low, I would take you, and shield you, and set you free, Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

And then were the wish of my heart fulfilled, Around about you, the world should build A wall of Wisdom, with Truth for its Tower, Where mind and body would wax in power, Till the tender twig was a splendid tree— Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

It is only a dream; but the world grows wise, And a mighty truth in the dream seed lies That shall gladden the earth, in its time and place. WE MUST BETTER THE MOTHERS TO BETTER THE RACE. A dream? nay, a vision, which all must see, Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

SCIENCE

Alone I climb the steep ascending path Which leads to knowledge. In the babbling throngs That hurry after, shouting to the world Small fragments of large truths, there is not one Who comprehends my purpose, or who sees The ultimate great goal. Why, even she, My heaven intended Spouse, my other self, Religion, turns her beauteous face on me With hatred in the eyes, where love should dwell. While those who call me Master blindly run, Wounding the ear of Faith with blasphemies, And making useless slaughter in my name.

Mine is the difficult slow task to blaze A road of Facts, through labyrinths of dreams To tear down Maybe and establish IS: And substitute I Know for I Believe. I follow closely where the Seers have led: But that intangible dim path of theirs, Which may be trodden but by other Seers, I seek to render solid for the feet Of all mankind. With reverent hands I lift The mask from Mystery: and show the face Of Reason, smiling bravely on the world. The visions of the prophets, one by one, Grew visible beneath my tireless touch: And the white secrets of elusive stars I tell aloud, to listening multitudes.

To fit the better world my toil ensures, Time will impregnate with a better race The Future’s womb: and when the hour is ripe, To ready eyes of men, the alien spheres Shall seem as friendly neighbours: and my skill Shall make their music audible to ears Which will be tuned to those high harmonies.

Mine is the work to fashion, step by step, The shining Way that leads from man to God. Though I demolish obstacles of creeds And blast tradition, from the face of earth, My hand shall open wide the door of Truth, Whose other name is Faith: and at the end Of this most holy labour, I shall turn To see Religion, with enlightened eyes, Seeking the welcome of my outstretched arms. While all the world stands hushed and awed before The proven splendour of the Fact Supreme.

THE EARTH

I

To build a house, with love for architect, Ranks first and foremost in the joys of life. And in a tiny cabin, shaped for two, The space for happiness is just as great As in a palace. What a world were this If each soul born received a plot of ground; A little plot, whereon a home might rise, And beauteous green things grow! We give the dead, The idle vagrant dead, the Potter’s Field; Yet to the living not one inch of soil. Nay, we take from them soil, and sun, and air, To fashion slums and hell-holes for the race. And to our poor we say, ‘Go starve and die As beggars die; so gain your heritage.’

II

That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those Long buried in the Potter’s Field, in shredded shrouds arose; They said, ‘Against the will of God We have usurped the fertile sod, Now will we make it yield.’

Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil; Each to his own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil; (I never knew Ghosts laboured so.) Each scattered seed, and watched, till lo! The Graves were opulent.

Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train Walked, as if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain. (I never knew Ghosts loved such things; Perchance it brought back early springs Before they thought of death.)

‘The mothers’ milk for living babes; the earth for living hosts; The clean flame for the un-souled dead.’ (Oh, strange the words of Ghosts.) ‘If we had owned this little spot In life, we need not lie and rot Here in a pauper’s bed.’

THE MUSE AND THE POET

_The Muse said_, _Let us sing a little song_ _Wherein no hint of wrong_, _No echo of the great world need_, _or pain_, _Shall mar the strain_. _Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart_; _Keep sympathy apart_. _Sing of the sunset_, _of the dawn_, _the sea_; _Of any thing or nothing_, _so there be_ _No purpose to thy art_. _Yea_, _let us make_, _art for Art’s sake_. _And sing no more unto the hearts of men_, _But for the critic’s pen_. _With songs that are but words_, _sweet sounding words_, _Like joyous jargon of the birds_. _Tune now thy lyre_, _O Poet_, _and sing on_. _Sing of_

THE DAWN

The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams Of her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear, Feeling the presence of another near. Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair. When lo! the bold intruder lurking there Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid, And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.

_The Muse said_, _Poet_, _nay_; _thou host not caught_ _My meaning_. _For there lurks a thought_ _Back of thy song_. _In art_, _all thought is wrong_. _Re-string thy lyre_; _and let the echoes bound_ _To nothing but sweet sound_. _Strike now the chords_ _And sing of_

WORDS

One day sweet Ladye Language gave to me A little golden key. I sat me down beside her jewel box And turned its locks. And oh, the wealth that lay there in my sight. Great solitaires of words, so bright, so bright; Words that no use can commonize; like God, And Truth, and Love; and words of sapphire blue; And amber words; with sunshine dripping through; And words of that strange hue A pearl reveals upon a wanton’s hand.

_Again the Muse_: _Thou dost not understand_; _A thought within thy song is lingering yet_. _Sing but of words_; _all else forget_, _forget_. _Nor let thy words convey one thought to men_. _Try once again_.

Down through the dusk and dew there fell a word; Down through the dew and dusk. And all the garments of the air it stirred Smelled sweet as musk; And all the little waves of air it kissed Turned cold and amethyst.

There in the dew and dusk a heart it found; There in the dusk and dew The sodden silence changed to fragrant sound; And all the world seemed new. Upon the path that little word had trod, There shone the smile of God.

_The Muse said_, _Drop thy lyre_. _I tire_, _I tire_.

THE SPINSTER

I

Here are the orchard trees all large with fruit; And yonder fields are golden with young grain. In little journeys, branchward from the nest, A mother bird, with sweet insistent cries, Urges her young to use their untried wings. A purring Tabby, stretched upon the sward, Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy, While sturdy kittens nuzzle at her breast.

O mighty Maker of the Universe, Am I not part and parcel of Thy World, And one with Nature? Wherefore, then, in me Must this great reproductive impulse lie Hidden, ashamed, unnourished, and denied, Until it starves to slow and tortuous death? I knew the hope of spring-time; like the tree Now ripe with fruit, I budded, and then bloomed; We laughed together through the young May morns; We dreamed together through the summer moons; Till all Thy purposes within the tree Were to fruition brought. Lord, Thou hast heard The Woman in me crying for the Man; The Mother in me crying for the Child; And made no answer. Am I less to Thee Than lower forms of Nature, or in truth Dost Thou hold Somewhere in another Realm Full compensation and large recompense For lonely virtue forced by fate to live A life unnatural, in a natural world?

II

Thou who hast made for such sure purposes The mightiest and the meanest thing that is— Planned out the lives of insects of the air With fine precision and consummate care, Thou who hast taught the bee the secret power Of carrying on love’s laws ’twixt flower and flower, Why didst Thou shape this mortal frame of mine, If Heavenly joys alone were Thy design? Wherefore the wonder of my woman’s breast, By lips of lover and of babe unpressed, If spirit children only shall reply Unto my ever urgent mother cry? Why should the rose be guided to its own, And my love-craving heart beat on alone?

III

Yet do I understand; for Thou hast made Something more subtle than this heart of me; A finer part of me To be obeyed.

Albeit I am a sister to the earth, This nature self is not the whole of me; The deathless soul of me Has nobler birth.

The primal woman hungers for the man; My better self demands the mate of me; The spirit fate of me, Part of Thy plan.

Nature is instinct with the mother-need; So is my heart; but ah, the child of me Should, undefiled of me, Spring from love’s seed.

And if, in barren chastity, I must Know but in dreams that perfect choice of me, Still will the voice of me Proclaim God just.

BROTHERHOOD

When in the even ways of life The old world jogs along, Our little coloured flags we flaunt: Our little separate selves we vaunt: Each pipes his native song. And jealousy and greed and pride Join their ungodly hands, And this round lovely world divide Into opposing lands.

But let some crucial hour of pain Sound from the tower of time, Then consciousness of brotherhood Wakes in each heart the latent good, And men become sublime. As swarming insects of the night, Fly when the sun bursts in, Self fades, before love’s radiant light, And all the world is kin.

God, what a place this earth would be If that uplifting thought, Born of some vast world accident, Into our daily lives were blent, And in each action wrought. But while we let the old sins flock Back to our hearts again, In flame, and flood, and earthquake shock, Thy voice must speak to men.

‘THE TAVERN OF LAST TIMES’ (AT BOX HILL, SURREY)