Archives: Poems

1 
Through learned and laborious years 
    They set themselves to find
 Fresh terrors and undreamed-of fears
    To heap upon mankind. 
2 
All that they drew from Heaven above
    Or digged from earth beneath,
 They laid into their treasure-trove
    And arsenals of death: 
3 
While, for well-weighed advantage sake,
    Ruler and ruled alike
 Built up the faith they meant to break
    When the fit hour should strike. 
4 
They traded with the careless earth,
    And good return it gave:
 They plotted by their neighbour’s hearth
    The means to make him slave. 
5 
When all was ready to their hand
    They loosed their hidden sword,
 And utterly laid waste a land
    Their oath was pledged to guard. 
6 
Coldly they went about to raise
    To life and make more dread
 Abominations of old days,
    That men believed were dead. 
7 
They paid the price to reach their goal
    Across a world in flame;
 But their own hate slew their own soul
    Before that victory came.

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She dropped the bar, she shot the bolt, she fed the fire anew,
For she heard a whimper under the sill and a great grey paw came through.
The fresh flame comforted the hut and shone on the roof beam,
And the Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream.
The last ash fell from the withered log with the click of a falling spark,
And the Only Son woke up again, and called across the dark:—
“Now was I born of womankind and laid in a mother’s breast?
For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest.
And was I born of womankind and laid on a father’s arm?
For I have dreamed of clashing teeth that guarded me from harm. 

And was I born an Only Son and did I play alone?
For I have dreamed of comrades twain that bit me to the bone.
And did I break the barley-cake and steep it in the tyre?
For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new-riven from the byre.
For I have dreamed of a midnight sky and a midnight call to blood
And red-mouthed shadows racing by, that thrust me from my food.
’Tis an hour yet and an hour yet to the rising of the moon,
But I can see the black roof-tree as plain as it were noon.
’Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping blackbuck go;
But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe.
’Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the crop and the upland meet,
But I can smell the wet dawn-wind that wakes the sprouting wheat.
Unbar the door, I may not bide, but I must out and see
If those are wolves that wait outside or my own kin to me!” 
                   
                     *          *           *           *           *
                    
She loosed the bar, she slid the bolt, she opened the door anon,
And a grey bitch-wolf came out of the dark and fawned on the Only Son!

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"For before Eve was Lilith." - Old Tale.

“These were never your true love’s eyes.
   Why do you feign that you love them?
You that broke from their constancies,
   And the wide calm brows above them! 

This was never your true love’s speech.
   Why do you thrill when you hear it?
You that have ridden out of its reach
   The width of the world or near it! 

This was never your true love’s hair;
   You that chafed when it bound you
Screened from knowledge or shame or care,
    In the night that it made around you!” 

“All these things I know, I know.
   And that’s why my heart is breaking!”
“Then what do you gain by pretending so?”
    “The joy of an old wound waking.”

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1 
This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end – 
Then we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:
And because we know we have breath in our mouth 
                                                                         and think we have thoughts in our head,
We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.
2 
We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or stronger planets arise
(That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries),
Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ‘neath new skies.
3 
We shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth, to bind on our children’s hands;
We shall call to the waters below the bridges to return and to replenish our lands;
We shall harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.
4 
We shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a light on our way –
We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup, “Behold, it is day!”
We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble into the fray.
5 
We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind,
The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind –
(Precisely like vultures over an ox that the army left behind).
6 
We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created –
Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated –
And our friends will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.
7 
The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out, but we shall subsist on the smell of it;
And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it.
Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, and that is the Perfectest Hell of it!
8 
This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us –
That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us.
Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but, being free be assured,
That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!

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1 
“Here is nothing new nor aught unproven,” say the Trumpets,
   “Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.
“It is the King—the King we schooled aforetime!”
   (Trumpets in the marshes—in the eyot at Runnymede!) 

“Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger,” peal the Trumpets,
    “Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.
“It is the King!”—inexorable Trumpets—
    (Trumpets round the scaffold at the dawning by Whitehall!) 

“He hath veiled the Crown and hid the Sceptre,” warn the Trumpets,
   “He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.
“Hard die the Kings—ah hard—dooms hard!” declare the Trumpets,
   Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill! 

Ancient and Unteachable, abide—abide the Trumpets!
   Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings
Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets—
   Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings! 
5 
All we have of freedom, all we use or know—
This our fathers bought for us long and long ago. 

Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw—
Leave to live by no man’s leave, underneath the Law. 

Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing
Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the King. 

Till our fathers ’stablished, after bloody years,
How our King is one with us, first among his peers. 

So they bought us freedom—not at little cost
Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost, 
10 
Over all things certain, this is sure indeed,
Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed. 

Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure.
Whining “He is weak and far”; crying “Time shall cure.” 

(Time himself is witness, till the battle joins,
Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people’s loins.) 

Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace.
Suffer not the old King here or overseas. 

They that beg us barter—wait his yielding mood—
Pledge the years we hold in trust—pawn our brother’s blood— 
15 
Howso’ great their clamour, whatsoe’er their claim,
Suffer not the old King under any name! 

Here is naught unproven—here is naught to learn.
It is written what shall fall if the King return. 

He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,
Set his guards about us, as in Freedom’s name. 

He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware;
He shall change our gold for arms—arms we may not bear. 

He shall break his judges if they cross his word;
He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord. 
20 
He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring
Watchers ’neath our window, lest we mock the King— 

Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies;
Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies. 

Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,
These shall deal our Justice: sell—deny—delay. 

We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse
For the Land we look to—for the Tongue we use. 

We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,
While his hired captains jeer us in the street. 
25 
Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun,
Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run. 

Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled,
Laying on a new land evil of the old— 

Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain—
All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again. 

Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue—
Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew. 

Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid:
Step for step and word for word—so the old Kings did! 
30 
Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read.
Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed— 

All the right they promise—all the wrong they bring.
Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King! 

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1 
Our sister sayeth such and such,
 And we must bow to her behests;
 Our sister toileth overmuch,
 Our little maid that hath no breasts. 
2 
A field untilled, a web unwove,
 A flower withheld from sun or bee,
 An alien in the courts of Love,
 And—teacher unto such as we! 
3 
We love her, but we laugh the while,
 We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
 Our sister hath no time to smile,
 She knows not what must follow after. 
4 
Wind of the South, arise and blow,
 From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
 Breathe on her heart that she may know,
 Breathe on her eyes that she may see. 
5 
Alas! we vex her with our mirth,
 And maze her with most tender scorn,
 Who stands beside the gates of Birth,
 Herself a child—a child unborn! 
6 
Our sister sayeth such and such,
 And we must bow to her behests;
 Our sister toileth overmuch,
 Our little maid that hath no breasts. 

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1 
When, with a pain he desires to explain to the multitude, Baby
Howls himself black in the face, toothlessly striving to curse;
And the six-months-old Mother begins to enquire of the Gods if it may be
Tummy, or Temper, or Pins—what does the adequate Nurse? 
2 
See! At one turn of her head the trouble is guessed; and, thereafter,
She juggles (unscared by his throes) with drops of hot water and spoons,
Till the hiccoughs are broken by smiles, and the smiles pucker up into laughter,
And he lies o’er her shoulder and crows, and she, as she nurses him, croons! 
3 
When, at the head of the grade, tumultuous out of the cutting,
Pours the belated Express, roars at the night, and draws dear,
Redly obscured or displayed by her fire-door’s opening and shutting—
Symbol of strength under stress—what does her small engineer? 
4 
Clamour and darkness encircle his way. Do they deafen or blind him?
No!—nor the pace he must keep. He, being used to these things,
Placidly follows his work, which is laying his mileage behind him,
While his passengers trustfully sleep, and he, as he handles her, sings! 
5 
When, with the gale at her heel, the barque lies down and recovers—
Rolling through forty degrees, combing the stars with her tops,
What says the man at the wheel, holding her straight as she hovers
On the summits of wind-screening seas, steadying her as she drops? 
6 
Behind him the blasts without check from the Pole to the Tropic, pursue him,
Heaving up, heaping high, slamming home, the surges he must not regard:
Beneath him the crazy wet deck, and all Ocean on end to undo him;
Above him one desperate sail, thrice-reefed but still buckling the yard! 
7 
Under his hand fleet the spokes and return, to be held or set free again;
And she bows and makes shift to obey their behest, till the master-wave comes
And her gunnel goes under in thunder and smokes, 
                                                  and she chokes in the trough of the sea again—
Ere she can lift and make way to its crest; and he, as he nurses her, hums! . . .
8 
These have so utterly mastered their work that they work without thinking;
Holding three-fifths of their brain in reserve for whatever betide.
So, when catastrophe threatens, of colic, collision or sinking,
They shunt the full gear into train, and take that small thing in their stride.

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Where the East wind is brewed fresh and fresh every morning,
  And the balmy night-breezes blow straight from the Pole,
I heard a Destroyer sing: "What an enjoyable 
  Life does one lead on the North Sea Patrol!

"To blow things to bits is our business (and Fritz's),
    Which means there are mine-fields wherever you stroll.
Unless you've particular wish to die quick, you'll
avoid steering close to the North Sea Patrol.

"We warn from disaster the mercantile master
  Who takes in high Dudgeon our life-saving role,
For every one's grousing at Docking and Dowsing
  The marks and the lights on the North Sea Patrol."

(Twelve verses omitted)  

So swept but surviving, half drowned but still driving
  I watched her head out through the swell off the shoal,
And I heard her propellers roar- "Write to poor fellers
  Who run such a Hell as the North Sea Patrol!"

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