Archives: Poems

1 
Where the reveller laid him, drunk with wine, 
  At the foot of my marble pedestal,
They are wailing aloud; they call me divine— 
  Wherefore is it on me that they call?
  What have I done for the men of this city, 
For the pallid folk who bend at the shrine 
And call upon me: 'Maid Divine
  Mother of Sorrows, have thou pity!'
2 
 What can I tell of their joy or woe—
I who was fashioned long ago
  By the olive slopes of the marble city, 
Where green leaves hid the temple wall? 
Wherefore is it on me that they call:
  'Mother of Jesus, have thou pity!' 
3 
What should I know of sorrow—I? 
How should I listen tenderly?
  Sorrow was not in the old white city; 
But laughter and love and men and wine 
In the temple below me that was mine.
  Who am I, that should give them pity 
As, row upon row, they call on my shrine:
 'Mother of Sorrows, Maid Divine, 
  Spotless Virgin, have thou pity!'
4 
They brought me forth from under the mould 
  (For I, too, fell with my city's fall),
They gave my hands a cross to hold, 
They cramped my limbs in cloth of gold,
  And set me up to be seen of all.
They came and bowed themselves at my shrine, 
  These strange, pale folk of the dreary city,
And called upon me: 'Mother Divine 
  Mother of Sorrows, have thou pity!'
5 
I fain would be where I once have been,
Where the nude limbs flashed through the vine-leaves green, 
Where I heard the sound of the summer sea
Far off, and warriors came to me,
And hung their arms the boughs between—
 Strong shapes, and I was held their queen. 
These men would surely welcome me
With that wild song I knew so well 
Before my marble city fell— 
Before the foemen took the city 
(Before I bowed myself and fell),
Before they brought me here to dwell, 
  These men that know not of my city,
And set me in an alien shrine,
And called upon me: 'Maid Divine, 
  Mother of Sorrows, have thou pity!'
6 
And in those days, I saw the sun,
  My brother, greet me in the morn.
 But now I see not any one
  Of those I know, while folk forlorn 
Flock round me, calling on a name
  I know not, and they give it me.
  I, foam-born, risen from the sea, 
  My names were many in the city
Of marble, but this is not mine: 
  'Mother of Sorrows, Maid Divine, 
  Spotless Virgin, have thou pity!'
7 
And, in those years, the stars were bright, 
  And all the night was full of love;
But now I see not any light,
  Saved what from meagre slits above 
Slopes downward on my forehead white. 
  I would that I could turn and move
And visit mine own lovèd city, 
And hear the laughter as of old,
And see the waters touched with gold 
  Far off, and feel against my knees
The boy's warm cheek. Then should I know 
  Mine own old happiness and ease.
But here there is no sound save woe:
'Holy Virgin, Mother Divine, 
Bend we low at thy sacred shrine.
  Mother of Jesus, have thou pity!'

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A grey flat lying out against the sea,
Where the strait guts are choked with weeded wood
And tangled cordage, moving aimlessly
Upon the lazy leaden ebb or flood;
A waste of stunted gorze and withered tree,
Warped by a wind that chills the running blood
And crisps the slime masked puddles in the mud,
A place of desolation verily—
And yet this place is dearer to us two
Than any other spot we know on earth—
The North wind ushered in our Passion's birth, 
When by the waste went out my heart to you—
And the blind tide at ebb crawled back again
To scatter golden spume flakes at our feet
And hail us—who had lived a time of pain
And being free, had found deliverance sweet.

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Now the land is ringed with a circle of fire, 
  Burnt with the fire and dead with drouth,
  And the bare, brown fields hold the heat of Hell— 
Wherefore, I tell you, once and for all,
  Fly with the speed of a hot desire;
  Fly from the land that is parched and dead, 
  To Simla or Murree or Naini Tai,
  With a limber lunkah  thrust in your mouth, 
  And a solah topee to guard your head,
  And a tat beneath you can trust to chel.

For the hills look down on the burnt plains under, 
  And the great green mountains are good to see—
  Fair to behold and sweet to gain;
  They are capped with the snow and cooled with the rain, 
  Cooled with the tears of the wailing thunder.
Wherefore, I tell you, mount and ride,
  Till the spurs are red and the whip-hand tires, 
  And the saddle is broken across the tree—
  Till your spurs are red in your horse's side—
  Fly from the heat of our summer fires!

The sky is lead and our faces are red,
  And the winds of Hell are loosened and driven,
  And the gates of Hell are opened and riven,
  And the dust flies up in the face of Heaven,
  And the clouds come down in a fiery sheet, 
  Heavy to raise and hard to be borne.
And the mind of man is turned from his meat— 
  Turned from the trifles for which he has striven, 
  Sick in his body, and heavy-hearted
And his soul flies up like the dust in the street—
  Flies from his flesh and is gone and departed,
  As the blast that they blow on the cholera-horn.

Wherefore, I say, while life remains,
  While the knees can grip and the right hand flog, 
  Fly with the speed of a parted lover
  From the heated heavens that cloak and cover 
  The burning heat of the bare, brown plains.
Flee to the mountains, once and for all— 
  To the calm, cool rains and the drifting fog,
  To the rains that cool and the clouds that hover 
  O'er Simla, Murree, or Naini Tai!

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In Faiths and Food and Books and Friends
  Give every soul her choice.
 For such as follow divers ends
  In divers lights rejoice. 

There is a glory of the Sun
    (’Pity it passeth soon!)
 But those whose work is nearer done
   Look, rather, towards the Moon. 

There is a glory of the Moon
  When the hot hours have run;
 But such as have not touched their noon
  Give worship to the Sun. 

There is a glory of the Stars,
   Perfect on stilly ways;
 But such as follow present wars
   Pursue the Comet’s blaze. 

There is a glory in all things;
   But each must find his own,
 Sufficient for his reckonings,
  Which is to him alone.

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1 
We are actors at the side-scenes ere the play of life begins, 
With the curtain rising on us and the tally of our sins:
You may pace the boards before me while amazed the boxes sit,
I, with all my rant and thunder, may but hardly stir the pit.
2 
You may be a prima donna, winning monarchs with your smile; 
What wonder I, your equal, should adore you all the while?
When you stand before the footlights will you do your best to shine
In that part the Fates have cast you? Will you join your part to mine?
3 
Will you mouth your words, or murmur? Will you take me for a friend, 
From the shifting of the first scene till the curtain brings the end?
When the act-drop falls upon us, when we've heard the audience cheer,
When the people that have watched us leave the stalls and gallery clear.
4 
When the lights are near extinguished, when the ghostlike cloths are thrown
O'er the purple of the velvet, and the actors stand alone—
Old and wrinkled, grey and toothless, fighting at the other door, 
Who shall face the darkness first, and who of them shall go before 
To the great unknown that stretches out away there where the lights 
Flare and flicker in the darkness of an awful night of nights—
5 
Where French rouge won't cheat the Devil, where pearl-powder never lies,
And the belladonna's useless for wide, terror-stricken eyes?
When they're howling in the pit, here, may I claim you for my own? 
Face the journey both together—two are better far than one.
6 
We'll rehearse the farce together for a little, little time, 
Turn the prose that is our being to a comedy in rhyme.
You be lord, and I'll be lady, and in sufferance take my hand, 
Talk of passion never dying (for the woman, understand).
7 
So, we'll play it at the wings here, mind! I've never sworn to be 
Constant in the real acting, only in the mimicry!
To your place! Your eyes are wandering! Oh—a girl there in the wings.
(Odd that in rehearsing 'tis my jealousy that stings!)
8 
I've been thinking it were better just for once to play it through,
Much in earnest; shall we try it? As the heaven I am true
(Made of blue with tinsel planets!). Well! your oath is real enough; 
I believe you—only kiss me! This forced passion's dreary stuff!

Editor's note (Nov2024): 
The poem was originally not split into verses.

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