The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sorrow of War: Poems

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Sorrow of War: Poems

Author: Louis Golding

Release date: November 23, 2017 [eBook #56037]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56037

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SORROW OF WAR: POEMS ***

SORROW OF WAR

POEMS

BY

LOUIS GOLDING

METHUEN & CO. LTD.

36 ESSEX STREET W.C.

LONDON

First Published in 1919

FOR

MOTHER

AND THE

OTHER MOTHER

Certain of these poems have appeared in the "English Review," "To-Day," the "Englishwoman," the "Red Triangle," the "Nation," the "Cambridge Magazine," the "Sphere," the "Herald," the "Manchester Guardian," and the "Westminster Gazette."

To the editors of these journals I tender my acknowledgments.

CONTENTS

Lilac, Laburnum

Streets of Gold

"In the Gallery where the Fat Men go"

Dead in Gallipoli

A Journey South

The New Trade

The Woman who Shrieked against Peace

The Women at the Corners Stand

Joining-up

During the Battle

Jack

German Boy

Skylark and Dawn

Jack of April

Statesmen Debonair

Over in Flanders

Wild Weather

Broken Bodies

A Thought

The Vintner

For now comes Summer

The Advent of Mars

Prophet and Fool

Whatever Path I walk upon

London Magdalene

Secret Girl

Lanky Tim

Mrs. Briggs

Athens Now

Down Tottenham Court Road

In a Station

Liza

Women of the Night

I Standing in the Street

Slum Evening

Fires of Change

Poetry

The Prisoner

Nerves

A Poet

For My Friend

"I shall be splendidly and tensely Young"

"I"

I know not whence my Poems come

Lyrria

Faringdon from Salonica

Call of the Plover

The Gallant Road

The Quest

Having finished "Jude the Obscure"

Ghost and Body

Gallop

We Lads who Barter Rhymes

Who knows Me?

Judæus Errans

Cold Stars

Reactionary

Late

Wind of Black Night

Yellow Satins

My Mother's Portrait

To A. L. O.

The Dark Knight of the Road

To the Swift

Green Wind

The Midmost Field in Kent

Murmuryngeham

Winchester Downs

Cycling in October

The Shepherd

Derwentwater

"I vowed that I would be a Tree"

Wounded Soldiers

Still Life in France

I Dream'd I Died

Flowers in War

Evening—Kent

Black Magic

A Soldier Dying

At Last War Ends

SORROW OF WAR

LILAC, LABURNUM

Lilac, lilac, laburnum,

How shall you bloom this Spring?

Gathering birds, gathering birds,

How shall you sing?

Gathering birds, gathering birds,

How shall you lift your singing head?

Lilac, lilac, laburnum,

Shall not your blossom be fiery red?

Lilac, laburnum, gathering birds...?

Spring 1918

STREETS OF GOLD

O there are streets of gold in Bethnal Green,

With troughs of pearl where lovely horses drink,

And tripping on the greenswards, silver-clean,

The girls are marvellouser than you can think.

Gawd blimey! Bethnal Green!

(All this from Tommy Jones,

Delirious in the trench with shattered bones).

O there is harvest now in Camden Town,

And songs and laughing and old flasks of wine!

O the grand moon of bronze! the wakeful brown

Owl in the barn! ghost-poppies and dream-kine!

Lor lumme! Camden Town!

(This with the gasp of death

From 'Erbert, chlorine-gassed and green for breath).

O what green seas sweep winds through Camberwell,

Through all her islands where the palm-trees heave!

O winding down the channels steals a bell

Calling poor weary lads to bathe at eve!

God blawst it! Camberwell!

(This from old Bob, whose side

Is pierced with wounds like Jesus crucified).

"IN THE GALLERY WHERE THE FAT MEN GO"

("GREAT PICTURES OF THE SOMME OFFENSIVE,

DAY BY DAY. THE ACTUAL FIGHTING")

See Omnibus and Underground Notices,

April 1918

They are showing how we lie

With our bodies run dry:

The attitudes we take

When impaled upon a stake.

These and other things they show

In the gallery where the fat men go.

In the gallery where the fat men go

They're exhibiting our guts

Horse-betrampled in the ruts;

And Private Tommy Spout,

With his eye gouged out;

And Jimmy spitting blood;

And Sergeant lying so

That he's drowning in the mud,

In the gallery where the fat men go.

They adjust their pince-nez

In the gentle urban way,

And they plant their feet tight

For to get a clearer sight.

They stand playing with their thumbs,

With their shaven cheeks aglow.

For the Terror never comes,

And the worms and the woe.

For they never hear the drums

Drumming Death dead-slow,

In the gallery where the fat men go.

If the gallery where the fat men go

Were in flames around their feet,

Or were sucking through the mud:

If they heard the guns beat

Like a pulse through the blood:

If the lice were in their hair,

And the scabs were on their tongue,

And the rats were smiling there,

Padding softly through the dung,

Would they fix the pince-nez

In the gentle urban way,

Would the pictures still be hung

In the gallery where the fat men go?

DEAD IN GALLIPOLI

He died in Gallipoli.

What English flower

That we cherish shall grow of him?

Never a flower

Shall grow that we know of him!

No white daisy-coverlet

Shall grow from the ground of him;

No English bird-loverlet

Pipe love-songs around of him.

Under the sycamore

His grave not appears,

Where the crocuses flicker more

Than armies with spears.

Under no tree at all

England designed

His body may be at all

Gently consigned.

He died in Gallipoli

The death on a stake.

Gallipoli poison

Is now the great part of him.

A flower like a snake

Shall writhe from the heart of him.

The desolate surf

Below him is muttering.

Over his turf

A bird like a devil

Is flapping and fluttering.

The poisonous bird

Whose scarlet eye glowers,

The poisonous flowers

With petals unclean

Are the only things heard

And the only things seen.

Is that the whole of you,

White lad from England,

Is that the soul of you,

Dead in Gallipoli?

You are dead to me, dead to me,

Barren and far,

But a Thing that was said to me,

By a bird, by a star,

—An old thing of solace,

O stupid it seemed;

And I now cannot tell at all

If the whisper that fell at all

I heard or I dreamed.

It seemed that I caught a

Faint whisper or sign,

Being drunken with water,

Or hallowed with wine.

Ah, would that I knew

What the Word was that came,

What the Thing was that gleamed

With a wind and a flame;

Ah, would that I knew,

Even as you,

O white lad from England,

White lad from England,

Dead in Gallipoli,

Would that I knew

If I heard or I dreamed!

A JOURNEY SOUTH

To the South lands, the green lands, from the

North, the harsh

Rocks, where the eagles whose granite bills

Screech from the scars of toppling hills.

To the South lands, the green lands, from the

North, the marsh

Hollows which black waste water fills,

—The South green lands!

To the South lands, the green lands, where

the flowers of fruit

Are moons entangled in cosmic trees,

Where birds are rocks in the foam of seas,

The wind's a player, the grass a lute

Whose wires are swept by the wings of bees,

—The South green lands!

To the South lands, the green lands—but

halt, O hark!

A sob of birds in a poisoned wood!

The fume of poppies crushed foul in mud!

The whine of the wings of Death through the dark!

A sunset of flame, a moon of blood!

—The South red lands!

THE NEW TRADE

In the market-places they have made

A dolorous new trade.

Now you will see in the fierce naphtha-light,

Piled hideously to sight,

Dead limbs of men bronzed in the over-seas,

Bomb-wrenched from elbows and knees;

Torn feet, that would, unwearied by harsh loads,

Have tramped steep moorland roads;

Torn hands that would have moulded exquisitely

Rare things for God to see.

And there are eyes there—blue like blue doves' wings,

Black like the Libyan kings,

Grey as before-dawn rivers, willow-stirred,

Brown as a singing-bird;

But all stare from the dark into the dark,

Reproachful, tense, and stark.

Eyes heaped on trays and in broad baskets there,

Feet, hands, and ropes of hair.

In the market-places ... and women buy ...

... Naphtha glares ... hawkers cry ...

Fat men rub hands....

O God, O just God, send

Plague, lightnings ...

Make an end!

THE WOMAN WHO SHRIEKED AGAINST PEACE

Abundant woman panting there,

Whose breast is flecked with spots of grease

That splutter from your laboured hair,

O dew-lapped woman, you who reek

Of stout and steak and fish and chips,

Why does the short indignant shriek

Come toppling from your fleshy lips;

Because, poor smitten fool, I dare

To breathe the outcast name of Peace?

And shall your flesh grow less to view,

And shall your chubby arms grow thin,

And shall you miss your stout and stew,

The bracelets which you wear so well,

If blinded boys no more shall creep

Along the scorching roads to Hell,

If thick red blood no more shall steep

Green fields in France, nor corpses smell;

If Peace send down her blasting blight,

O shall it spoil your sleep at night,

And shall you lose your treble chin?

THE WOMEN AT THE CORNERS STAND

The women at the corners stand. They say,

"Where are the men you stole from us away?

Where are they now, the laughing lovers whom

You heaped in sombre ranks against the gloom?"

They murmur ceaselessly and without haste,

"Our arms are empty and our wombs are waste."

"Where are the men that marched into the dusk?"

They say with voices withered like a husk.

"Night is like cinders: day is lean and stern.

Our hearts are parched with thirsting; yea, we burn.

Where are the men you took? Bid them return."

The women at the corners stand. But no

Reply is heard. They wait till night. They go

Back to their homes. Once more they come next day,

"Where are the men you stole from us away?"

They draw their shawls around their heads. They wait.

They say, "But we are weary. It is late."

They murmur ceaselessly and without haste,

"Our arms are empty and our wombs are waste."

No word is said to them. But only they,

The women at the corners, stand. They say,

"Send back our lovers whom you stole away."

JOINING-UP

No, not for you the glamour of emprise,

Poor driven lad with terror in your eyes.

No dream of wounds and medals and renown

Called you like Love from your drab Northern town.

No haunting fife, dizzily shrill and sweet,

Came lilting drunkenly down your dingy street.

You will not change, with a swift catch of pride,

In the cold hut among the leers and oaths,

Out of your suit of frayed civilian clothes,

Into the blaze of khaki they provide.

Like a trapped animal you crouch and choke

In the packed carriage where the veterans smoke

And tell such pitiless tales of Over There,

They stop your heart dead short and freeze your hair.

Your body's like a flower on a snapt stalk,

Your head hangs from your neck as blank as chalk.

What horrors haunt you, head upon your breast!

... O but you'll die as bravely as the rest!

DURING THE BATTLE

O the terror of the Battle at this ending of the days!

O the thunder of the wings through the gloom!

O the thousand thousand companies that strew the sombre ways

To achieve this final doom!

Where the flames disrupt the night and the hell-fumes flee,

'Mid the darkness and the splitting of the skies,

Only your young white wistful face I see,

My brother, only your eyes!

March 1918

JACK

The heavy smells of Spring

Are flooding through my skin.

My body drinks them in.

Like rich red veils they cling

About my prostrate head.

I swoon into a bed,

The heavy smells of Spring.

I now almost forget

The pain, the pain, the pain;

Now being lulled by rain,

And smells and warm wings wet.

I swoon into a bed,

Almost forget you're dead,

Almost, almost forget.

Now, now my memories drowse

Amid the whine of bells,

The fumes of rich red smells,

The stupor round my brows.

My nerves and veins are lead.

I swoon into a bed,

Where all my sorrows drowse.

Then suddenly you return,

O marrow of my bone,

Blood flowing through my own!

My pulses yearn and burn.

I battle round my head,

Cry strickenly from my bed.

Suddenly you return!

O God of War and Dearth,

O shattering Blast that blew,

Blood-eyed, blood-fingered, you

Damned God of War and Dearth!

He whom you wrenched from me

To monstrous things and vain,

Burned, broken, buried, he,

He is this smell of earth,

This dead moist smell of rain!

GERMAN BOY

German boy with cold blue eyes,

In the cold and blue moonrise,

I who live and still shall know

Flowers that smell and winds that blow,

I who live to walk again,

Fired the shot that broke your brain.

By your hair all stiff with blood,

By your lips befouled with mud,

By your dreams that shall no more

Leave the nest and sing and soar,

By the children never born

From your body smashed and torn,

—When I too shall stand at last

In the deadland vast,

Shall you heap upon my soul

Agonies of coal?

Shall you bind my throat with cords,

Stab me through with swords?

Or shall you be gentler far

Than a bird or than a star?

Shall you know that I was bound

In the noose that choked you round?

Shall you say, "The way was hid.

Lord, he knew not what he did"?

Shall your eyes that day be mild,

Like the Sacrifice, the Child?

... German boy with cold blue eyes,

In the cold and blue moonrise.

SKYLARK AND DAWN

(To Maurice Samuel)

Stretched and silent they lie to the furious gold of the dawn,

And the earth like a leper's face is pitted and scarred.

Firm in the grip of the wire relentless and hard,

They lie with their dead young faces pallid and drawn.

Somewhere stupidly, thickly, a big gun booms!

A rifle cracks like the spit of a snake in the trees!

And ever the great sun rises, rolling the glooms

Of the sulphurous night to the fields and the cliffs and the seas.

The groan of a dying man crawls out from his teeth!

He groans no more: his lips become leaden and cold!

And ever the sun flashes forth like a sword from its sheath,

And dazzles the dawn with terrors of scarlet and gold.

The guns snarl out like a dog reluctant and grim.

The triggers of rifles loosen in blue numb hands.

Faintly the wings of a silence frightened and dim

Hover down closer over the blasted lands.

Gods of the great wars,

Gods that stand

Somewhere afar off,

Cruel and grand,

Silence, Silence,

In No Man's Land!

Gods of the great wars,

Cruel and high,

Listen afar off!

Grant us to die

With the song of Silence

In the morning sky!

Gods of the great wars,

Gas-wave and gun,

Are ye not happy

With the red work done?

Drown ye the planets,

Shatter the sun!

Not a twitching of bloodless lip or of glazing eye!

For the Silence is deeper than Noon and older than Time,

The Silence inert and intense of the far first sky

When never a wind breathed over the primal slime.

The Sun is stayed in his march, and even Death

With the flush of triumph mantling his cheeks of gloom,

He too stands still for an instant and holds his breath.

A million of years passes by in a moment of doom.

Suddenly!

Terrible! Wild!

A skylark shatters the spell,

With a music more fiery than hell,

More frail than the laugh of a child!

His little brown wings soar high to assault the sun.

His little round throat sends a challenge audacious and far

To the pale-faced legions of Silence that waver and run,

To the uprisen dawn and every invisible star.

Ah God! the song cuts deeper than tempered steel!

The eyes overflow with the surge of a salt harsh tear,

Again to listen to Music, again to feel

The uttermost glory of living when Death is so near!

Scream of a shell! ...

Dull dead thud in a trench,

Curses and flame and stench! ...

Instantly all the white dawn,

Fragrant and frail and cool,

Breaks like a vase in the hands of a fool.

For the thick sick lips of Death have spoken,

The fine gold chain of the bird-song is broken.

The lank dank hand of Death has withdrawn

The curtain of bird-song and magic dawn

From the sullen red windows of Hell.

Rattle of rifle and shriek of gun,

Gas-cloud sickly and heavy and dun,

Death has taken his armies in hand,

And the bodies lie countless in No Man's Land.

Out of the shock of the storm

Where the foul winds meet and cry,

Something drops down at my feet,

A little brown body and sweet,

A little dead body and warm.

The tiny dead throat shall sing no more,

Nor the quick eyes flash nor the swift wings soar;

But the shells shall hurtle, the grim guns roar,

O skylark out of the sky!

My singing is ended, the pall descended on land and sea.

I sang my song to the tune of my own heart-beat

Between the sound of the wars, and there sang with me

My little brother the skylark, dead at my feet.

France, 1917

JACK OF APRIL

April!—this is when

All the flowers beloved of men,

This is when they laugh all day,

Birds and they.

Then are they not opened quite

To the singing year's delight.

This is when the April showers

Make a running road of noise;

Woods are stormed by boyish flowers,

Flowery boys.

Would you then not weep with me,

Wring your hands,

Sing a dirge of saddest grief,

If your eyes should chance to see

Blight upon the April leaf;

O, but more,

Would you not weep long and sore,

If an April flower that stands

Waiting for the kiss of May,

Suddenly, swift, were snapt away,

Down, deep down, were crushed in clay?

Then would you not almost say,

"Curst be April!

Never sunlight bring in May!

Curst be June!

Death hath seized the budding year.

Never flush of copper stir

On the unrisen harvest moon!

May stark winter come straightway

—Now my little flower of April,

Now is cold and clay!"

April!—this was when

Jack went laughing to the wars.

Now he knew

What a boy in Spring must do.

There are flowers to learn, he said,

In the countries where I go.

There are birds to talk to and

Skies and winds to understand.

Never a moment knew he pause.

Jack went swinging to the ships

With a laughter on his lips,

Jack went singing to the wars.

Jack among the boys and men

Went to France in April when

Flowers and boys laughed all the day,

Birds and they.

... Till the Doom came down that day,

Even though the time was Spring,

Even April,

Even though he had not sung

Half the songs a lad should sing,

When the nesting-time is young,

April, Spring.

And he shuddered for a moment,

Blood and flame convulsed the day,

And he crumpled on the way,

And the scarlet tide went sweeping,

Heaping, heaping

Clay upon his trodden clay,

April, Spring!

April!—can you wonder then

That my bitten lips have said,

"Curst be men,

Now that Jack in lyric April,

Jack is dead.

Curst be all the race of men!

May the last child die away

From the poisoned air of day!

Never May-time come, nor summer;

Never autumn

Crown the dim uncertain ending

To the fevers of the race

With a drowsy peace descending

On their spirits racked and rending,

On the evil human face.

May the last supernal winter

Freeze the earth straightway,

Now my little Jack of April,

Now is cold and clay!"

STATESMEN DEBONAIR

O ye statesmen debonair,

With the partings in your hair;

Statesmen, ye who do your bit

In the arm-chairs where you sit;

You with top-hats on your head

Even when you lie in bed;

O superbly happy, ye

Traders in Humanity;

Every time you smile, sweet friends,

A moan goes up, a plague descends.

Every time you show your teeth,

A hundred swords desert the sheath.

Every time you pare your nails,

The manhood of a city fails.

Every time you dip your pen,

You slaughter ten platoons of men.

For every glass of port you hold,

Blood is spilt ten thousandfold....

O ye statesmen debonair,

With the partings in your hair;

O ye statesmen pink and white,

Sleep like little lambs to-night.

OVER IN FLANDERS ...

They were writing for the Poetry bookshops,

Poetry no doubt well worth reading.

Over in Flanders, in the wet weather,

Love lay bleeding!

If you carefully record your emotions,

Lyric or Sonnet that haunts your head,

Will you revive for me over in Flanders

Love stone dead?

WILD WEATHER

Wild weather, O my heart, and strong winds beating

The great trees straining in their despair.

The crumpled leaves that fall and flee

Whistle like ghosts across the air.

And how should I, lone mortal fleeting,

Not be uprooted by winds that, meeting,

Wrench at my limbs to cast them in the sea!

Wild weather, O my heart, for all my lovers,

The lads I loved in the time entombed,

Crumpled and stark against trench and tree,

Whistle like leaves through the woods engloomed.

There all year long my poor ghost hovers,

Never to see what the darkness covers,

The faces I loved of old that so loved me.

BROKEN BODIES

Not for the broken bodies,

When the War is over and done,

For the miserable eyes that never

Again shall see the sun;

Not for the broken bodies

Crawling over the land,

The patchwork limbs, the shoddies,

Not for the broken bodies,

Dear Lord, we crave your hand.

Not for the broken bodies,

We pray your dearest aid,

When the ghost of War for ever

Is levelled at last and laid;

Not for the broken bodies

That wrought their sorrowful parts

Our chiefest need of God is,

Not for the broken bodies,

Dear Lord—the broken hearts!

A THOUGHT

To-night a thought leapt in my head like flame.

Suppose one night I walked into my room

And found that someone filling all the gloom

Was waiting on my bed until I came;

And I walked in and switched the light on straight,

And found the figure sitting on my bed,

Limp with contrition and with sunken head,

Was God bowed down under His burden's weight;

And He looked up with sorrow and surmise

To see how deep the tale the Wars have written

Lay on my mortal features, battle-smitten,

And in the shadows of my deathless eyes;

—This was the thought and flame that pierced me through:

If God sat waiting there, anxious and grey,

Then should I have the charity to say,

"God, we forgive you; you know not what you do"?

THE VINTNER

The War-God now is happy.

His sunken eyeballs shine.

The War-God is a Vintner

Who makes the rarest wine.

His vineyard is not bounded

Between the West and East.

A thousand mothers hourly

Grow pregnant for his feast.

The grapes the Vintner presses

Below his granite feet

Are bodies, bodies, bodies,

Alive and brown and sweet.

O how the red juice splashes

Around his pounding limbs!

It stains the deepest rivers,

The furthest sunset rims.

O how the Gods his comrades,

When he, the Vintner, calls,

Drain deep the lurid beakers

In their carousal halls!

All night they hold red riot,

"For this is wine indeed!

Then bravo! merry Vintner,

We wish thy work good speed!"

And still the Vintner presses

The grapes with feet of stone,

Until the deep green ocean-cup

Shall hold red wine alone.

FOR NOW COMES SUMMER

For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.

And I must add up figures all the day.

And I must drive a tram the whole day long.

And I must make a living out of words.

For now comes Summer with a thousand birds;

And in green fields the little lambs will play,

Brown birds will lift so loud a storm of song,

For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.

For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.

And I must make munitions right away.

And I must check the biscuits at the base.

And I must plan to slaughter men in herds,

For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.

My brother's lying quiet on his face.

And I must sit and wait and die to-day,

For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.

HARFLEUR

THE ADVENT OF MARS

(To Thomas Moult)

Then suddenly ...

A thunder was heard like the cracking of suns,

A blackness blacker than blood there came

To choke the world with a fume and a flame.

A palsy fell on the guns.

A numbness froze the hands

Of the gunners in all the lands.

Half-way over the parapet

The limbs of the climbing infantry set

Like limbs of basalt-stone.

The bayonets fell from the fingers numb,

The throats of the officers dried dead-dumb,

For the Terror had come, the Terror had come,

The Terror out of the stark Unknown!

The Shadow was fallen upon the wars

That had raged three centuries long

To shatter the Lie and Wrong,

From the ice-fanged polar jaws,

With never a lull nor pause,

And over the Temperate Zone,

With never a moment's rest,

And over the Burning Line,

With never a halting sign,

And over the East and West,

And down to the ultimate mouth

Of the white Antarctic South.

From the torpid Esquimo-man

Who slew his Esquimo-mate

And poured his fat in a plate,

And lit up a wick therein,

And studied the secret plan

For the poisonous new harpoon.

Wherewith he was going to win

The Esquimo-battle soon.

From the Esquimo-man to the sinister black

Cannibal-boy in his skeleton-shack,

Whose ardent patriot labours

Were extracting the eyes of his foes,

The bones of their fingers and toes,

To teach them never to violate

The inter-cannibal laws of State,

And the boundary-stone of his weaker neighbours.

But now ...

Great God,

What is the menace,

Now,

The shadow, the thunder,

Now,

Ice on my heart,

Flame on my brow,

The skies dispart,

Lightnings rift through the obscene glooms,

The thews of the darkness are rent in sunder,

And a voice, a voice, a voice,

A great voice booms!

"Children of Earth,

Listen a moment before ye die.

We have waited long, we have waited long,

(Children of Mars, lift up your song,

For the children of Mars shall be lords of the sky!)

Long have we patiently waited

In a huge red planetous hall.

But never a wind of ruth or grace

Blew through the marshes of your earth-face.

And deeper into the hole

Of your cavernous earthen soul,

Deeper than God and Love and all,

Boulders of evil fall.

Long have we patiently waited

In a huge red planetous hall,

But never a grace not violated,

Never a devil ye did not call!

You have torn, you have torn,

The flowers by their roots, consumed the seed,

Wherever a flower was, planted a weed.

In the pitch of your scorn

Defiled the morn,

Bitten deep death in the mould and the corn.

You have eaten the wings

Of the lily-like frail

Butterfly caught in your treacherous veil.

You have festered the springs

With the corpses ye slew

And given your children to drink of the brew.

Never a grace not violated,

Left God never a roof nor wall;

Never a passion ye have not sated,

Never a devil ye did not call.

And a Word came forth from the Sun to Mars,

'Gird ye now for the final wars!

For over the planet of Earth,

Wooden and waste and wide,

Great red wounds in his side,

A shadow, a bloodless dearth

Ashen-pale in the caves of his eyes,

Throwing the ghost of a Cross on the skies,

The body of Christ lies crucified!'

We have come with a gladness terrible to behold.

We have come to reclaim the Godhead that was sold.

The levins we shall loosen ye have not ever known,

And the breath of our singing shall fall on you like stone.

Our weapons shall be flame and the blades be keen,

And they shall not rest again till the skies be clean.

Our weapons shall be tides, the tide of the sea,

The surgings of the tide

Shall not again subside,

Until the Sun's sky-ways again shall be free!"

So the voice spake,

Thunderous and proud,

So the voice spake,

Then died in a cloud.

And then again the Darkness, the Darkness gathered round,

And the hushed world waited, but heard not a sound.

So hushed was the world, the slaying and the weeping,

So hushed was the world, the world seemed sleeping,

But lo! in the West,

Lo! in the West!

Leaping, leaping,

A tongue of fire ...

PROPHET AND FOOL

From twigs of visionary boughs

I gather berries red and rare.

I twine around my pallid brows

An insubstantial dryad's hair.

Such song I hear in mission-halls,

As Jason heard in violet seas,

While bodiless birds sing madrigals

In tumult round my head and knees;

The draper-shops that light their jets

To blink along the lanes of mire,

Weave splendours round the muddy sets

And tip my feet with points of fire.

For I pursue the Golden Fleece

Down slum-ways magical and cool;

And there I hear the flutes of peace,

Being a prophet and a fool.

WHATEVER PATH I WALK UPON

(To George Fasnacht)

Whatever path I walk upon

That path itself is Avalon.

Whatever woman talks to me,

Venus' foamy self is she.

The floors of factories are made

Of jasper, porphyry and jade.

All that I drink, all food I eat,

Is my Lord's blood and body sweet.

But if a moth should singe his wings,

The world is black with dismal things.

And if a strangled sparrow fall,

There is not any God at all.

And if a baby moan for food,

My eyes blaze red with rage for blood.

LONDON MAGDALENE

How she is careful to make manifest

The budded beauty of her breast;

To hint beneath her unconcealing blouse

The curved seductions there that house.

Would that some Christ your mournful care had seen,

Unmaidened maiden, London Magdalene.

God gave you roses warm from Paradise,

And they are bleaker now than ice.

God gave you fountains flowing honey-sweet,

And they are spilt upon the street.

All your seductions are the Dead Sea Fruit,

O rifled nest, blown flower, O string-snapt lute.

In those breast-seas no baby-boat will swim

Through channels warm and dim;

You'll not awake to a twittering in the leaves

When baby bird-throat heaves.

Poor London Magdalene, before you sleep,

Ah weep with me, if not too late to weep.

SECRET GIRL

(To Bessie McKellen)

Thy nudity, like a white flame,

I shall inviolably guard:

O Secret Girl, mine eyes have yet

Not in the place of mortals met.

O Secret Girl whom, splendour-starred,

Some lordly noon my soul shall claim.

More than the Brahman Heart of Ind,

I shall be spears about thy breasts:

When thou no more, O Secret Goal,

Art secret from mine eyes and soul,

O Mother of my waiting nests,

O dew and dark, O day and wind.

Thou shalt be sheer beyond the wars,

And sacred from the waste of words:

O Secret Girl, O Dove, O Pard,

I shall inviolably guard.

For we shall crowd the trees with birds,

The sky with swarms of shouting stars!

LANKY TIM

A narrow world is Lanky Tim's,

The funnel and the griding lift.

Never the blank walls drop or shift

To show the far fields thro' a rift

Where he might go and stretch his limbs.

Hour after hour the storeys rise.

"First floor? Yes, round the corner just,

For Madame Smirkey's Wig and Bust.

Second? That way for Lawyer Thrust.

Fifth?"—The quack doctor, spiders, dust ...

These are his depths and these his skies.

And did Life take you unawares

While you were dreaming still your dreams,

And eyes were wild and shy with gleams,

And heart was thick with aching themes?

—But someone's pushed the bell downstairs.

And did you fly thro' boyland dells

To catch the songs of youthful kings,

And fly before the flight of Springs?

—But there's no room in here for wings,

Where Life is only these three things—

A lift, a grid, a screech of bells.

Poor Lanky Tim, the days that drift

Thro' your drab dismal prison, they

Have drifted all those dreams away,

Till your heart's just a pumping clay.

And now I often wonder, say,

If you'll be nearer God some day

Than the fifth storey up the lift.

MRS. BRIGGS

Her ample breasts like moons are seen

Beneath her thin alpaca blouse.

Mrs. Briggs of Sausage Green,

She is an old Egyptian queen,

And she has Cheops Briggs for spouse.

And when she shouts down Turnip Street,

"Lawks! of all the dirty sights!

'Enry, quit that puddle quick!"

She has the regal voice that beat

The eardrums of the Israelites,

And turned the tribal bosoms sick.

But when 'Enry drooped and ailed,

And 'Enry from her side was torn

In a hearse down Dingy Lane,

O she wept the lad in vain,

As that other queen bewailed

The slaying of the eldest born.

ATHENS NOW

Behold Athens! What is Athens now?

Cinders and weeds where the eyeballs were, filth for

the marble brow.

Ilissus, Ilissus of the plain?

—Sardine-tins and a dead cat in a drain!

Dead, dead, dead are the Caryatids

Because of the horror that smote their petal-thin lids.

And the Parthenon now is a jawful of yellow teeth

In the snarling skull of an animal humped in death.

For Athens is only a squalor of traders that hope

To retire on the profits from soap.

And the trousers of half of the children of Pallas are

dirty with grease,

And the other half ardently brush them and keep them

in crease.

Then pray, O London, my city, when you are dead,

That none know the place where you reared your mad proud head;

That there be not a mound nor a stone nor even a tree,

But only the ignorant river or the desert sea!

DOWN TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD

Down Tottenham Court Road they ululate,

The droning choruses of Fate.

They walk the length of every wind,

The women who sin, the women who have sinned.

This evening's crime, all immemorial crimes,

Here gather from all lands and times.

Here with Orestes through the mart

Walks the grey lad who stabbed his mother's heart.

Gaunt Clytæmnestra stumbles round the feet

Of Sarah from a Soho street,

Who slew her sallow man to-night

With thin-lipped poison in the street lamp-light.

Pale Helen braids her legendary hair,

Lurking outside a gallery-stair,

While softly through the music calls

Aspasia to her lover in the stalls.

Here broken Orpheus searches, drunken-wild,

Eurydice, the fallen child,

Who, leagues down in the underworld,

Flaunts her white bosom, rouged lips, and gilt hair curled.

Behind the plate-glass windows drum the looms

Of Destinies spinning antique dooms.

The droning choruses of Fate,

Down Tottenham Court Road they ululate.

IN A STATION

A station drizzling like a hymn

Sung out of tune by neurasthenes,

In a tin church where darkness leans

Down through the windows blear and grim!

A miserable oil-lamp winks

Like a drab slut, and stares and stinks.

The train snorts out a large disgust,

And snorts again and spits out dust.

Then suddenly a lightning wakes!

The fumes, the squalors dissipate.

Then suddenly a young voice breaks

Into the darkness like a knife;

—Full of choked hopes and whipt regrets,

Hungry for love, half-dumb with hate,

Intense with death and sick for life,

—Into the darkness like a knife!

"Buy Choc-o-late and Cig-ar-ettes!

Buy Cig-ar-ettes and Choc-o-late!"

LIZA

Liza sits on a three-legged stool all day

beneath the railway-stairs.

(Liza is a shadowy woman selling shadowy wares.)

The boots that Liza wears to-day were worn

a score of years ago

By Dick the tramp who threw them away as

far as ever he could throw.

The petticoats that Liza wears around her

limbs of sticks and skin

Were thrown aside with tall disdain into a

back-street rubbish bin.

But O the bonnet that Liza wears, it is the

summit of her pride;

A big limp feather hangs over her nose and

two more hang on either side.

There's no more stately woman than Liza,

be she the sought of a score of kings.

(Liza is a shadowy woman, selling shadowy things.)

All day long she sits upright, waiting upon

her three-legged stool,

Until the hosts of little children come tumbling

homeward out of school.

Then Liza shows her wooden tray whenever

the children meet her eye.

"Come along, babies, only a kiss for any

little dainty you may buy.

Purple figs from a Grecian garden, pomegranate

blossoms blazing red.

Jangle bells of langling silver to wrangle

around of a wee girl's head."

Liza's fingers twitch and tighten, her deep-down

eyes they are flecked and starred.

But her voice is like a moan in a rifted chimney

and you can only hear it if you listen very hard.

Never the little children hear, they toddle

homeward day by day.

—Who would look at a bogey-woman whispering

over an empty tray?

Ironically floats the bobbing feather over

Liza's hungry eye.

"Isn't there just one wee little baby to come

to my face and kiss and buy?"

... All day long and all year round she

waits, but no one pays her price.

(Liza is a shadowy woman selling shadowy merchandise.)

WOMEN OF THE NIGHT

Come, I will take you, O ye empty-eyed,

Into my heart as sheep into a fold

Upon the waste hill-steep.

For ye are weary, O unsatisfied,

Whose breasts were filled for love and sell for gold;

Come, I will give you sleep.

All night your bodies move like furtive ghosts,

All the black futile night, your hands and feet

Heavy as sunken lead;

Sad, numberless, immortal, bloodless hosts,

Who haunt the hollows of the ashen street,

O ye my living-dead!

Only a scent of Death, sweet and corrupt,

Breathes from the false flower-gardens of your hair,

O and in your eyes,

No, not the light of the mad wine you supped,

Not tears nor laughter, O but swaying there,

Unweepable miseries!

Come, I will take you to a still green place,

Where birds that hover above the laden nests,

Birds shall make song.

There shall ye wash with dew the painted face,

Press two wild flowers against the barren breasts,

There hold a vigil long.

A vigil long until the evening go,

Then sleep, long sleep; till with a shout, O then,

Our Lord the Sun shall rise.

With hearts invincible and bodies like snow,

Back ye shall turn into the place of men,

Love peerless in your eyes!

August 1918

I STANDING IN THE STREET

I standing in the street, I standing,

Gaze on the unwashed windows, dingy walls,

When lo! a clarion ...

Lo! thro' the slum a spring-time trumpet calls.

Lo! on the roofs a rose-leaf magic falls.

Thro' all the windows dance and jewels shine.

Thro' all the rooms go lissome girls with scent.

The window-frames are tendrilled with the vine.

(Ah, God! I weep in my content.)

I standing in the street, I standing,

Gaze on my vision splendid and most dear,

When lo! a chimney ...

Lo! on my dreams the soot drifts dry and sere.

Lo! all my flowers wilt in a reek of beer.

On the drab flags squat children dusty-eyed,

Cursed at by blousy women with dank hair.

Just down the street there sprawls a suicide.

(Ah, God! I laugh in my despair.)

SLUM EVENING

A dove-grey evening, dusk empearled

By lamps along the fading slums.

Out of the sky a silence comes,

A honey on the wormwood world.

The flirting adolescents stand

And hush their tingling turbid vows.

For softly on their foolish brows

The evening lays a sober hand.

Even the butcher, he who shares

The corner-shop with "Boots and Shoes,"

Although he has no time to lose,

Delays to light the naphtha flares.

A bleary woman down the road

With a large twin on either arm,

Her wits are stolen by the charm,

She quite forgets her puling load.

I know not in what twilight stream

She bathes her dropsy-swollen feet,

But they were fair as dawn and fleet,

In the dead girlhood of her dream.

FIRES OF CHANGE

Think you that Athens and Jerusalem

Rot in the places where they builded them?

This is the Temple, this the Parthenon

The priests of old days laid their hands upon?

No more a stream sends the same waters twice

Along its channels to sea-sacrifice.

Not God Himself shall bid Time stand to lock

The midmost atom in the mightiest rock.

Still the most secret atom shall be hurled

Into the riotous wind-ways of the world.

Still, the most ancient town, up wrenched, shall float

Freer than flame and light as a bird's note.

Still shall the crumbling globe itself be spun

Into fresh ethers conquered by the sun.

So, even so, my soul shall wear no more

The countless shapes my soul endued of yore.

Yea, the stout granite of my soul shall range

Molten across the blasting fires of change.

Not this am I you saw an hour ago.

Me fluid as thought your science shall not know.

Hourly my conquering spirit digs and delves

A grave to hold a hundred slaughtered selves.

Hourly through cowering moons and stellar dins,

I stride across buried virtues and slain sins.

POETRY

A star that was mute

Was heard to sing.

A flower took wing,

A bird took root.

The Right is a Wrong,

The Wrong is a Right.

I fought with the Night,

I sang you a song.

I slaughtered Time,

For the path I trod

To the feet of God

Was the road of a rhyme.

A flower took wing,

A bird took root.

A star that was mute

Was heard to sing.

THE PRISONER

If you have not a bird inside you,

You have no reason to sing.

But if a pent bird chide you,

A beak and a bleeding wing,

Then you have reason to sing.

If merely you are clever

With thoughts and rhymes and words,

Then always your poems sever

The veins of our singing-birds,

With blades of glinting words.

Yet if a Song, without ending,

Inside you choke for breath,

And a beak, devouring, rending,

Tear through your lungs for breath,

Sing—or you bleed to death.

NERVES

You are like an ebony sea with derelict ships,

Cold as my lover is cold;

Until Beauty rises like the moon and whips

You into shivering gold.

You are like a tree-top at the bleak last hour

When birds to the tombs belong;

Until Beauty blows like the dawn, and you flower

Into buds of innumerable song.

You are like a virginal and a most pale

Girl in a secret mead;

Until Beauty, like the indomitable Male,

Enflames you with innermost seed.

You are like a corpse with worms in the holes of the head,

Between a board and a board;

Until Beauty shouts like the Trump that convulses the dead,

And you enter the House of the Lord.

A POET

He has a voice so exquisite

You can hardly hear it at all:

Tragedy's there and there is wit,

Both faint as a leaf's fall.

His feet pass hardly like human feet,

Five-toed and leathern-shod,

But more with the sound of bended wheat,

Swayed by the skirts of God.

His eyes are a wistful and grey sea,

Till a song stir his blood.

Then are they flowers that suddenly

Open from the pent bud.

But when at the shutting of the day,

He sings faint songs for me,

Then is it very hard to say

If the wind sings or he.

FOR MY FRIEND

(F. V. B.)

Go forth and conquer with the wind for a sword,

O scorching might;

Go forth and blaze through the jungles of night,

Lead in the tameless stars with a cord;

Go forth, Lover of Right!

Make moons thy pebbles and suns thy coins,

And thy language light.

Fill highest space with thy depth and height;

Gather the nebulæ round thy loins;

Go forth and fight!

Go forth and conquer—return, return,

When the hawthorn's white.

Encompass the void; then turn and learn

The veins of the grass and the bee's delight;

Return, Lover of Right!

"I SHALL BE SPLENDIDLY AND TENSELY YOUNG"

I shall be splendidly and tensely young,

While yet my limbs are mine.

Each of them shall be strung

As a bowstring by an archer

With fingers strict and fine.

I shall be splendidly and tensely young,

My heart being whole, my brain

Keen as a hawk's flight flung

Against my victim seen securely

From my austere Inane.

But when my limbs no more are mine,

My feet to walk, my hands to hold,

I shall be most supremely young.

Then shall my flawless songs be sung,

My brow be sealed with a proud sign:

When I am deaf and blind and fleshless,

I shall be most supremely young,

When I am old.

"I"

I shall slough my self as a snake its skin,

My white spots of virtue, my black spots of sin.

I shall abandon my sex, my brain,

My scheming for pleasure, escaping from pain.

I shall dig roots deep down and be

A weed or a reed, a flower, a tree.

I shall lose body and miry feet,

Float with the clouds and sway with the wheat.

I am a fool and foolisher than

Anything else that is not a man.

For of all the things that I see or feel,

The I-that-is-I is far the least real.

And only when I shall learn at the last

That a stream-bed pebble is far more vast

In the scale of Mind and its secret schemes

Than all my passion and blunders and dreams;

Then only that I that shall not be I

Shall play due part beneath sun and sky,

Ranked below sparrow, just above sod,

I shall take my place in the Self of God.

I KNOW NOT WHENCE MY POEMS COME

I know not why nor whence you come,

My poems. Only this I know.

You fall like petals failing down

Upon the dustbins of a town.

You fall like flakes of doubtful snow.

Like fairy flutes your musics flow.

You thunder like a madman's drum.

You falter on my worthless lips.

You give me grapes to press for wine.

Unasked, you bring me balm and spice,

You lead me into fields of kine,

With tinted dreams and anodyne.

You freeze my flesh with flames of ice.

You scorch my shrieking soul with whips.

LYRRIA

Lyrria is an old country.

Lost travellers tremble and call.

A very white, wan, weird country

Where never came traveller at all.

I am an old, old poet.

Lost poems tremble and call.

A very white, wan, weird poet

Who never wrote poems at all.

FARINGDON FROM SALONICA

There's a far road off to Faringdon,

Under the downs it goes;

Into the fine wood, the beech, the pine wood

The dim road shadows and glows.

My cycle hums to Faringdon,

Hums like a joyful bee,

Through dropping shy light of green tree twilight,

Music of wind and tree.

Springtime, bluebells, Faringdon,

And a cycle through all three;

Great shadow reaches of English beeches,

Downs far down to the sea.

There's a far road down to Faringdon.

There no more I ride.

The boys hear mostly a rider ghostly,

The girls they run and hide.

But that's my ghost in Faringdon,

All year cycling it goes.

Into the fine wood, the beech, the pine wood,

The dim ghost shadows and glows.

Salonica, 1916

CALL OF THE PLOVER

(To Harry Owen)

The crying of the lonely plover

From the morning cloud!

Do the wings and clouds still hover

Where my heart sang loud?

O the valley and the stream there.

Where we shouted, being young!

Are there boys still dream a dream there,

Are the boys' songs sung?

O the winds that once blew round us,

O the sun! the rain!

Shall the ancient spells that bound us,

Bind us ever again?

O a great Word then was spoken,

Then was a boy's will clean and strong!

Is the boy's will broken

That went straight along?

O our ageing ears are ringing

With many sad things!

Shall we come again with singing

Where the plover sings?

CLOUD END

THE GALLANT ROAD

(For my School—without permission)

Grant us, O Lord, to do the thing

Clean men and boys have always done;

These works to do, these songs to sing,

The gallant road to run.

Grant us, O Lord, that we go straight

Along the path where shines the sun;

These things to love, these things to hate,

The gallant road to run.

Grant us, O Lord, to win the fight

That all the cleanly hearts have won,

Having sure feet, even at night

The gallant road to run.

Grant us, O Lord, when Death enfold,

That we take Death as half in fun;

Like men and boys that knew of old

The gallant road to run.

1915

THE QUEST

"I have sought you," I said; "I have

found you," I said, "in the pitch of your

intimate midnight lair."

He drew back with a sob like the swish of a

stick thro' the smarting air.

"I have moved like Death on deliberate

feet thro' a thousand towns and a hundred lands.

Thinking you found, I have squeezed men's

throats with pulsing, twitching, inquisitive hands.

"But the fire that waned in their blood-starred

eyes was not the flame of the fire I sought,

And I went my way with the sword in my

heart and the sword in my hand of passion

and thought.

"My blood spurted over the boulders of far

intolerant mountains of iron and ice,

But never in crevice or cave or chasm I found

the flesh of my sacrifice.

"I burned with the wrath of a wind from hell

thro' molten deserts panting and pent;

But ever my foeman fled me afar, the sinister

goal of my intent.

"I have sought you," I said, "I have found

you," I said; "we shall die together, for

I am you."

The foam and fever oozed out of my forehead,

with a dew like blood, with a blood like dew.

He wailed like a child that recoils from a

shadow that moves with menace over his bed;

But I pierced my heart with the sword in my

hand, and his body at last lay stretched

and dead.

HAVING FINISHED "JUDE THE OBSCURE"

Such purposeless and iron wings

Obscure our mortal music quite?

Such gloom to monstrous gloom outflings

The stenches of a churchyard night?

We are no more for God or Sin

Than parasites in rotting hair,

No different but only in

The boundlessness of our despair?

Glories have sprung before our gaze

From the wet wood the grey tide warps!

We have heard peals of music blaze

Sheer from the cold heart of a corpse!

GHOST AND BODY

I that am wiser than most,

Have yielded the tract of my ghost

To a panting and flat-eyed ghost who gathers these useless things.

In a country of seventeen moons,

He sits in the sound of bassoons

Playing terrible stupid tunes to the first of the ghostial kings.

He has gathered my ghost with the rest

To plough it, or do what is best,

And doubtless he does it with zest in the country whereover

he reigns.

I am glad—for the thing was a pest;

It lay at the roots of my chest,

And it darkened the East and the West and it plastered

my eyes with stains.

But heigh-ho! my arms and my feet

Now are mine as I swing down the street,

And my heart for to storm and to beat whenever my body desires.

My eyes will look when they please

Down the drains or high to the trees.

My body is mine to freeze or shrivel with whitest fires!

GALLOP

My drunken head is a whirl of song,

My heart is a drumstick beating time.

My pen goes swiftly galloping along

The echoing roads of rhythm and rhyme.

The stars are dizzy, for they circle in a ring.

Round about the Pole Star all hold hands.

The moon lifts her skirts up to do a giddy fling,

The trees in the forest dance in big black bands.

The river is bounding from place to place,

The fishes in the cold air rise and shine.

The parallel hedgerows are running in a race,

For each of them and all of them are drunk with wine.

The grand old buildings, alas and woe is me!

Sway about unsteadily from side to side.

The streets are moreover crooked things to see;

There is no object anywhere will stand and bide.

The goblins are assembled in a mad-moon crowd

Upon the hazy summit of the palpitating hill.

Let the things that have no voice shout out loud!

Let them dance, the fickle things, and have their fill!

And if again they will not sub-subside,

(For round-around-around ho! and dance shall we!)

The road of the rebel stars is cool and wide,

The mad waves dance on the sea!

Then beat like thunder heart, then! round go head!

The red stars swing in time.

For soon enough, the Lord knows, shall I be dead,

And dead my rhythm and rhyme!

OXFORD

WE LADS WHO BARTER RHYMES

There's some be red of face, they be,

Like jolly suns in harvest times,

And some be haggard men to see,

Because of certain hidden crimes.

But let us sing with one accord

That we're the chosen of the Lord,

We lads who barter rhymes.

There's some so tall and fair and free,

Like policemen in their leisure times,

And some are like a wizened pea,

Some worth no more than twenty dimes.

But here's our sober view expressed,

We're three times better than the best,

We lads who barter rhymes.

WHO KNOWS ME?

Who knows me? None knows me.

I hobble on two blistered feet

Round the corner, down the street.

Now and then a child will cry,

Seeing a strange thing in my eye,

A Bogey Man, a Thing of Dread,

Stand from each eye in my head.

Now and then a baby 'll smile,

—But that's only once a while.

Boys of thirteen all throw stones

At my stiff and creaky bones.

Middle-aged people, fat and bright,

Shrug and sniff "It serves him right."

Round the corner, out of sight,

Down the Street, across the Night.

Who knows me? None knows me.

I am young and I am proud,

Strong as sun and pure as cloud.

All the five seas wash my veins

With stinging foam and swinging rains.

With the white stars I commune

In a silent spheric tune.

Who knows me? None knows me.

Only but a brown Bird,

Only but a little Child,

A little Child, a little Bird,

Only they know me.

JUDÆUS ERRANS

He hath no place to rest his head.

O happy nations, weep indeed.

He is forlorn till he be dead.

O pity him his wretched meed,

His wounds that bleed.

There is no resting in his eyes,

And he hath scars upon his feet.

He is a stranger to all skies.

He walks sad-eyed along the street,

And shadow-wise.

For with the dawn must he depart,

And with the sunset make his way.

All day he bears an aching heart,

All night his aching sorrows stay,

Yea, night and day.

Then look a moment as he goes,

A little sadly, in his eyes.

For there are written all the woes,

And a surprise.

For he is sadder than God knows.

COLD STARS

Cold night, cold with pointed stars

That swing like instant scimitars,

How you reproach with acid fire

The smoky lamps of our desire.

Cold stars, inexorably aloof,

That freeze from Vision's dizziest roof,

On these our human sins you brood

In pride of glacial rectitude.

Cold stars, come down and walk along

Our avenues of Sense and Song;

Take human shape one night and vex

Your bowels with the scourge of sex.

When you return at last to those

Cold skies from whence your travel rose,

Will you still stare with such disdain,

When you, cold stars, are stars again?

REACTIONARY

My heart's blood leaps high, O my Lady, in a

fountain of restless aspiring.

That you should dangle within it the dissolute

gold of your hair.

I have shattered the doors of my spirit that

you might thereinto retiring

Reposefully lie on my pain and reflect that

the morning is fair.

You may go to the devil, my Lady, yourself

and the rest of your species!

I mean it, O desperate damsel, O Lady most

anxious and coy!

I shall retire to my chamber to see that my

clothes are in creases,

For I see by the tilt of your brow the minuteness

of brain you enjoy.

You have set the clear bells of my spirit to

crack in a dissonant jangle.

You are fair in your way, O my Lady, but rather

oppressively sexed.

There is no such fatal mistake as a primitive

facial angle.

Good-bye, O my dispossessed Lady, remember

my name to the next.

LATE

I am very desolate.

I am afraid.

I am alone.

The shadows wait

Till I am laid

Beneath a stone.

I am very desolate.

I can hear feet.

I can see ghosts.

Fear's by the gate,

Death's in the street

By the dark posts.

I am very desolate.

What have I made

Of the dead time?

The night is late.

I am afraid

Of my own rhyme.

WIND OF BLACK NIGHT

I would go where you go,

You sole monarch that I know.

Wind, wind of black night,

I would go with your delight.

Take me by my streaming hair,

Take me where in the air

Planets meet, stars fight.

I have need of the speed

Of your thunder-shattering steed.

Wind, wind of black night,

I would battle with your might.

Take me by my soaring mind.

No more blind, I shall find

Hell's depth and sky's height.

I would follow where you lead,

Freed, freed of sense and creed.

Wind, wind of black night,

I would see with your sight.

Take me by my burning soul,

Stark, whole, to God my goal,

Clean darkness, sheer light.

YELLOW SATINS

(To Janey Golding)

When I am rich, mother,

You will sit in satins,

Yellow satins, looking out upon the street.

You will smile out on the neighbours,

Who will have no yellow satins;

And there'll be a great big hassock to rest your tired feet.

You'll have a gold-clasped family album,

And a grand piano in the corner;

But yellow satins, yellow satins, I have chiefly dreamed of them.

And the most wonderful silk-lined work-box,

With the clothes of my first baby,

For your dear pale fingers to hem.

And the neighbours will come to see you,

And pretend not to be looking

At the wonderful yellow satins, till I take you away to bed.

But in dreaming of the yellow satins,

I have forgotten, I have forgotten....

Isn't it seven years, little mother, since you've been dead?

MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT

Dost thou turn thine eyes away from me,

thy stern and gentle eyes,

From the error of my living days, O thou in

Death most wise?

O thou in Death most wise,

With thy stern and gentle eyes,

Then is thy sleep disturbed by doubt, thy

coffin by surprise?

Have I not trodden then the ways which thou

wouldst have me tread?

Then was it but a wind of words, the passioned

vows I said?

The passioned vows I said,

The ways which I should tread,

So have I quite forgotten these now thou art

safely dead?

Unless I take thy buried lips my final word to say,

Unless I take thy crumbled eyes to light my tangled way,

To light my tangled way,

My final word to say,

Suddenly, Death, come down in flame and

shrive me from the day!

TO A. L. O.

My soul is a white flame that has burned longer

Than Mars or Aldebaran or all the stars,

And gentler than a snowdrop, and far stronger

Than all the steel of its containing bars.

In cosmic triumphs upon timeless cars

My lordly soul hath lain. My soul is younger

Than the new-fallen dews in flowery jars:

My soul, my godly food, my godly hunger.

Where shall I place my soul for most safe keeping

From boisterous intention and omnivorous wave?

And sow it in what field for goodliest reaping,

From night to shield it and from sins to save?

Thou art my treasure-house, awake or sleeping,

Or wind-free in meadows or in the obscure grave.

THE DARK KNIGHT OF THE ROAD

Three tall poplars are his plumes,

The Dark Knight of the Road.

And he is cuirassed round with glooms,

And all his stern abode

Is loud with seas and dooms.

A rock he takes to be his shield.

Loud winds his clarions are.

Should banded warriors take the field,

Though strong troops come from far,

Naught know they but to yield.

But if a sparrow taunt his helm,

Froth-like his power is blown.

Him shall the mating thrush o'erwhelm.

Yea, I have even known

Tom-tit usurp his realm.

TO THE SWIFT

Swift, feathered lightning, swift,

Flesh of flame, wind-fleet,

God who gave you your good gift

Gave me only two slow feet.

Countries merge within the span

Of your single hour's essay.

I being but a wingless man

Plod my score of miles a day.

Fading into blankness now,

Song that flies and flight that sings,

I am chained to clay, but thou,

Winds are leashed around thy wings.

Art thou faded, swift? then see,

Poet where the swift shall halt,

Poet see the sun assault

The stone towers of Finity.

Swift, dreamless atom, clod,

Swift, thou art slower than

Any eyeless, limbless man.

Him his soul shall drive to God.

FRESHWATER

GREEN WIND

The wind of course is Green.

There is no other word

For what no man has seen

And every man has heard.

It's neither man nor fowl,

And neither fish nor beast.

But it comes out of the West

And goes into the East.

It never was defined

By instrument or mouth.

But it comes out of the North

And goes into the South.

The wind it is a Green Thing

That swishes thro' the corn,

And shouts you to praise loudly

The day that you were born.

The wind it is a Wise Thing

That rumbles thro' the beech,

And bids you to learn there

A wisdom it can teach.

The wind's as Green as Greenness

Possibly can be,

And lashes to a foam of Green

The deepest bluest sea.

And even in the grassless towns,

The murky streets and mean,

Along the greys, behind the browns,

It sings a Song of Green.

And whither does it go then,

And whence does it come forth?

It comes out of the South,

And goes into the North.

It comes out of the East,

And goes into the West,

And why the wind is Green as Green,

God alone knows best.

THE MIDMOST FIELD IN KENT

There is a time of charm and chime,

And this is Sabbath evening time.

There is a place of dear content,

This is the midmost field in Kent.

This is the time and this the place

Where boughs droop down with dews of grace;

Where under hedges hung with sleep,

Through atmospheres of music creep

Sheep like ghosts and ghosts like sheep.

Here a great Lord of Magic comes

Fanfarronading with far drums,

And deep athwart the night he throws

His banners of white fire and rose.

From the great town unto the sea,

He thunders through his empiry.

But when his drums are heard no more,

The quiet is quiet as before.

And there's a drowsy dreamy scent

Drenches the midmost field in Kent.

Neither more quickly nor more slow,

Shadows come, shadows go.

Shadows that reap while others sow,

Shadows that sow while others reap,

Shadows whose windy singings keep,

Sheep like ghosts and ghosts like sheep.

MURMURYNGEHAM

In Murmuryngeham, in Murmuryngeham,

The bees is always singing,

The flowers is always chiming,

The sheep stands on their head.

There's lads and lasses clinging,

And minor poets rhyming,

In Murmuryngeham, in Murmuryngeham,

When they should be in bed.

So now my feet is winging,

When other men's are climbing,

To Murmuryngeham, which I shall find

If my good Patron be inclined,

Murmuryngeham, Murmuryngeham,

Some day before I'm dead.

WINCHESTER DOWNS

In Winchester on the white downs

This is not mist at all,

But the thin silk of fairy gowns

Which is not woven in the towns

And all behind a wall.

In Winchester, be taught of me,

The fairies seize your wrist.

Their gowns are caught in every tree;

—But if you have no eyes to see,

Then sure, it's only mist.

CYCLING IN OCTOBER

O the wind blowing round me, the wind

blowing round me, the same wind that

blew when the grey world was green!

The high hills before me, the brown hills before

me, that stand in their places where Death

has not been.

The blue sky over my head is singing, is singing,

is singing, as loudly as I.

For Death was only a seeming, a dreaming,

and Life is as clouds that fade and fly.

The strong hills vanish, as thin clouds vanish,

as I shall vanish, my dream, my pain;

But all my dreams and I the dreamer, clouds

and hills shall sing again.

Then birds of October, hills of October, winds

of October, wrap me round.

Carry me forward, road of October, sped on

the wheels of light and sound.

For the birds are on wings now and I am on

wings now over the white road the dead

men trod.

And there are no dead men, there are no dead

men, but living men only and dead men

are God!

THE SHEPHERD

"Ah me," the shepherd said

Who dwelt beside a fold

Upon the Northern hills.

"Ah me, 'tis bitter cold,

My oldest friends be dead.

And O a humming fills

My nid-nod-nodding head."

The guns lie in the beams.

The shepherd feeds the fire

With fingers old and numb.

The lamplight flickers higher.

A double winter seems

Surely to have come.

The old friends hover nigher

In simple shepherd dreams.

The frost lies on the fells.

The moon's a great white flower.

The stars have cruel hearts.

And loud and very clear,

With sudden silly starts,

The old clock ticks and tells

The changing of the hour.

But the shepherd hears the bells

No other man may hear.

A look's within his eyes

I have not seen before

In shepherd North or South.

The old head sinketh lower.

The shadows fall and rise

Along the earthen floor.

—God wot, he'll go no more

Beneath the windy skies.

No more the shepherd will

Lead down the misty scars

The small sheep frail and lost,

Nor thread the bracken hill

Singing a shepherd's rune.

The moorland wind is still,

Beneath the ancient moon.

The fells are white with frost.

The white peaks touch the stars.

DERWENTWATER

(To J. L. Paton)

God give me Derwentwater when I die.

Let no one else be by

To say prayers over me or close my eye.

On Friar's Crag my body will lie down.

On green grass and earth brown.

I will forget the fever and the town.

Over the tops of ancient Borrowdale,

Slowly the clouds will sail

Through great sky spaces, exquisite and frail.

And grandly will the flames of heather climb

Up Skiddaw-Hill sublime,

With head unbowed before the knees of time.

Thro' the still dusk a little bird will sing

Sweetly a holy thing,

And fade in silence on a drowsy wing.

The winds will pass along the quiet lake,

And God will gently take

My own breath with them for His Godhead's sake.

"I VOWED THAT I WOULD BE A TREE"

I vowed that I would be a tree.

I went up to an oak and said,

"What shall I do that I might be

A beech, an oak, or any tree,

With branches leafing from my head?"

There was a sound of sap that ran,

There was a wind of leaves that spoke.

"So you would cease to be a man,

And be a green tree, if you can,

A pine, a beech, an oak?"

I answered, "I am tired of men,

As tired as they of me.

I fain would not return again

To the perplexity of men,

But straightway be a tree."

There was a sound of winds that went

To summon every oldest tree,

To hold their austere Parliament

About the thing had craved to be

Elect of their calm company.

There was a sound of bursting tide,

There was a wash of clanging foam,

A crumbling shore, a bursting tide.

There came a thunder that outcried,

"Go, wretched mortal, get thee home!

"Who art thou that would be a tree,

Least of the weeds that shoot and pass?

Bide till a Wisdom come, and see

Before a mortal be a tree,

He first must be a blade of grass!"

WOUNDED SOLDIERS

Have you no arms, soldier?

See, I have two.

Whatever deeds for arms there be,

These still I can do.

Out of clay I still can make

Living things like me and you.

I still can cleave the lake

With strong arms true.

Have you no feet, soldier,

No feet at all?

I still have feet to climb

Oak-tree and tall.

Still as in our boyhood,

I leap the hedge and climb the wall.

Still my feet will chase the Spring

When birds call.

Have you no eyes, soldier,

Keen eyes like me?

My eyes still have light that draw

Strength from the great sea.

O soldier, is it hard to lose

The first Spring-whisper on the tree,

Sun foaming round the love you choose,

Whosoever she?

Ah! but you have something, soldier,

Never we shall know.

You shall hear the holy winds

We can not hear blow.

From your garden-soul shall start

Flowers of flaming snow.

There's the secret at your heart

Never we shall know.

STILL LIFE IN FRANCE

Sweet peas drooping in a vase

Like the tears of Niobe,

Poppies like the cheeks of Mars

Kissing the Aphrodite.

Pansies like a dryad's eyes,

Open-wide and half-afraid,

Like unfolded butterflies

In a little Tempe glade.

* * * * *

Flowers and words might be my toys

Half a drowsy summer day,

But at night I hear the noise

Of bombardment far away.

Very quiet I am then,

Like a moon-enchanted boy,

As I see the khaki men

Storm the granite walls of Troy.

HARFLEUR, 1917

I DREAM'D I DIED

I dream'd I died.

The green of Spring was not yet manifest

Upon the cold hillside.

They bore me slowly to my place of rest,

And let me bide.

Far from the pale I lay of space and light,

Of dusk and dawn.

I knew the sharp stars of the winter night

Were far withdrawn.

Silent I lay upon my bed,

In sooth at rest.

The earth pressed heavily on my head,

My lean hands cross'd my breast.

I saw not through my eyes.

When I had faded from the room of sighs,

Someone had sealed them down with clay,

Had whispered, "He hath seen the whole

Of summer earth and starlit skies,

Or yellow hills of tumbled hay

That he shall see.

Here till the time of Judgment let him be.

God soothe his soul."

Under the moon

I lay remote from the dear nightingale.

Late and soon,

Faintly I heard the wan wind drone and wail.

I dream'd,

Thro' many years it seemed:

Until I wearied me of dreaming

And closed the windows of my soul,

Where no sun streaming

Show'd how God's far far days did westward roll.

All blind, blind,

A sea of sleep did drown me unconfin'd,

Wide and deep,

A sea of utter sleep,

Its levels no time stirred by any wind.

And so I slept,

My hands across my breast.

My clamped spirit kept

A total rest.

* * * * *

Earth of the Earth I slumber'd long,

I slumber'd in the untrod glooms,

And then Dawn came.

I felt the world was glad with song,

I felt the hillsides were a flame

Of king-cup blooms.

And when Dawn came,

Three times I knocked upon the door

Which was my seal, my world and sky,

Three times with might.

There came a burst of sound and light,

A knowledge broad and deep and high,

The long breath of a sloping moor.

I looked into the daylight wide,

A bird sang thro' the singing blue,

And then, O heart, and then I knew

I dream'd I died.

FLOWERS IN WAR

Still, still, with all your ancient bloom,

You glow athwart our gloom.

Still, O too callous flowers,

You load with gems these swooning hours.

Still, still, the lilac foams and falls

Against our hollow silenced walls.

Against the cinders of our homes,

Wistaria falls and foams.

When all the Spring is all a loaded grave,

How can your banners wave?

How when the wind goes round your way,

How can your trumpets play?

For whom your splendours chiefly shone,

All those, all those, are gone.

Now Spring is nipped and hoar,

Too callous flowers, why bloom ye more?

Still, still, the scarlet sorrel gleams

All noon along the noon-gold streams.

Still, still, the meadow-pippet's feet

Are dewed on meadow-sweet.

Be curst, O callous flowers that come so fair

With taunts at our despair.

Or if next Spring shall lead you back,

Be all your petals black!

EVENING—KENT

Sheep, like woolly clouds dropt from the sky,

Drift through the quiet meads.

From over the seas, a little cry,

—Europe bleeds!

Clouds, like woolly sheep, hardly stir'd,

Drift through the quiet skies.

From over the seas, a little word,

—Europe dies!

BLACK MAGIC

Hands on the window-sill

I hear but cannot see.

Ghosts riding down the hill

I see but cannot hear.

My heart is cold with fear

Of every trembling tree.

The day has never been,

And day will never be.

And Night is very lean,

And Death is very swift.

And green eyes blink and shift

Through every monstrous tree.

Black arms across the night,

And hands I may not flee,

And fingers grasping tight

That choke my little cries,

And I shall have green eyes

Within a phantom tree.

A SOLDIER DYING

"Lad, why are your fingers twitching,

What is the thing they strain to hold?

Why does your blood flow thick, enriching

A bleak strange place?"

"Dying, dying—then do not task me!"

"Tell me before your lips are cold."

"I am afraid of the thing you ask me."

"—Before the dark is in your face."

"This is why my blood is oozing.

Because my masters did the choosing.

Blood is cheap and bought for gold."

"Are they masters of your knowing?"

"I know not who my masters be.

I only know my blood is flowing,

Because my secret masters said,

'We shall live and he be dead.'"

"This is why your fingers straining

Clutch the thing they shall not hold?"

"This is why the blood is waning,

Waning from my face.

They gathered in the market-place,

They gathered to buy merchandise.

My blood was bought for little price,

My masters bought and I was sold.

This is why my blood is oozing,

Blood is cheap and bought for gold."

AT LAST WAR ENDS

And still the War went on: till only ten

Were left to win the War; they fought; and then,

Then there were no more men.

There was a gloom of apprehension lest

For lack of flesh the first and last and best

Of wars might be suppressed.

But Mars was far too sage to be surprised.

Now that the race of men were quite demised,

The women mobilized.

So now for gassier gas and flamier flame!

Compared with what the present War became,

The old War was a game.

The old had fifty years in which to thrive;

When this had lasted only twenty-five,

Two dames remained alive.

With flammen-werfer strictly up-to-date,

They stalked each other, singing Hymns of Hate:

—But one was just too late!

The Victress trying vainly to decide

For whom her late opponent had just died,

Committed suicide.

So now the world consisted but of trees

And dogs and beetles livid with disease,

And babies blue with fleas.

Trees, dogs, and beetles perished from the day.

Like flies brought crawling earthwards by a spray,

The babies dropped away.

Now truly War seemed ended. Mars was pained

Beyond expression till he ascertained,

Two babes, thank God! remained.

He fired them with the fury of all wars.

A bloody hunger stung their toothless jaws.

They squealed—"The Cause! The Cause!"

Black to the blinding noon they foamed and swore.

Each from his brother's breast the red heart tore.

Then there was War no more.

PRINTED BY

MORRISON AND GIBB LTD.

EDINBURGH

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SORROW OF WAR: POEMS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

SORROW OF WAR

SORROW OF WAR

LILAC, LABURNUM

STREETS OF GOLD

"IN THE GALLERY WHERE THE FAT MEN GO"

DEAD IN GALLIPOLI

A JOURNEY SOUTH

THE NEW TRADE

THE WOMAN WHO SHRIEKED AGAINST PEACE

THE WOMEN AT THE CORNERS STAND

JOINING-UP

DURING THE BATTLE

JACK

GERMAN BOY

SKYLARK AND DAWN

JACK OF APRIL

STATESMEN DEBONAIR

OVER IN FLANDERS ...

WILD WEATHER

BROKEN BODIES

A THOUGHT

THE VINTNER

FOR NOW COMES SUMMER

THE ADVENT OF MARS

PROPHET AND FOOL

WHATEVER PATH I WALK UPON

LONDON MAGDALENE

SECRET GIRL

LANKY TIM

MRS. BRIGGS

ATHENS NOW

DOWN TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD

IN A STATION

LIZA

WOMEN OF THE NIGHT

I STANDING IN THE STREET

SLUM EVENING

FIRES OF CHANGE

POETRY

THE PRISONER

NERVES

A POET

FOR MY FRIEND

"I SHALL BE SPLENDIDLY AND TENSELY YOUNG"

"I"

I KNOW NOT WHENCE MY POEMS COME

LYRRIA

FARINGDON FROM SALONICA

CALL OF THE PLOVER

THE GALLANT ROAD

THE QUEST

HAVING FINISHED "JUDE THE OBSCURE"

GHOST AND BODY

GALLOP

WE LADS WHO BARTER RHYMES

WHO KNOWS ME?

JUDÆUS ERRANS

COLD STARS

REACTIONARY

LATE

WIND OF BLACK NIGHT

YELLOW SATINS

MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT

TO A. L. O.

THE DARK KNIGHT OF THE ROAD

TO THE SWIFT

GREEN WIND

THE MIDMOST FIELD IN KENT

MURMURYNGEHAM

WINCHESTER DOWNS

CYCLING IN OCTOBER

THE SHEPHERD

DERWENTWATER

"I VOWED THAT I WOULD BE A TREE"

WOUNDED SOLDIERS

STILL LIFE IN FRANCE

I DREAM'D I DIED

FLOWERS IN WAR

EVENING—KENT

BLACK MAGIC

A SOLDIER DYING

AT LAST WAR ENDS

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE