The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sea Garden, by H. D.

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Title: Sea Garden

Author: H. D.

Release Date: May 2, 2009 [EBook #28665]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

Transcriber's Note

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of this document.

SEA GARDEN

The editors and publishers concerned have kindly given me permission to reprint some of the poems in this book which appeared originally in "Poetry" (Chicago), "The Egoist" (London), "The Little Review" (Chicago), "Greenwich Village" (New York), the first Imagist anthology (New York: A. and C. Boni. London: Poetry Bookshop), the second Imagist anthology ("Some Imagist Poets," London: Constable and Co. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co.).

SEA GARDEN

BY

H. D.

LONDON

CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD.

1916

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

CONTENTS

PAGE

SEA ROSE

1

THE HELMSMAN

2

THE SHRINE

4

MID-DAY

7

PURSUIT

8

THE CONTEST

10

SEA LILY

12

THE WIND SLEEPERS

13

THE GIFT

14

EVENING

17

SHELTERED GARDEN

18

SEA POPPIES

20

LOSS

21

HUNTRESS

23

GARDEN

24

SEA VIOLET

25

THE CLIFF TEMPLE

26

ORCHARD

29

SEA GODS

30

ACON

33

NIGHT

35

PRISONERS

36

STORM

39

SEA IRIS

40

HERMES OF THE WAYS

41

PEAR TREE

43

CITIES

44

THE CITY IS PEOPLED

47

SEA GARDEN

SEA ROSE

Rose, harsh rose,

marred and with stint of petals,

meagre flower, thin,

sparse of leaf,

more precious

than a wet rose

single on a stem—

you are caught in the drift.

Stunted, with small leaf,

you are flung on the sand,

you are lifted

in the crisp sand

that drives in the wind.

Can the spice-rose

drip such acrid fragrance

hardened in a leaf?

THE HELMSMAN

O be swift—

we have always known you wanted us.

We fled inland with our flocks,

we pastured them in hollows,

cut off from the wind

and the salt track of the marsh.

We worshipped inland—

we stepped past wood-flowers,

we forgot your tang,

we brushed wood-grass.

We wandered from pine-hills

through oak and scrub-oak tangles,

we broke hyssop and bramble,

we caught flower and new bramble-fruit

in our hair: we laughed

as each branch whipped back,

we tore our feet in half buried rocks

and knotted roots and acorn-cups.

We forgot—we worshipped,

we parted green from green,

we sought further thickets,

we dipped our ankles

through leaf-mould and earth,

and wood and wood-bank enchanted us—

and the feel of the clefts in the bark,

and the slope between tree and tree—

and a slender path strung field to field

and wood to wood

and hill to hill

and the forest after it.

We forgot—for a moment

tree-resin, tree-bark,

sweat of a torn branch

were sweet to the taste.

We were enchanted with the fields,

the tufts of coarse grass

in the shorter grass—

we loved all this.

But now, our boat climbs—hesitates—drops—

climbs—hesitates—crawls back—

climbs—hesitates—

O be swift—

we have always known you wanted us.

THE SHRINE

("SHE WATCHES OVER THE SEA")

I

Are your rocks shelter for ships—

have you sent galleys from your beach,

are you graded—a safe crescent—

where the tide lifts them back to port—

are you full and sweet,

tempting the quiet

to depart in their trading ships?

Nay, you are great, fierce, evil—

you are the land-blight—

you have tempted men

but they perished on your cliffs.

Your lights are but dank shoals,

slate and pebble and wet shells

and seaweed fastened to the rocks.

It was evil—evil

when they found you,

when the quiet men looked at you—

they sought a headland

shaded with ledge of cliff

from the wind-blast.

But you—you are unsheltered,

cut with the weight of wind—

you shudder when it strikes,

then lift, swelled with the blast—

you sink as the tide sinks,

you shrill under hail, and sound

thunder when thunder sounds.

You are useless—

when the tides swirl

your boulders cut and wreck

the staggering ships.

II

You are useless,

O grave, O beautiful,

the landsmen tell it—I have heard—

you are useless.

And the wind sounds with this

and the sea

where rollers shot with blue

cut under deeper blue.

O but stay tender, enchanted

where wave-lengths cut you

apart from all the rest—

for we have found you,

we watch the splendour of you,

we thread throat on throat of freesia

for your shelf.

You are not forgot,

O plunder of lilies,

honey is not more sweet

than the salt stretch of your beach.

III

Stay—stay—

but terror has caught us now,

we passed the men in ships,

we dared deeper than the fisher-folk

and you strike us with terror

O bright shaft.

Flame passes under us

and sparks that unknot the flesh,

sorrow, splitting bone from bone,

splendour athwart our eyes

and rifts in the splendour,

sparks and scattered light.

Many warned of this,

men said:

there are wrecks on the fore-beach,

wind will beat your ship,

there is no shelter in that headland,

it is useless waste, that edge,

that front of rock—

sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers,

none venture to that spot.

IV

But hail—

as the tide slackens,

as the wind beats out,

we hail this shore—

we sing to you,

spirit between the headlands

and the further rocks.

Though oak-beams split,

though boats and sea-men flounder,

and the strait grind sand with sand

and cut boulders to sand and drift—

your eyes have pardoned our faults,

your hands have touched us—

you have leaned forward a little

and the waves can never thrust us back

from the splendour of your ragged coast.

MID-DAY

The light beats upon me.

I am startled—

a split leaf crackles on the paved floor—

I am anguished—defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods—

my thoughts are spent

as the black seeds.

My thoughts tear me,

I dread their fever.

I am scattered in its whirl.

I am scattered like

the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shrivelled seeds

are spilt on the path—

the grass bends with dust,

the grape slips

under its crackled leaf:

yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,

and the blackened stalks of mint,

the poplar is bright on the hill,

the poplar spreads out,

deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great

among the hill-stones,

while I perish on the path

among the crevices of the rocks.

PURSUIT

What do I care

that the stream is trampled,

the sand on the stream-bank

still holds the print of your foot:

the heel is cut deep.

I see another mark

on the grass ridge of the bank—

it points toward the wood-path.

I have lost the third

in the packed earth.

But here

a wild-hyacinth stalk is snapped:

the purple buds—half ripe—

show deep purple

where your heel pressed.

A patch of flowering grass,

low, trailing—

you brushed this:

the green stems show yellow-green

where you lifted—turned the earth-side

to the light:

this and a dead leaf-spine,

split across,

show where you passed.

You were swift, swift!

here the forest ledge slopes—

rain has furrowed the roots.

Your hand caught at this;

the root snapped under your weight.

I can almost follow the note

where it touched this slender tree

and the next answered—

and the next.

And you climbed yet further!

you stopped by the dwarf-cornel—

whirled on your heels,

doubled on your track.

This is clear—

you fell on the downward slope,

you dragged a bruised thigh—you limped—

you clutched this larch.

Did your head, bent back,

search further—

clear through the green leaf-moss

of the larch branches?

Did you clutch,

stammer with short breath and gasp:

wood-daemons grant life—

give life—I am almost lost.

For some wood-daemon

has lightened your steps.

I can find no trace of you

in the larch-cones and the underbrush.

THE CONTEST

I

Your stature is modelled

with straight tool-edge:

you are chiselled like rocks

that are eaten into by the sea.

With the turn and grasp of your wrist

and the chords' stretch,

there is a glint like worn brass.

The ridge of your breast is taut,

and under each the shadow is sharp,

and between the clenched muscles

of your slender hips.

From the circle of your cropped hair

there is light,

and about your male torse

and the foot-arch and the straight ankle.

II

You stand rigid and mighty—

granite and the ore in rocks;

a great band clasps your forehead

and its heavy twists of gold.

You are white—a limb of cypress

bent under a weight of snow.

You are splendid,

your arms are fire;

you have entered the hill-straits—

a sea treads upon the hill-slopes.

III

Myrtle is about your head,

you have bent and caught the spray:

each leaf is sharp

against the lift and furrow

of your bound hair.

The narcissus has copied the arch

of your slight breast:

your feet are citron-flowers,

your knees, cut from white-ash,

your thighs are rock-cistus.

Your chin lifts straight

from the hollow of your curved throat.

Your shoulders are level—

they have melted rare silver

for their breadth.

SEA LILY

Reed,

slashed and torn

but doubly rich—

such great heads as yours

drift upon temple-steps,

but you are shattered

in the wind.

Myrtle-bark

is flecked from you,

scales are dashed

from your stem,

sand cuts your petal,

furrows it with hard edge,

like flint

on a bright stone.

Yet though the whole wind

slash at your bark,

you are lifted up,

aye—though it hiss

to cover you with froth.

THE WIND SLEEPERS

Whiter

than the crust

left by the tide,

we are stung by the hurled sand

and the broken shells.

We no longer sleep

in the wind—

we awoke and fled

through the city gate.

Tear—

tear us an altar,

tug at the cliff-boulders,

pile them with the rough stones—

we no longer

sleep in the wind,

propitiate us.

Chant in a wail

that never halts,

pace a circle and pay tribute

with a song.

When the roar of a dropped wave

breaks into it,

pour meted words

of sea-hawks and gulls

and sea-birds that cry

discords.

THE GIFT

Instead of pearls—a wrought clasp—

a bracelet—will you accept this?

You know the script—

you will start, wonder:

what is left, what phrase

after last night? This:

The world is yet unspoiled for you,

you wait, expectant—

you are like the children

who haunt your own steps

for chance bits—a comb

that may have slipped,

a gold tassel, unravelled,

plucked from your scarf,

twirled by your slight fingers

into the street—

a flower dropped.

Do not think me unaware,

I who have snatched at you

as the street-child clutched

at the seed-pearls you spilt

that hot day

when your necklace snapped.

Do not dream that I speak

as one defrauded of delight,

sick, shaken by each heart-beat

or paralyzed, stretched at length,

who gasps:

these ripe pears

are bitter to the taste,

this spiced wine, poison, corrupt.

I cannot walk—

who would walk?

Life is a scavenger's pit—I escape—

I only, rejecting it,

lying here on this couch.

Your garden sloped to the beach,

myrtle overran the paths,

honey and amber flecked each leaf,

the citron-lily head—

one among many—

weighed there, over-sweet.

The myrrh-hyacinth

spread across low slopes,

violets streaked black ridges

through the grass.

The house, too, was like this,

over painted, over lovely—

the world is like this.

Sleepless nights,

I remember the initiates,

their gesture, their calm glance.

I have heard how in rapt thought,

in vision, they speak

with another race,

more beautiful, more intense than this.

I could laugh—

more beautiful, more intense?

Perhaps that other life

is contrast always to this.

I reason:

I have lived as they

in their inmost rites—

they endure the tense nerves

through the moment of ritual.

I endure from moment to moment—

days pass all alike,

tortured, intense.

This I forgot last night:

you must not be blamed,

it is not your fault;

as a child, a flower—any flower

tore my breast—

meadow-chicory, a common grass-tip,

a leaf shadow, a flower tint

unexpected on a winter-branch.

I reason:

another life holds what this lacks,

a sea, unmoving, quiet—

not forcing our strength

to rise to it, beat on beat—

stretch of sand,

no garden beyond, strangling

with its myrrh-lilies—

a hill, not set with black violets

but stones, stones, bare rocks,

dwarf-trees, twisted, no beauty

to distract—to crowd

madness upon madness.

Only a still place

and perhaps some outer horror

some hideousness to stamp beauty,

a mark—no changing it now—

on our hearts.

I send no string of pearls,

no bracelet—accept this.

EVENING

The light passes

from ridge to ridge,

from flower to flower—

the hypaticas, wide-spread

under the light

grow faint—

the petals reach inward,

the blue tips bend

toward the bluer heart

and the flowers are lost.

The cornel-buds are still white,

but shadows dart

from the cornel-roots—

black creeps from root to root,

each leaf

cuts another leaf on the grass,

shadow seeks shadow,

then both leaf

and leaf-shadow are lost.

SHELTERED GARDEN

I have had enough.

I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,

every foot-path leads at last

to the hill-crest—

then you retrace your steps,

or find the same slope on the other side,

precipitate.

I have had enough—

border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,

herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch—

there is no scent of resin

in this place,

no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,

aromatic, astringent—

only border on border of scented pinks.

Have you seen fruit under cover

that wanted light—

pears wadded in cloth,

protected from the frost,

melons, almost ripe,

smothered in straw?

Why not let the pears cling

to the empty branch?

All your coaxing will only make

a bitter fruit—

let them cling, ripen of themselves,

test their own worth,

nipped, shrivelled by the frost,

to fall at last but fair

with a russet coat.

Or the melon—

let it bleach yellow

in the winter light,

even tart to the taste—

it is better to taste of frost—

the exquisite frost—

than of wadding and of dead grass.

For this beauty,

beauty without strength,

chokes out life.

I want wind to break,

scatter these pink-stalks,

snap off their spiced heads,

fling them about with dead leaves—

spread the paths with twigs,

limbs broken off,

trail great pine branches,

hurled from some far wood

right across the melon-patch,

break pear and quince—

leave half-trees, torn, twisted

but showing the fight was valiant.

O to blot out this garden

to forget, to find a new beauty

in some terrible

wind-tortured place.

SEA POPPIES

Amber husk

fluted with gold,

fruit on the sand

marked with a rich grain,

treasure

spilled near the shrub-pines

to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root

among wet pebbles

and drift flung by the sea

and grated shells

and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,

fire upon leaf,

what meadow yields

so fragrant a leaf

as your bright leaf?

LOSS

The sea called—

you faced the estuary,

you were drowned as the tide passed.—

I am glad of this—

at least you have escaped.

The heavy sea-mist stifles me.

I choke with each breath—

a curious peril, this—

the gods have invented

curious torture for us.

One of us, pierced in the flank,

dragged himself across the marsh,

he tore at the bay-roots,

lost hold on the crumbling bank—

Another crawled—too late—

for shelter under the cliffs.

I am glad the tide swept you out,

O beloved,

you of all this ghastly host

alone untouched,

your white flesh covered with salt

as with myrrh and burnt iris.

We were hemmed in this place,

so few of us, so few of us to fight

their sure lances,

the straight thrust—effortless

with slight life of muscle and shoulder.

So straight—only we were left,

the four of us—somehow shut off.

And the marsh dragged one back,

and another perished under the cliff,

and the tide swept you out.

Your feet cut steel on the paths,

I followed for the strength

of life and grasp.

I have seen beautiful feet

but never beauty welded with strength.

I marvelled at your height.

You stood almost level

with the lance-bearers

and so slight.

And I wondered as you clasped

your shoulder-strap

at the strength of your wrist

and the turn of your young fingers,

and the lift of your shorn locks,

and the bronze

of your sun-burnt neck.

All of this,

and the curious knee-cap,

fitted above the wrought greaves,

and the sharp muscles of your back

which the tunic could not cover—

the outline

no garment could deface.

I wonder if you knew how I watched,

how I crowded before the spearsmen—

but the gods wanted you,

the gods wanted you back.

HUNTRESS

Come, blunt your spear with us,

our pace is hot

and our bare heels

in the heel-prints—

we stand tense—do you see—

are you already beaten

by the chase?

We lead the pace

for the wind on the hills,

the low hill is spattered

with loose earth—

our feet cut into the crust

as with spears.

We climbed the ploughed land,

dragged the seed from the clefts,

broke the clods with our heels,

whirled with a parched cry

into the woods:

Can you come,

can you come,

can you follow the hound trail,

can you trample the hot froth?

Spring up—sway forward—

follow the quickest one,

aye, though you leave the trail

and drop exhausted at our feet.

GARDEN

I

You are clear

O rose, cut in rock,

hard as the descent of hail.

I could scrape the colour

from the petals

like spilt dye from a rock.

If I could break you

I could break a tree.

If I could stir

I could break a tree—

I could break you.

II

O wind, rend open the heat,

cut apart the heat,

rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop

through this thick air—

fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts

the points of pears

and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat—

plough through it,

turning it on either side

of your path.

SEA VIOLET

The white violet

is scented on its stalk,

the sea-violet

fragile as agate,

lies fronting all the wind

among the torn shells

on the sand-bank.

The greater blue violets

flutter on the hill,

but who would change for these

who would change for these

one root of the white sort?

Violet

your grasp is frail

on the edge of the sand-hill,

but you catch the light—

frost, a star edges with its fire.

THE CLIFF TEMPLE

I

Great, bright portal,

shelf of rock,

rocks fitted in long ledges,

rocks fitted to dark, to silver granite,

to lighter rock—

clean cut, white against white.

High—high—and no hill-goat

tramples—no mountain-sheep

has set foot on your fine grass;

you lift, you are the world-edge,

pillar for the sky-arch.

The world heaved—

we are next to the sky:

over us, sea-hawks shout,

gulls sweep past—

the terrible breakers are silent

from this place.

Below us, on the rock-edge,

where earth is caught in the fissures

of the jagged cliff,

a small tree stiffens in the gale,

it bends—but its white flowers

are fragrant at this height.

And under and under,

the wind booms:

it whistles, it thunders,

it growls—it presses the grass

beneath its great feet.

II

I said:

for ever and for ever, must I follow you

through the stones?

I catch at you—you lurch:

you are quicker than my hand-grasp.

I wondered at you.

I shouted—dear—mysterious—beautiful—

white myrtle-flesh.

I was splintered and torn:

the hill-path mounted

swifter than my feet.

Could a daemon avenge this hurt,

I would cry to him—could a ghost,

I would shout—O evil,

follow this god,

taunt him with his evil and his vice.

III

Shall I hurl myself from here,

shall I leap and be nearer you?

Shall I drop, beloved, beloved,

ankle against ankle?

Would you pity me, O white breast?

If I woke, would you pity me,

would our eyes meet?

Have you heard,

do you know how I climbed this rock?

My breath caught, I lurched forward—

stumbled in the ground-myrtle.

Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff,

how far toward the ledges of your house,

how far I had to walk?

IV

Over me the wind swirls.

I have stood on your portal

and I know—

you are further than this,

still further on another cliff.

ORCHARD

I saw the first pear

as it fell—

the honey-seeking, golden-banded,

the yellow swarm

was not more fleet than I,

(spare us from loveliness)

and I fell prostrate

crying:

you have flayed us

with your blossoms,

spare us the beauty

of fruit-trees.

The honey-seeking

paused not,

the air thundered their song,

and I alone was prostrate.

O rough-hewn

god of the orchard,

I bring you an offering—

do you, alone unbeautiful,

son of the god,

spare us from loveliness:

these fallen hazel-nuts,

stripped late of their green sheaths,

grapes, red-purple,

their berries

dripping with wine,

pomegranates already broken,

and shrunken figs

and quinces untouched,

I bring you as offering.

SEA GODS

I

They say there is no hope—

sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea—

the broken hulk of a ship,

hung with shreds of rope,

pallid under the cracked pitch.

They say there is no hope

to conjure you—

no whip of the tongue to anger you—

no hate of words

you must rise to refute.

They say you are twisted by the sea,

you are cut apart

by wave-break upon wave-break,

that you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,

broken by the rasp and after-rasp.

That you are cut, torn, mangled,

torn by the stress and beat,

no stronger than the strips of sand

along your ragged beach.

II

But we bring violets,

great masses—single, sweet,

wood-violets, stream-violets,

violets from a wet marsh.

Violets in clumps from hills,

tufts with earth at the roots,

violets tugged from rocks,

blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.

Yellow violets' gold,

burnt with a rare tint—

violets like red ash

among tufts of grass.

We bring deep-purple

bird-foot violets.

We bring the hyacinth-violet,

sweet, bare, chill to the touch—

and violets whiter than the in-rush

of your own white surf.

III

For you will come,

you will yet haunt men in ships,

you will trail across the fringe of strait

and circle the jagged rocks.

You will trail across the rocks

and wash them with your salt,

you will curl between sand-hills—

you will thunder along the cliff—

break—retreat—get fresh strength—

gather and pour weight upon the beach.

You will draw back,

and the ripple on the sand-shelf

will be witness of your track.

O privet-white, you will paint

the lintel of wet sand with froth.

You will bring myrrh-bark

and drift laurel-wood from hot coasts!

when you hurl high—high—

we will answer with a shout.

For you will come,

you will come,

you will answer our taut hearts,

you will break the lie of men's thoughts,

and cherish and shelter us.

ACON

I

Bear me to Dictaeus,

and to the steep slopes;

to the river Erymanthus.

I choose spray of dittany,

cyperum, frail of flower,

buds of myrrh,

all-healing herbs,

close pressed in calathes.

For she lies panting,

drawing sharp breath,

broken with harsh sobs,

she, Hyella,

whom no god pities.

II

Dryads

haunting the groves,

nereids

who dwell in wet caves,

for all the white leaves of olive-branch,

and early roses,

and ivy wreaths, woven gold berries,

which she once brought to your altars,

bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia,

and Assyrian wine

to shatter her fever.

The light of her face falls from its flower,

as a hyacinth,

hidden in a far valley,

perishes upon burnt grass.

Pales,

bring gifts,

bring your Phoenician stuffs,

and do you, fleet-footed nymphs,

bring offerings,

Illyrian iris,

and a branch of shrub,

and frail-headed poppies.

NIGHT

The night has cut

each from each

and curled the petals

back from the stalk

and under it in crisp rows;

under at an unfaltering pace,

under till the rinds break,

back till each bent leaf

is parted from its stalk;

under at a grave pace,

under till the leaves

are bent back

till they drop upon earth,

back till they are all broken.

O night,

you take the petals

of the roses in your hand,

but leave the stark core

of the rose

to perish on the branch.

PRISONERS

It is strange that I should want

this sight of your face—

we have had so much:

at any moment now I may pass,

stand near the gate,

do not speak—

only reach if you can, your face

half-fronting the passage

toward the light.

Fate—God sends this as a mark,

a last token that we are not forgot,

lost in this turmoil,

about to be crushed out,

burned or stamped out

at best with sudden death.

The spearsman who brings this

will ask for the gold clasp

you wear under your coat.

I gave all I had left.

Press close to the portal,

my gate will soon clang

and your fellow wretches

will crowd to the entrance—

be first at the gate.

Ah beloved, do not speak.

I write this in great haste—

do not speak,

you may yet be released.

I am glad enough to depart

though I have never tasted life

as in these last weeks.

It is a strange life,

patterned in fire and letters

on the prison pavement.

If I glance up

it is written on the walls,

it is cut on the floor,

it is patterned across

the slope of the roof.

I am weak—weak—

last night if the guard

had left the gate unlocked

I could not have ventured to escape,

but one thought serves me now

with strength.

As I pass down the corridor

past desperate faces at each cell,

your eyes and my eyes may meet.

You will be dark, unkempt,

but I pray for one glimpse of your face—

why do I want this?

I who have seen you at the banquet

each flower of your hyacinth-circlet

white against your hair.

Why do I want this,

when even last night

you startled me from sleep?

You stood against the dark rock,

you grasped an elder staff.

So many nights

you have distracted me from terror.

Once you lifted a spear-flower.

I remember how you stooped

to gather it—

and it flamed, the leaf and shoot

and the threads, yellow, yellow—

sheer till they burnt

to red-purple in the cup.

As I pass your cell-door

do not speak.

I was first on the list—

They may forget you tried to shield me

as the horsemen passed.

STORM

You crash over the trees,

you crack the live branch—

the branch is white,

the green crushed,

each leaf is rent like split wood.

You burden the trees

with black drops,

you swirl and crash—

you have broken off a weighted leaf

in the wind,

it is hurled out,

whirls up and sinks,

a green stone.

SEA IRIS

I

Weed, moss-weed,

root tangled in sand,

sea-iris, brittle flower,

one petal like a shell

is broken,

and you print a shadow

like a thin twig.

Fortunate one,

scented and stinging,

rigid myrrh-bud,

camphor-flower,

sweet and salt—you are wind

in our nostrils.

II

Do the murex-fishers

drench you as they pass?

Do your roots drag up colour

from the sand?

Have they slipped gold under you—

rivets of gold?

Band of iris-flowers

above the waves,

you are painted blue,

painted like a fresh prow

stained among the salt weeds.

HERMES OF THE WAYS

The hard sand breaks,

and the grains of it

are clear as wine.

Far off over the leagues of it,

the wind,

playing on the wide shore,

piles little ridges,

and the great waves

break over it.

But more than the many-foamed ways

of the sea,

I know him

of the triple path-ways,

Hermes,

who awaits.

Dubious,

facing three ways,

welcoming wayfarers,

he whom the sea-orchard

shelters from the west,

from the east

weathers sea-wind;

fronts the great dunes.

Wind rushes

over the dunes,

and the coarse, salt-crusted grass

answers.

Heu,

it whips round my ankles!

II

Small is

this white stream,

flowing below ground

from the poplar-shaded hill,

but the water is sweet.

Apples on the small trees

are hard,

too small,

too late ripened

by a desperate sun

that struggles through sea-mist.

The boughs of the trees

are twisted

by many bafflings;

twisted are

the small-leafed boughs.

But the shadow of them

is not the shadow of the mast head

nor of the torn sails.

Hermes, Hermes,

the great sea foamed,

gnashed its teeth about me;

but you have waited,

were sea-grass tangles with

shore-grass.

PEAR TREE

Silver dust

lifted from the earth,

higher than my arms reach,

you have mounted,

O silver,

higher than my arms reach

you front us with great mass;

no flower ever opened

so staunch a white leaf,

no flower ever parted silver

from such rare silver;

O white pear,

your flower-tufts

thick on the branch

bring summer and ripe fruits

in their purple hearts.

CITIES

Can we believe—by an effort

comfort our hearts:

it is not waste all this,

not placed here in disgust,

street after street,

each patterned alike,

no grace to lighten

a single house of the hundred

crowded into one garden-space.

Crowded—can we believe,

not in utter disgust,

in ironical play—

but the maker of cities grew faint

with the beauty of temple

and space before temple,

arch upon perfect arch,

of pillars and corridors that led out

to strange court-yards and porches

where sun-light stamped

hyacinth-shadows

black on the pavement.

That the maker of cities grew faint

with the splendour of palaces,

paused while the incense-flowers

from the incense-trees

dropped on the marble-walk,

thought anew, fashioned this—

street after street alike.

For alas,

he had crowded the city so full

that men could not grasp beauty,

beauty was over them,

through them, about them,

no crevice unpacked with the honey,

rare, measureless.

So he built a new city,

ah can we believe, not ironically

but for new splendour

constructed new people

to lift through slow growth

to a beauty unrivalled yet—

and created new cells,

hideous first, hideous now—

spread larve across them,

not honey but seething life.

And in these dark cells,

packed street after street,

souls live, hideous yet—

O disfigured, defaced,

with no trace of the beauty

men once held so light.

Can we think a few old cells

were left—we are left—

grains of honey,

old dust of stray pollen

dull on our torn wings,

we are left to recall the old streets?

Is our task the less sweet

that the larve still sleep in their cells?

Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:

You are useless. We live.

We await great events.

We are spread through this earth.

We protect our strong race.

You are useless.

Your cell takes the place

of our young future strength.

Though they sleep or wake to torment

and wish to displace our old cells—

thin rare gold—

that their larve grow fat—

is our task the less sweet?

Though we wander about,

find no honey of flowers in this waste,

is our task the less sweet—

who recall the old splendour,

await the new beauty of cities?

The city is peopled

with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:

Though they crowded between

and usurped the kiss of my mouth

their breath was your gift,

their beauty, your life.

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

Transcriber's Notes

Page 10: torse sic

Page 11: lower case amended to title case ("your shoulders are level" amended to "Your shoulders are level").

Page 14: tassle amended to tassel

Page 15: scavanger's amended to scavenger's

Page 16: chickory amended to chicory

Page 26: fragant amended to fragrant

Page 30: lower case amended to title case ("they say there is no hope" amended to "They say there is no hope").

Page 46: larve sic

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Table of Contents

SEA GARDEN

SEA GARDEN

H. D.

CONTENTS

SEA GARDEN

SEA ROSE

THE HELMSMAN

THE SHRINE

("she watches over the sea") I

II

III

IV

MID-DAY

PURSUIT

THE CONTEST

I

II

III

SEA LILY

THE WIND SLEEPERS

THE GIFT

EVENING

SHELTERED GARDEN

SEA POPPIES

LOSS

HUNTRESS

GARDEN

I

II

SEA VIOLET

THE CLIFF TEMPLE

I

II

III

IV

ORCHARD

SEA GODS

I

II

III

ACON

I

II

NIGHT

PRISONERS

STORM

SEA IRIS

I

II

HERMES OF THE WAYS

II

PEAR TREE

CITIES

Transcriber's Notes

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