Part 3

He’ll learn to sing more prettily When you take him out to Italy On your honeymoon, (Oh come back soon!) To Florence or to Rome, The _prima donnas’_ home, To Padua or to Genoa Where tenors all sing tra-la-la....

Good-bye, Winifred, Bless your heart, Ben. Come back happy And safe agen.

AGAINST CLOCK AND COMPASSES

“_Beauty dwindles into shadow, Beauty dies, preferred by Fate, Past the rescue of bold thought. Sentries drowsed_,” they say, “_at Beauty’s gate_.”

“_Time duteous to his hour-glass, Time with unerring sickle, Garners to a land remote Where your vows of true love are proved fickle._”

“_Love chill upon her forehead, Love fading from her cheek, Love dulled in either eye, With voice of love_,” they say, “_no more to speak_.”

I deny to Time his terror; Come-and-go prevails not here; Spring is constant, loveless winter Looms, but elsewhere, for he comes not near.

I deny to Space the sorrow; No leagues measure love from me; Turning boldly from her arms, Into her arms I shall come certainly.

Time and Space, folly’s wonder, Three-card shufflers, magic-men! True love is, that none shall say It ever was, or ever flowers again.

THE AVENGERS

Who grafted quince on Western may, Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar? In loathing since that Gospel day The two saps flame, the tree’s on fire.

The briar-rose weeps for injured right, May sprouts up red to choke the quince. With angry throb of equal spite Our wood leaps maddened ever since.

Then mistletoe, of gods not least, Kindler of warfare since the Flood, Against green things of South and East Voices the vengeance of our blood.

Crusading ivy Southward breaks And sucks your lordly palms upon, Our island oak the water takes To outrage cedared Lebanon.

Our slender ash-twigs feathered fly Against your vines; bold buttercup Pours down his legions; malt of rye Inflames and burns your lentils up....

For bloom of quince yet caps the may, The briar is held by Sharon’s rose, Monsters of thought through earth we stray, And how remission comes, God knows.

ON THE POET’S BIRTH

A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God, Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety, Equally claiming the sole parenthood Of him the perfect crown of their variety. Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell; That always was her fate, she loved too well.

“But, many-fathered little one,” she said, “Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough, Here is your mother whom you brought to bed. Acknowledge only me, be this enough, For such as worship after shall be told A white dove sired you or a rain of gold.”

THE TECHNIQUE OF PERFECTION

Said hermit monk to hermit monk, “Friend, in this island anchorage Our life has tranquilly been sunk From pious youth to pious age,

“In such clear waves of quietness, Such peace from argument or brawl That one prime virtue I confess Has never touched our hearts at all.

“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgive But after anger or dissent? This never-pardoning life we live May earn God’s blackest punishment.”

His friend, resolved to find a ground For rough dispute between the two That mutual pardons might abound, With cunning from his wallet drew

A curious pebble of the beach And scowled, “This treasure is my own:” He hoped for sharp unfriendly speech Or angry snatching at the stone.

But honeyed words his friend outpours, “Keep it, dear heart, you surely know Even were it mine it still were yours, This trifle that delights you so.”

The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother, What’s this? Are my deserts so small You’d give me trifles?” But the other Smiles, “Brother, you may take my all.”

He then enraged with one so meek, So unresponsive to his mood, Most soundly smites the martyr cheek And rends the island quietude.

The martyr, who till now has feigned In third degree of craftiness That meekness is so deep ingrained No taunt or slight can make it less,

Spits out the tooth in honest wrath, “You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he. They grapple on the rocky path That zigzags downward to the sea.

In rising fury strained and stiff They lunge across the narrow ground; They topple headlong from the cliff And murderously embraced are drowned.

* * * * *

Here Peter sits: two spirits reach To sound the knocker at his Gate. They shower forgiveness each on each, Beaming triumphant and elate.

But oh, their sweats, their secret fears Lest clod-souled witnesses may rise To set a tingling at their ears And bar the approach to Paradise!

THE SIBYL

Her hand falls helpless: thought amazements fly Far overhead, they leave no record mark-- Wild swans urged whistling across dazzled sky, Or Gabriel hounds in chorus through the dark.

Yet when she prophesies, each spirit swan, Each spectral hound from memory’s windy zones, Flies back to inspire one limb-strewn skeleton Of thousands in her valley of dry bones.

There as those life-restored battalions shout, Succession flags and Time goes maimed in flight: From each live gullet twenty swans glide out With hell-packs loathlier yet to amaze the night.

Gabriel hounds, a spectral pack hunting the souls of the damned through the air at night: the origin of this belief some find in the strange noise made by the passage of flocks of wild geese or swans.

A CRUSADER

Death, kindly eager to pretend Himself my servant in the land of spears, Humble allegiance at the end Broke where the homeward track your castle nears, Let his white steed before my red steed press And rapt you from me into quietness.

A NEW PORTRAIT OF JUDITH OF BETHULIA

She trod the grasses grey with dew, She hugged the unlikely head; Avenging where the warrior Jew Incontinent had fled.

The bearded lips writhed ever more At this increase of shame-- Killed by a girl, pretending whore, Gone scatheless as she came!

His doom yet loathlier that he knew Hers was no nation-pride, No high religion snatched and slew Where he lay stupefied.

Nebuchadnezzar’s duke enticed To pay a megrim’s fee? Assyrian valour sacrificed For a boudoir dignity?

“Only for this, that some tall knave Had scorned her welcoming bed, For this, the assault, the stroke, the grave,” Groaned Holofernes’ head.

A REVERSAL

The old man in his fast car Leaves Achilles lagging, The old man with his long gun Outshoots Ulysses’ bow, Nestor in his botched old age Rivals Ajax bragging, To Nestor’s honeyed courtship Could Helen say “No”?

Yet, ancient, since you borrow From youth the strength and speed, Seducing as an equal His playmates in the night, He, robbed, assumes your sceptre, He overgoes your rede, And with his brown and lively hairs Out-prophesies your white.

THE MARTYRED DECADENTS: A SYMPATHETIC SATIRE

We strain our strings thus tight, Our voices pitch thus high, A song to indite That nevermore shall die.

The Poet being divine Admits no social sin, Spurring with wine And lust the Muse within.

Finding no use at all In arms or civic deeds, Perched on a wall Fulfilling fancy’s needs.

Let parents, children, wife, Be ghosts beside his art, Be this his life To hug the snake to his heart.

Sad souls, the more we stress The advantage of our crown, So much the less Our welcome by the Town,

By the gross and rootling hog Who grunts nor lifts his head, By jealous dog Or old ass thistle-fed.

By so much less their praise, By so much more our glory. Grim pride outweighs The anguish of our story.

We strain our strings thus tight, Our voices pitch thus high, To enforce our right Over futurity.

EPIGRAMS

ON CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Here ranted Isaac’s elder son, The proud shag-breasted godless one, From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stole Birthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.

A VILLAGE CONFLICT

The cottage damson laden as could be Scowls at the Manor House magnolia tree That year by year within its thoughtless powers Yields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers, While the Magnolia shudders as in fear, “_Figurez-vous!_ two sackfuls every year!”

DEDICATORY

Dolon, analyst of souls, To the Graces hangs up here His shrimp-net rotting into holes And oozy from the infernal mere; He wreathes his gift around with cress, Lush harvest of the public cess.

TO MY COLLATERAL ANCESTOR, REV. R. GRAVES, THE FRIEND OF THE POET SHENSTONE AND AUTHOR OF _THE SPIRITUAL QUIXOTE_: ON RECEIPT OF A PRESS-CUTTING INTENDED FOR HIM.

O friend of Shenstone, do you frown In realms remote from me When Messrs Durrant send you down By inadvertency Clippings identifying you With some dim man in the moon, A Spiritual Quixote, true, But friend of S. Sassoon?

“A VEHICLE, TO WIT, A BICYCLE.”

(Dedicated, without permission, to my friend P. C. Flowers)

“My front-lamp, constable? Why, man, the moon! My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me, Warm parlour lamplight of _The Dish and Spoon_!” But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me, Had I not set a rather sly half-crown Winking under the rays of my front lamp: Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown, My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.

MOTTO TO A BOOK OF EMBLEMS

Though you read these, but understand not, curse not! Or though you read and understand, yet praise not! What poet weaves a better knot or worse knot Untangling which, your own lives you unbrace not?

THE BOWL AND RIM

The bearded rabbi, the meek friar, Linked by their ankles in one cell, Through joint distress of dungeon mire Learned each to love his neighbour well.

When four years passed and five and six, When seven years brought them no release, The Jew embraced the crucifix, The friar assumed phylacteries.

Then every Sunday, keeping score, And every Sabbath in this hymn They reconciled an age-long war Between the platter’s bowl and rim.

_Together._

Man-like he lived, but God-like died, All hatred from His thought removed, Imperfect until crucified, In crucifixion well-beloved.

_The Friar._

If they did wrong, He too did wrong, (For Love admits no contraries) In blind religion rooted strong Both Jesus and the Pharisees.

“Love all men as thyself,” said He. Said they, “Be just with man or dog,” “But only loathe a Pharisee,” “But crucify this demagogue.”

He died forgiving on the Tree To make amends for earlier spite, They raised him up their God to be, And black with black accomplished white.

_The Rabbi._

When He again descends on man As chief of Scribes and Pharisees, With loathing for the Publican, The maimed and halt His enemies,

And when a not less formal fate Than Pilate’s justice and the Rood, His righteous angers expiate To make men think Him wholly good,

Then He again will have done wrong, If God be Love for every man, For lewd and lettered, weak and strong, For Pharisee or Publican,

_Together._

But like a God He will have died, All hatred from His thought removed, Imperfect until crucified, In crucifixion well-beloved.

A FORCED MUSIC

Of Love he sang, full-hearted one. But when the song was done The King demanded more, Ay, and commanded more. The boy found nothing for encore, Words, melodies, none: Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fall Had so charmed King and Queen and all.

He sang the same verse once again, But urging less Love’s pain, With altered time and key He showed variety, Seemed to refresh the harmony Of his only strain, So still the glad rise and the plaintive fall Could charm the King, the Queen, and all.

He of his song then wearying ceased, But was not yet released; The Queen’s request was _More_, And her behest was _More_. He played of random notes some score, He found his rhymes at least-- Then suddenly let his twangling harp down fall And fled in tears from King and Queen and all.

THE TURN OF A PAGE

_He suddenly_, the page read as it turned, _Died_. The indignant eye discerned No sense. “Good page, turn back,” it cried (Happily evermore was cheated). _After these things he suddenly died_, The truthful page repeated.

“Turn back yon earlier pages, nine or ten, To _Him she loved_ and _He alone of men_. Now change the sentence, page!” But still it read _He suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss_. “Read on, ungentle reader,” the book said, “Resign your hopes to this.”

The eye could not resign, restless in grief, But darting forward to a later leaf Found _Him she loved_ and _He alone of men_. Oh, who this He was, being a second He Confused the plan; the book spoke sternly then, “Read page by page and see!”

THE MANIFESTATION IN THE TEMPLE

On the High Feast Day in that reverent space Between the Sacrifice and the word of Grace, I, come to town with a merry-making throng To pay my tithes and join in the season’s song, Closing my eyes, there prayed--and was hurried far Beyond what ages I know not, or what star, To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glint And the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint, Then, in this movement, being not I but part In the fellowship of the universal heart, 10 I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength, I thought and worked omnipotence. At length Hit in my high flight by some sorry thought Back to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caught And asked in pique what enemy had worked this, What folly or anger thrust against my bliss? Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-wood With noise of a distant fluting, and one who stood Nudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!” The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously, 20 They fling them down on their faces every one, Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan. Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar niche Wavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch. Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod. The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood. The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wings Distresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings, And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears, A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears. 30 It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleads Prompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs, Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath, A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth, A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain, And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintain Lest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain! With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in Spring To such as perform the will of the Jealous King. To his priestly servants hearken! The syllables die. 40 Now up from the congregation issues a sigh As of stopped breath slow released. But here stands one Who has kept his feet though the others fell like stone, Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone, To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch, By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuch Do I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest. Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least, An honest citizen of this honest town May preach these nightmare apparitions down, 50 These blundering, perfumed noises come to tell No more than a priest-instructed folk knows well. Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be, Break not true prayer between my God and me.”

TO ANY SAINT

You turn the unsmitten other cheek, In silence welcoming God’s grace, Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak, Smiling forgiveness face to face.

You plunge your arms in tyrant flame, From ravening beasts you do not fly, Calling aloud on one sweet Name, Hosannah-singing till you die.

So angered by your undefeat, Revenge through Christ they meditate, Disciples at the bishop’s feet They learn this newer sort of hate,

This unresisting meek assault On furious foe or stubborn friend, This virtue purged of every fault By furtherance of the martyr’s end,

This baffling stroke of naked pride, When satires fail and curses fail To pierce the justice’s tough hide, To abash the cynics of the jail.

Oh, not less violent, not less keen And barbèd more than murder’s blade! “The brook,” you sigh, “that washes clean, The flower of love that will not fade!”

A DEWDROP

The dewdrop carries in its eye Snowdon and Hebog, sea and sky, Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors, And half a county’s out-of-doors: Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shield In this remote and rocky field.

But why should man in God’s Name stress The dewdrop’s inconspicuousness When to lakes, woods, the estuary, Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea, This dewdrop falling from its leaf Can spread amazement near to grief, As it were a world distinct in mould Lost with its beauty ages old?

A VALENTINE

The hunter to the husbandman Pays tribute since our love began, And to love-loyalty dedicates The phantom kills he meditates. Let me embrace, embracing you, Beauty of other shape and hue, Odd glinting graces of which none Shone more than candle to your sun, Your well-kissed hand was beckoning me In unfamiliar imagery-- Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghost Dives in love’s glory and is lost, Yielding your comprehensive pride A homage, even to suicide.

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN. RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LTD. PRINTERS, BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.