Part 3

Walk slowly by them as they come, Sing hymns to the wind’s harmonium.

Old men shake hands; their clawing grasp Seems like a door without a clasp--

That gapes on slow black emptiness.... Now,--vanished is her cracked black dress, The house grows tall from vacancy, And in the kitchen I take tea

While the furry sun creeps out--that raw Life,--sheathes its murderous claw

And lets its tongue slink out to lap The silence--(a slow-leaking tap)....

II

THE COUNTY CALLS

They came upon us like a train-- A rush, a scream, then gone again! With bodies like a continent Encased in silken seas, they went

And came and called and took their tea And patronised the Deity Who copies their munificence With creditable heart and sense.

Each face a plaster monument For some belovèd aliment, Whose everlasting sleep they deign To cradle in the Great Inane;

Each tongue, a noisy clockwork bell To toll the passing hour that fell; Each hat, an architect’s device For building churches, cheap and nice.

_I saw_ the County Families Advance and sit and take their teas; I saw the County gaze askance At my thin insignificance:

Small thoughts like frightened fishes glide Beneath their eyes’ pale glassy tide: They said: “Poor thing! we must be nice!” They said: “We know your father!”--twice.

III

SOLO FOR EAR-TRUMPET

The carriage brushes through the bright Leaves (violent jets from life to light). Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves Between the showers of bright hot leaves. The window-glasses glaze our faces And jarr them to the very basis,-- But they could never put a polish Upon my manners, or abolish My most distinct disinclination For calling on a rich relation! In her house, bulwark built between The life man lives and visions seen,-- The sunlight hiccups white as chalk, Grown drunk with emptiness of talk, And silence hisses like a snake, Invertebrate and rattling ache.

* * * * *

Till suddenly, Eternity Drowns all the houses like a sea, And down the street the Trump of Doom Blares,--barely shakes this drawing-room Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn As dank dark nettles. Down the horn Of her ear-trumpet I convey The news that: “It is Judgment Day!” “Speak louder; I don’t catch, my dear.” I roared: “_It is the Trump we hear!_” “The _What_?”--“The TRUMP!” ... “I shall complain-- The boy-scouts practising again!”

ANTIC HAY

How like a lusty satyr, the hot sun Doth in his orbit run O’er rivers and the light blue hills of noon, And where the white still moon Sleeps in the lovely woodlands of the light. Made drunken with his might, Like flames the goat-foot satyrs leap and fling The blossom’d beans of Spring. The oreads leave their swan-like fountains, bells Of foam, and dark wood-wells, And grasses where the pale dew lovelorn lies And like an echo dies. The river-gods are tossing their blue manes Still wet with brine; the reins Lie loosely on their plunging horses; earth Shakes with the storm of mirth; And all the cloudy castles of the air Are bathed with radiance. There, Beneath dark chestnut trees, King Pan doth sport With all his hornèd court. Their goat-feet clattering to the oaten tune That cools the heat of noon Like water gurgling; hoofs all wreath’d with flowers, Wild as the dew-pale hours, The clownish satyrs dance the antic hay; They butt with horns and sway, While laughing leaves, like smitten cymbals thrill Their sunburnt dance; until The light falls like a rain of panick’d leaves Through the gold heart of eves. O’er misty fields, mild Dian’s old faint horn Bloweth a sound forlorn. Then from their hives with palest flowers bedight, The yellow bees take flight-- Whirling where old Silenus tries to sing Unto his hornèd King --Feeding upon gold-freckled strawberries-- And sting the poor fat fool until he cries.

LULLABY

Golden night-airs lull his eyes, Starlight come not where Love lies, Lest your faint light touch his wings Who swiftly comes and swiftly flies; Lovers, wake him not with sighs, But list where Philomela sings Lullaby.

Dreams come tiptoe to his bed, Dim fantastic wings outspread To fan his pretty sleeping eyes. Upon my breast he laid his head (On lilies white heap roses red); Hushed in my maiden heart, Love lies A-sleeping.

WATER MUSIC

From Florence and from Venice, Like silver swans at noon, That silken dim winds menace-- Each barque a drownèd moon, I’ll bring you freights of amber, Perfumèd like the rose, To build your sleeping chamber, And song-birds for your close; Faint stars to go a-singing, Like fluttering nightingales From golden cages winging, When, Love, your tir’d wing fails. And as we come a-rowing, Great rainbows rise and swing Like haughty peacocks bowing In the gardens of the King.

THE WEB OF EROS

Within your magic web of hair lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world; The dire gold of the comet’s wind-blown hair, The songs that turned to gold the evening air When all the stars of heaven sang for joy; The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy; The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth, The myrrh-lit flames that gave both life and birth To the soul-Phœnix, and the star-bright shower That came to Danæ in her brazen tower. Within your burning web of hair lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world.

DROWNED SUNS

The swans more white than those forgotten fair Who ruled the kingdoms that of old-time were, Within the sunset water deeply gaze As though they sought some beautiful dim face, The youth of all the world; or pale lost gems, And crystal shimmering diadems, The moon for ever seeks in woodland streams To deck her cool faint beauty; thus in dreams, Belov’d, I seek lost suns within your eyes And find but wrecks of love’s gold argosies.

THE SPIDER

The fat light clings upon my skin, Like grease that slowly forms a thin And foul white film; so close it lies, It feeds upon my lips and eyes.

The black fly hits the window-pane That shuts its dirty body in; So once, his spirit fought to quit The body that imprisoned it.

He always seemed so fond of me, Until one day he chanced to see My head, a little on one side, Loll softly as if I had died.

Since then, he rarely looked my way, Though he could never know what lay Within my brain; though iron his will, I thought, he’s young and teachable.

And often, as I took my drink, I chuckled in my heart to think Whose dark blood ran within his veins: You see, it spared me half my pains.

The time was very long until I had the chance to work my will; Once seen, the way was clear as light, A father’s patience infinite.

He always was so sensitive; But soon I taught him how to live With each day, just a patch of white, A blinded patch of black, each night.

Each day he watched my gaiety. It’s very difficult to die When one is young.... I pitied him, The glass I filled up to the brim,

His shaking fingers scarce could hold; His limbs were trembling as with cold.... I waited till from night and day All meaning I had wiped away,

And then I gave it him again; The wine made heaven in his brain. Then spider-like, the kindly wine Thrust tentacles through every vein,

And knotted him so very fast I knew I had him safe at last. And sometimes in the dawn, I’d creep To watch him as he lay asleep,

And each time, see my son’s face grown In some blurred line, more like my own. A crumpled rag, he lies all night Until the first white smear of light;

And sleep is but an empty hole ... No place for him to hide his soul, No outlet there to set him free: He never can escape from me.

Yet still I never know what thought, All fly-like, in his mind lies caught: His face seems some half-spoken word Forgot again as soon as heard,

Beneath the livid skin of light; Oh, just an empty space of white, Now all the meaning’s gone. I’ll sit A little while, and stare at it.

THE DRUNKARD

This black tower drinks the blinding light. Strange windows livid white,

Tremble beneath the curse of God. Yet living weeds still nod

To the huge sun, a devil’s eye That tracks the souls that die.

The clock beats like the heart of Doom Within the narrow room;

And whispering with some ghastly air The curtains float and stir.

But still she never speaks a word; I think she hardly heard

When I with reeling footsteps came And softly spoke her name.

But yet she does not sleep. Her eyes Still watch in wide surprise

The thirsty knife that pitied her; But those lids never stir,

Though creeping Fear still gnaws like pain The hollow of her brain.

She must have some sly plan, the cheat, To lie so still. The beat

That once throbbed like a muffled drum With fear to hear me come,

Now never sounds when I creep nigh. Oh! she was always sly.

And if to spite her, I dared steal Behind her bed, and feel

With fumbling fingers for her heart ... Ere I could touch the smart,

Once more wild shriek on shriek would tear The dumb and shuddering air....

And still she never speaks to me. She only smiles to see

How in dark corners secret-sly New-born Eternity,

All spider-like, doth spin and cast Strange threads to hold Time fast.

THE MOTHER

I

Our dreams create the babes we bear; Our beauty goes to make them fair. We give them all we have of good, Our blood to drink, our hearts for food;

And in our souls they lie and rest Until upon their mother’s breast, So innocent and sweet they lie. They live to curse us; then they die.

When he was born, it seemed the spring Had come again with birds to sing And blossoms dancing in the sun Where streams released from winter run.

His sunlit hair was all my gold, His loving eyes my wealth untold; All heaven was hid within my breast Whereon my child was laid to rest.

He grew to manhood. Then one came False-hearted as Hell’s blackest shame, To steal my child from me, and thrust The soul I loved down to the dust.

Her hungry, wicked lips were red As that dark blood my son’s hand shed. Her eyes were black as Hell’s own night, Her ice-cold breast was winter-white.

I had put by a little gold To bury me when I was cold. Her fangèd, wanton kiss to buy My son’s love willed that I should die.

The gold was hid beneath my bed; So little, and my weary head Was all the guard it had. They lie So quiet and still who soon must die.

He stole to kill me while I slept-- The little son, who never wept But that I kissed his tears away So fast, his weeping seemed but play.

So light his footfall, yet I heard Its echo in my heart, and stirred From out my weary sleep to see My child’s face bending over me.

The wicked knife flashed serpent-wise.-- Yet I saw nothing but his eyes, And heard one little word he said Go echoing down among the Dead.

II

They say the Dead may never dream. But yet I heard my pierced heart scream His name within the dark. They lie Who say the Dead can ever die.

For in the grave I may not sleep For dreaming that I hear him weep. And in the dark, my dead hands grope In search of him. O barren hope!

I cannot draw his head to rest Deep down upon my wounded breast ... He gave the breast that fed him well To suckle the small worms of Hell.

The little wicked thoughts that fed Upon the weary helpless Dead ... They whispered o’er my broken heart, They stuck their fangs deep in the smart.

“The child she bore with bloody sweat And agony has paid his debt. Through that bleak face the stark winds play; The crows have chased his soul away.

“His body is a blackened rag Upon the tree--a monstrous flag.” Thus one worm to the other saith. Those slow mean servitors of Death,

They chuckling said: “Your soul, grown blind With anguish, is the shrieking Wind That blows the flame that never dies About his empty, lidless eyes.”

I tore them from my heart. I said: “The life-blood that my son’s hand shed, That from my broken heart outburst, I’d give again, to quench his thirst.

“He did no sin. But cold blind earth The body was that gave him birth. All mine, all mine the sin; the love I bore him was not deep enough.”

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._