Archives: Poems

Is not the dawning very slow to rise—
   Set both your arms about my weary head, 
         Let me lean back a moment & confess
   My great misdeed—lest when that I am dead,
         You, knowing nothing of my wickedness
Should say 'my darling is in Paradise'

Is not the dawning very slow to rise?
   Come closer to me for my voice is weak,
And my soul loathes the words I have to say—
   Open the windows it is surely day
But that my eyes are darkened. Kiss my cheek,
   Once loving, ere you spurn me for my lies

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"There was no other man in the case at all.
She said she had simply changed her mind—
had done so for a long while, but didn't like to
tell me for fear of hurting my feelings.
So I gave back the letters and it's all over."
Extract from a Private Letter.

                             BEFORE

By all the mighty Oaths that Love can frame, 
      And all the Penalties by Love imposed,
I swore to Him that Love should be the same
      Till Time's weak wings and Time's worn Eyelids closed. 
These things, in scorn of Time, I swore to prove,
      But Time, in scorn of Me, my Love hath killed,
      And, for this Treason, leaves my Heart unfilled, 
Lest Treason find a Comfort in new Love.

Alas! Long Usage schools the fettered Speech 
To that sweet Creed, outlived an Age ago,
Since Time hath checked his Flight to edge my Doom. 
Dull Cowardice sets Freedom out of Reach.
While Pity wails:—''For  Love's Sake be it so.'
And Passion's Corpse-Light flickers o'er Love's Tomb.

                            AFTER  

Peace, by Time's Mercy, in the Heart of Me,
      The Peace that springs of very Weariness; 
As One Wave-rescued looks upon the Sea
      So look I on the Day of my Distress.—
A Power defied that stretches forth weak Hands
      To hold Me who am passed from out Its Reach— 
      An angry Wave that thunders on the Beach,
But takes no Trophy of the scornful Sands.

Yea, Peace hath come again and I am free, 
And all the Old is dead and cannot rise, 
And all the New awaits Me, pure, untrod.
As One Wave-rescued turneth from the Sea
Landward to rest Him, so turn I my Eyes
From past Things to the Future, thanking God.

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Rain on the face of the sea, 
  Rain on the sodden land,
And the window-pane is blurred with rain 
  As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea, 
  Mist on the sodden land,
Filling the vales as daylight fails, 
  And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist, 
  Calling to one another:
'Hath love an end, thou more than friend, 
  Thou dearer than ever brother?'

Voices from out of the mist, 
  Calling and passing away;
But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, 
  And . . . this is the end of my lay.

.

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1 
Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry
  (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
’Oo is it ’eads to the Detail Supply?
  A section, a pompom, an’ six ’undred men. 
2 
’Ere comes the clerk with ’is lantern an’ keys
  (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
“Surplus of everything—draw what you please
  “For the section, the pompom, an’ six ’undred men.” 
3 
“What are our orders an’ where do we lay?”
  (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
“You came after dark—you will leave before day,
  “You section, you pompom, you six ’undred men!” 
4 
Down the tin street, ’alf awake an’ unfed,
’Ark to ’em blessin’ the Gen’ral in bed! 
5 
Now by the church an’ the outspan they wind—
Over the ridge an’ it’s all lef’ be’ind
  For the section, etc.  
6 
Soon they will camp as the dawn’s growin’ grey.
Roll up for coffee an’ sleep while they may—
  The section, etc. 
7 
Read their ’ome letters, their papers an’ such,
For they’ll move after dark to astonish the Dutch
  With a section, etc. 
8 
’Untin’ for shade as the long hours pass—
Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass,
  Lies the section, etc. 
9 
Dossin’ or beatin’ a shirt in the sun,
Watching chameleons or cleanin’ a gun,
  Waits the section, etc. 
10 
With nothin’ but stillness as far as you please,
An’ the silly mirage stringin’ islands an’ seas
  Round the section, etc. 
11 
So they strips off their hide an’ they grills in their bones,
Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones
  Towards the section, etc. 
12 
An’ the Mauser-bird stops an’ the jackals begin,
An’ the ’orse-guard comes up and the Gunners ’ook in
  As a ’int to the pompom an’ six ’undred men. . . . 
13 
Off through the dark with the stars to rely on—
(Alpha Centauri an’ somethin’ Orion)
   Moves the section, etc. 
14 
Same bloomin’ ’ole which the ant-bear ’as broke,
Same bloomin’ stumble an’ same bloomin’ joke
  Down the section, etc. 
15 
Same “which is right?” where the cart-tracks divide,
Same “give it up” from the same clever guide
  To the section, etc. 
16 
Same tumble-down on the same ’idden farm,
Same white-eyed Kaffir ’oo gives the alarm
  Of the section, etc. 
17 
Same shootin’ wild at the end o’ the night,
Same flyin’-tackle an’ same messy fight,
  By the section, etc. 
18 
Same ugly ’iccup an’ same ’orrid squeal,
When it’s too dark to see an’ it’s too late to feel
  In the section, etc. 
19 
(Same batch of prisoners, ’airy an’ still,
Watchin’ their comrades bolt over the ’ill
  From the section, etc.) 
20 
Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun
As ’e gets up displeasured to see what was done
  By the section, etc, 
21 
Same splash o’ pink on the stoep or the kraal,
An’ the same quiet face which ’as finished with all
  In the section, the pompom, an’ six ’undred men. 
22 
Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry
  (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
’Oo is it ’eads to the Detail Supply?
  A section, a pompom, an’ six ’undred men. 

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1 
"Gold is for the mistress–silver for the maid"–
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade!"  
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron–Cold Iron–is master of them all."
2 
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege, 
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege. 
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall, 
"But Iron–Cold Iron–shall be master of you all!" 
3 
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along; 
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron–Cold Iron–was master of it all. 
4 
Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!) 
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?" 
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall, 
For Iron–Cold Iron–is master of men all."
5 
"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown 
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown." 
"As my loss is grievous, So my hope is small, 
For Iron–Cold Iron–must be master of men all!" 
6 
Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine–sit and sup with me. 
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall 
How Iron–Cold Iron–can be master of men all." 
7 
He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread 
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said: 
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall, 
Show Iron–Cold Iron–to be master of men all." 
8 
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong. 
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong. 
I forgive thy treason–I redeem thy fall 
For Iron–Cold Iron–must be master of men all!"
9 
'Crowns are for the valiant–sceptres for the bold! 
Thrones and Powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!' 
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall, 
"But Iron–Cold Iron–is master of men all! 
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"

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Cities and Thrones and Powers
     Stand in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
     Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth 
     To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,
     The Cities rise again. 

This season's Daffodil,
     She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill, 
     Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
     And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance 
     To be perpetual. 

So Time that is o'er-kind 
     To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind, 
     As bold as she:
That in our very death, 
     And burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith, 
     "See how our works endure!"

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listen to the poem

1 
Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—
  As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
  That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born.
    Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
      Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth!
    And at Home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry—
      What part have India’s exiles in their mirth? 
2 
Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
  As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
  To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
    Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
      Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
    With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
      And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!” 
3 
High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
   As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
  And forget us till another year be gone!
    Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
      Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
    Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,
      And to-day we know the fulness of our gain. 
4 
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—
  As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
  That drags us back how’er so far we roam.
    Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment—
       India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
     If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter,
      The door is shut—we may not look behind. 
5 
Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus —
  As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
   Let us honour, O my brother, Christmas Day!
     Call a truce, then, to our labours—let us feast with friends and neighbours,
      And be merry as the custom of our caste;
    For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,
      We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

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1 
We've got the cholerer in camp—it’s worse than forty fights;
  We’re dyin’ in the wilderness the same as Isrulites;
It’s before us, an’ be’ind us, an’ we cannot get away,
  An’ the doctor’s just reported we’ve ten more to-day! 
Refrain 
      Oh, strike your camp an’ go, the Bugle’s callin’,
               The Rains are fallin’—
      The dead are bushed an’ stoned to keep ’em safe below;
      The Band’s a-doin’ all she knows to cheer us;
      The Chaplain’s gone and prayed to Gawd to ’ear us—
               To ’ear us—
      O Lord, for it’s a-killin’ of us so!
2 
Since August, when it started, it’s been stickin’ to our tail,
Though they’ve ’ad us out by marches an’ they’ve ’ad us back by rail;
But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away;
An’ the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day. 
3 
There ain’t no fun in women nor there ain’t no bite to drink;
It’s much too wet for shootin’, we can only march and think;
An’ at evenin’, down the nullahs, we can ’ear the jackals say,
“Get up, you rotten beggars, you’ve ten more to-day!” 
4 
’Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o’ doin’ things—
Lieutenants takin’ companies an’ captains takin’ wings,
An’ Lances actin’ Sergeants—eight file to obey—
For we’ve lots o’ quick promotion on ten deaths a day! 
5 
Our Colonel’s white an’ twitterly—’e gets no sleep nor food,
But mucks about in ’orspital where nothing does no good.
’E sends us ’eaps o’ comforts, all bought from ’is pay—
But there aren’t much comfort ’andy on ten deaths a day. 
6 
Our Chaplain’s got a banjo, an’ a skinny mule ’e rides,
An’ the stuff ’e says an’ sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!
With ’is black coat-tails a-bobbin’ to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!
’E’s the proper kind o’ padre for ten deaths a day. 
7 
An’ Father Victor ’elps ’im with our Roman Catholicks—
He knows an ’eap of Irish songs an’ rummy conjurin’ tricks;
An’ the two they works together when it comes to play or pray;
So we keep the ball a-rollin’ on ten deaths a day. 
8 
We’ve got the cholerer in camp—we’ve got it ’ot an’ sweet;
It ain’t no Christmas dinner, but it’s ’elped an’ we must eat.
We’ve gone beyond the funkin’, ’cause we’ve found it doesn’t pay,
An’ we’re rockin’ round the Districk on ten deaths a day! 
2nd Refrain 
      Then strike your camp an’ go, the Rains are fallin’,
               The Bugle’s callin’!
      The dead are bushed an’ stoned to keep ’em safe below!
      An’ them that do not like it they can lump it,
      An’ them that cannot stand it they can jump it;
      We’ve got to die somewhere—some way—some’ow—
      We might as well begin to do it now!
      Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow,
      Knock out the pegs an’ ’old the corners—so!
      Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an’ stow!
      Oh, strike—oh, strike your camp an’ go!
               (Gawd ’elp us!) 

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Is a woman but man's plaything, fairest woman in her pride? 
Should a word be disregarded? Should a whisper be denied? 
Should not all things bow before her? And my knightly soul replied,
'Man is born to worship woman, She is man beatified.
At her fairest she is perfect, at her foulest something more— 
Serve all women and respect them is my self imposèd law.
For in sooth they all are angels —Who's that knocking at my door?' 
'Sir—your Aunt has come to see you—' D—n the woman. What a bore!

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These were my companions going forth by night— 
              (For Chil! Look you, for Chil!) 
Now come I to whistle them the ending of the fight. 
              (Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)
Word they gave me overhead of quarry newly slain, 
Word I gave them underfoot of buck upon the plain. 
Here's an end of every trail—they shall not speak again! 

They that called the hunting-cry—they that followed fast— 
              (For Chil! Look you, for Chil!) 
They that bade the sambhur wheel, or pinned him as he passed—
              (Chil! Vanguards of Chil!) 
They that lagged behind the scent—they that ran before, 
They that shunned the level horn—they that overbore. 
Here's an end of every trail—they shall not follow more. 

These were my companions. Pity 'twas they died! 
              (For Chil! Look you, for Chil!) 
Now come I to comfort them that knew them in their pride. 
              (Chil! Vanguards of Chil!) 
Tattered flank and sunken eye, open mouth and red, 
Locked and lank and lone they lie, the dead upon their dead. 
Here's an end of every trail—and here my hosts are fed.

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