The Collected poems of Rupert Brooke/1908—1911

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1908 — 1911

SONNET

Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
 Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
 Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,


One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,
 See a slow light across the Stygian tide,
And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,
 And tremble. And I shall know that you have died,


And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,
 Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,
Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam—
 Most individual and bewildering ghost!—


And turn, and toss your brown delightful head
Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.


SONNET

I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true.
 Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls—on you—
 The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me.
Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
 Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.
But—there are wanderers in the middle mist,
 Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell
Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom:
 An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress,
Or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom;
 For love of Love, or from heart's loneliness.
Pleasure's not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
 And do not love at all. Of these am I.


SUCCESS

I think if you had loved me when I wanted;
 If I'd looked up one day, and seen your eyes,
 And found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted,
And your brown face, that's full of pity and wise,
Flushed suddenly; the white godhead in new fear
 Intolerably so struggling, and so shamed;
Most holy and far, if you'd come all too near,
 If earth had seen Earth's lordliest wild limbs tamed,
Shaken, and trapped, and shivering, for my touch—
 Myself should I have slain? or that foul you?
But this the strange gods, who had given so much,
 To have seen and known you, this they might not do.
One last shame's spared me, one black word's unspoken;
 And I'm alone; and you have not awoken.


DUST

When the white flame in us is gone,
 And we that lost the world's delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
 To crumble in our separate night;


When your swift hair is quiet in death,
 And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath—
 When we are dust, when we are dust!—


Not dead, not undesirous yet,
 Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
 Around the places where we died,


And dance as dust before the sun,
 And light of foot, and unconfined,
Hurry from road to road, and run
 About the errands of the wind.


And every mote, on earth or air,
 Will speed and gleam, down later days,
And like a secret pilgrim fare
 By eager and invisible ways,


Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,
 Till, beyond thinking, out of view,
One mote of all the dust that's I
 Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind,
 Warm in a sunset's afterglow,
The lovers in the flowers will find
 A sweet and strange unquiet grow


Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
 So high a beauty in the air,
And such a light, and such a quiring,
 And such a radiant ecstasy there,


They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
 Or out of earth, or in the height,
Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
 Or two that pass, in light, to light,


Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . .
 But in that instant they shall learn
The shattering ecstasy of our fire,
 And the weak passionless hearts will burn


And faint in that amazing glow,
 Until the darkness close above;
And they will know—poor fools, they'll know!—
 One moment, what it is to love.


KINDLINESS

When love has changed to kindliness—
Oh, love, our hungry lips, that press
So tight that Time's an old god's dream
Nodding in heaven, and whisper stuff
Seven million years were not enough
To think on after, make it seem
Less than the breath of children playing,
A blasphemy scarce worth the saying,
A sorry jest, "When love has grown
To kindliness—to kindliness!" . . .
And yet—the best that either's known
Will change, and wither, and be less,
At last, than comfort, or its own
Remembrance. And when some caress
Tendered in habit (once a flame
All heaven sang out to) wakes the shame
Unworded, in the steady eyes
We'll have,—that day, what shall we do?
Being so noble, kill the two
Who've reached their second-best? Being wise,
Break cleanly off, and get away.
Follow down other windier skies
New lures, alone? Or shall we stay,
Since this is all we've known, content
In the lean twilight of such day,
And not remember, not lament?
That time when all is over, and
Hand never flinches, brushing hand;
And blood lies quiet, for all you're near;
And it's but spoken words we hear,
Where trumpets sang; when the mere skies
Are stranger and nobler than your eyes;
And flesh is flesh, was flame before;
And infinite hungers leap no more
In the chance swaying of your dress;
And love has changed to kindliness.


MUMMIA

As those of old drank mummia
 To fire their limbs of lead,
Making dead kings from Africa
 Stand pandar to their bed;


Drunk on the dead, and medicined
 With spiced imperial dust,
In a short night they reeled to find
 Ten centuries of lust.


So I, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,
 Stuffed love's infinity,
And sucked all lovers of all time
 To rarify ecstasy.


Helen's the hair shuts out from me
 Verona's livid skies;
Gypsy the lips I press; and see
 Two Antonys in your eyes.


The unheard invisible lovely dead
 Lie with us in this place,
And ghostly hands above my head
 Close face to straining face;

Their blood is wine along our limbs;
 Their whispering voices wreathe
Savage forgotten drowsy hymns
 Under the names we breathe;


Woven from their tomb, and one with it,
 The night wherein we press;
Their thousand pitchy pyres have lit
 Your flaming nakedness.


For the uttermost years have cried and clung
 To kiss your mouth to mine;
And hair long dust was caught, was flung,
 Hand shaken to hand divine,


And Life has fired, and Death not shaded,
 All Time's uncounted bliss,
And the height o' the world has flamed and faded,
 Love, that our love be this!


THE FISH

In a cool curving world he lies
And ripples with dark ecstasies.
The kind luxurious lapse and steal
Shapes all his universe to feel
And know and be; the clinging stream
Closes his memory, glooms his dream,
Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides
Superb on unreturning tides.
Those silent waters weave for him
A fluctuant mutable world and dim,
Where wavering masses bulge and gape
Mysterious, and shape to shape
Dies momently through whorl and hollow,
And form and line and solid follow
Solid and line and form to dream
Fantastic down the eternal stream;
An obscure world, a shifting world,
Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled,
Or serpentine, or driving arrows,
Or serene slidings, or March narrows.
There slipping wave and shore are one,
And weed and mud. No ray of sun,
But glow to glow fades down the deep
(As dream to unknown dream in sleep);
Shaken translucency illumes
The hyaline of drifting glooms;
The strange soft-handed depth subdues
Drowned colour there, but black to hues,
As death to living, decomposes—
Red darkness of the heart of roses,
Blue brilliant from dead starless skies,
And gold that lies behind the eyes,
The unknown unnameable sightless white
That is the essential flame of night,
Lustreless purple, hooded green,
The myriad hues that He between
Darkness and darkness! . . .


 And all's one.
Gentle, embracing, quiet, dun,
The world he rests in, world he knows,
Perpetual curving. Only—grows
An eddy in that ordered falling,
A knowledge from the gloom, a calling
Weed in the wave, gleam in the mud—
The dark fire leaps along his blood;
Dateless and deathless, blind and still,
The intricate impulse works its will;
His woven world drops back; and he,
Sans providence, sans memory,
Unconscious and directly driven,
Fades to some dank sufficient heaven.


O world of lips, O world of laughter,
Where hope is fleet and thought flies after,
Of lights in the clear night, of cries
That drift along the wave and rise
Thin to the glittering stars above,
You know the hands, the eyes of love!
The strife of limbs, the sightless clinging,
The infinite distance, and the singing
Blown by the wind, a flame of sound,
The gleam, the flowers, and vast around
The horizon, and the heights above—
You know the sigh, the song of love!


But there the night is close, and there
Darkness is cold and strange and bare;
And the secret deeps are whisperless;
And rhythm is all deliciousness;
And joy is in the throbbing tide,
Whose intricate fingers beat and glide
In felt bewildering harmonies
Of trembling touch; and music is
The exquisite knocking of the blood.
Space is no more, under the mud;
His bliss is older than the sun.
Silent and straight the waters run.
The lights, the cries, the willows dim,
And the dark tide are one with him.


THOUGHTS ON THE SHAPE OF THE HUMAN BODY

How can we find? how can we rest? how can
We, being gods, win joy, or peace, being man?
We, the gaunt zanies of a witless Fate,
Forget the moment ere the moment slips,
Kiss with blind lips that seek beyond the lips,
Who want, and know not what we want, and cry
With crooked mouths for Heaven, and throw it by.
Love's for completeness! No perfection grows
'Twixt leg, and arm, elbow, and ear, and nose,
And joint, and socket; but unsatisfied
Sprawling desires, shapeless, perverse, denied.
Finger with finger wreathes; we love, and gape,
Fantastic shape to mazed fantastic shape,
Straggling, irregular, perplexed, embossed,
Grotesquely twined, extravagantly lost
By crescive paths and strange protuberant ways
From sanity and from wholeness and from grace.
How can love triumph, how can solace be,
Where fever turns toward fever, knee toward knee?
Could we but fill to harmony, and dwell
Simple as our thought and as perfectible,
Rise disentangled from humanity
Strange whole and new into simplicity,
Grow to a radiant round love, and bear
Unfluctuant passion for some perfect sphere,
Love moon to moon unquestioning, and be
Like the star Lunisequa, steadfastly
Following the round clear orb of her delight,
Patiently ever, through the eternal night!


FLIGHT

Voices out of the shade that cried,
 And long noon in the hot calm places,
And children's play by the wayside,
 And country eyes, and quiet faces—
 All these were round my steady paces.


Those that I could have loved went by me;
 Cool gardened homes slept in the sun;
I heard the whisper of water nigh me,
 Saw hands that beckoned, shone, were gone
 In the green and gold. And I went on.


For if my echoing footfall slept,
 Soon a far whispering there'd be
Of a little lonely wind that crept
 From tree to tree, and distantly
 Followed me, followed me. . . .


But the blue vaporous end of day
 Brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite,
Where between pine-woods dipped the way.
 I turned, slipped in and out of sight.
 I trod as quiet as the night.

The pine-boles kept perpetual hush;
 And in the boughs wind never swirled.
I found a flowering lowly bush,
 And bowed, slid in, and sighed and curled,
 Hidden at rest from all the world.


Safe! I was safe, and glad, I knew!
 Yet—with cold heart and cold wet brows
I lay. And the dark fell. . . . There grew
 Meward a sound of shaken boughs;
 And ceased, above my intricate house;


And silence, silence, silence found me. . . .
 I felt the unfaltering movement creep
Among the leaves. They shed around me
 Calm clouds of scent, that I did weep;
 And stroked my face. I fell asleep.


THE HILL

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
 Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
 You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
 All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
—"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"


"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
 Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
 "We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
—And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.


THE ONE BEFORE THE LAST

I dreamt I was in love again
 With the One Before the Last,
And smiled to greet the pleasant pain
 Of that innocent young past.


But I jumped to feel how sharp had been
 The pain when it did live,
How the faded dreams of Nineteen-ten
 Were Hell in Nineteen-five.


The boy's woe was as keen and clear,
 The boy's love just as true,
And the One Before the Last, my dear,
 Hurt quite as much as you.

 * * * * *

Sickly I pondered how the lover
 Wrongs the unanswering tomb,
And sentimentalizes over
 What earned a better doom.

Gently he tombs the poor dim last time,
 Strews pinkish dust above,
And sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!
 But this—ah, God!—is Love!"


—Better oblivion hide dead true loves,
 Better the night enfold,
Than men, to eke the praise of new loves,
 Should lie about the old!

 * * * * *

Oh! bitter thoughts I had in plenty.
 But here's the worst of it—
I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty,
 You ever hurt abit!


THE JOLLY COMPANY

The stars, a jolly company,
 I envied, straying late and lonely;
And cried upon their revelry:
 "O white companionship! You only
In love, in faith unbroken dwell,
Friends radiant and inseparable!"


Light-heart and glad they seemed to me
 And merry comrades (even so
God out of Heaven may laugh to see
 The happy crowds; and never know
That in his lone obscure distress
Each walketh in a wilderness).


But I, remembering, pitied well
 And loved them, who, with lonely light,
In empty infinite spaces dwell,
 Disconsolate. For, all the night,
I heard the thin gnat-voices cry,
Star to faint star, across the sky.


THE LIFE BEYOND

He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
 Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
 Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens.
  He lies;
 And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
 Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
 Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
 Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.


I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.


LINES WRITTEN IN THE BELIEF THAT THE
ANCIENT ROMAN FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD
WAS CALLED AMBARVALIA

Swings the way still by hollow and hill,
 And all the world's a song;
"She's far," it sings me, "but fair," it rings me,
 "Quiet," it laughs, "and strong!"


Oh! spite of the miles and years between us,
 Spite of your chosen part,
I do remember; and I go
 With laughter in my heart.


So above the little folk that know not,
 Out of the white hill-town,
High up I clamber; and I remember;
 And watch the day go down.


Gold is my heart, and the world's golden,
 And one peak tipped with light;
And the air lies still about the hill
 With the first fear of night;

Till mystery down the soundless valley
 Thunders, and dark is here;
And the wind blows, and the light goes,
 And the night is full of fear,


And I know, one night, on some far height,
 In the tongue I never knew,
I yet shall hear the tidings clear
 From them that were friends of you.


They'll call the news from hill to hill,
 Dark and uncomforted,
Earth and sky and the winds; and I
 Shall know that you are dead.


I shall not hear your trentals,
 Nor eat your arval bread;
For the kin of you will surely do
 Their duty by the dead.


Their little dull greasy eyes will water;
 They'll paw you, and gulp afresh.
They'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep
 Like flies on the cold flesh.


They will put pence on your grey eyes,
 Bind up your fallen chin,
And lay you straight, the fools that loved you
 Because they were your kin.

They will praise all the bad about you,
 And hush the good away,
And wonder how they'll do without you,
 And then they'll go away.


But quieter than one sleeping,
 And stranger than of old,
You will not stir for weeping,
 You will not mind the cold;


But through the night the lips will laugh not,
 The hands will be in place,
And at length the hair be lying still
 About the quiet face.


With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
 And dim and decorous mirth,
With ham and sherry, they'll meet to bury
 The lordliest lass of earth.


The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving
 Behind lone-riding you,
The heart so high, the heart so living,
 Heart that they never knew.


I shall not hear your trentals,
 Nor eat your arval bread,
Nor with smug breath tell lies of death
 To the unanswering dead.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
 The folk who loved you not
Will bury you, and go wondering
 Back home. And you will rot.


But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
 With wind and hill and star,
I yet shall keep, before I sleep,
 Your Ambarvalia.


DEAD MEN'S LOVE

There was a damned successful Poet;
 There was a Woman like the Sun.
And they were dead. They did not know it.
 They did not know their time was done.
  They did not know his hymns
  Were silence; and her limbs,
  That had served Love so well,
  Dust, and a filthy smell.


And so one day, as ever of old,
 Hands out, they hurried, knee to knee;
On fire to cling and kiss and hold
 And, in the other's eyes, to see
  Each his own tiny face,
  And in that long embrace
  Feel lip and breast grow warm
  To breast and lip and arm.


So knee to knee they sped again,
 And laugh to laugh they ran, I'm told,
Across the streets of Hell . . .
And then
 They suddenly felt the wind blow cold,
  And knew, so closely pressed,
  Chill air on lip and breast,
  And, with a sick surprise,
  The emptiness of eyes.


TOWN AND COUNTRY

Here, where love's stuff is body, arm and side
 Are stabbing-sweet 'gainst chair and lamp and wall.
In every touch more intimate meanings hide;
 And flaming brains are the white heart of all.


Here, million pulses to one centre beat:
 Closed in by men's vast friendliness, alone,
Two can be drunk with solitude, and meet
 On the sheer point where sense with knowing's one.


Here the green-purple clanging royal night,
 And the straight lines and silent walls of town,
And roar, and glare, and dust, and myriad white
 Undying passers, pinnacle and crown


Intensest heavens between close-lying faces
 By the lamp's airless fierce ecstatic fire;
And we've found love in little hidden places,
 Under great shades, between the mist and mire.


Stay! though the woods are quiet, and you've heard
 Night creep along the hedges. Never go
Where tangled foliage shrouds the crying bird,
 And the remote winds sigh, and waters flow!

Lest—as our words fall dumb on windless noons,
 Or hearts grow hushed and solitary, beneath
Unheeding stars and unfamiliar moons,
 Or boughs bend over, close and quiet as death,—


Unconscious and unpassionate and still,
 Cloud-like we lean and stare as bright leaves stare,
And gradually along the stranger hill
 Our unwalled loves thin out on vacuous air,


And suddenly there's no meaning in our kiss,
 And your lit upward face grows, where we lie,
Lonelier and dreadfuller than sunlight is,
 And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky.


PARALYSIS

For moveless limbs no pity I crave,
 That never were swift! Still all I prize,
Laughter and thought and friends, I have;
 No fool to heave luxurious sighs
For the woods and hills that I never knew.
The more excellent way's yet mine! And you


Flower-laden come to the clean white cell,
 And we talk as ever—am I not the same?
With our hearts we love, immutable,
 You without pity, I without shame.
We talk as of old; as of old you go
Out under the sky, and laughing, I know,


Flit through the streets, your heart all me;
 Till you gain the world beyond the town.
Then—I fade from your heart, quietly;
 And your fleet steps quicken. The strong down
Smiles you welcome there; the woods that love you
Close lovely and conquering arms above you.


O ever-moving, O lithe and free!
 Fast in my linen prison I press
On impassable bars, or emptily
 Laugh in my great loneliness.
And still in the white neat bed I strive
Most impotently against that gyve;
Being less now than a thought, even,
To you alone with your hills and heaven.


MENELAUS AND HELEN


 I

Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke
 To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate
 On that adulterous whore a ten years' hate
And a king's honour. Through red death, and smoke,
And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode,
 Till the still innermost chamber fronted him.
 He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim
Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.


High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
 He had not remembered that she was so fair,
And that her neck curved down in such a way;
And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,
 And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,
The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.


 II

So far the poet. How should he behold
 That journey home, the long connubial years?
 He does not tell you how white Helen bears
Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold,
Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold
 Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys
 'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice
Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.

Often he wonders why on earth he went
 Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came.
Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;
 Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.
So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;
And Paris slept on by Scamander side.


LIBIDO

How should I know? The enormous wheels of will
 Drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet.
Night was void arms and you a phantom still,
 And day your far light swaying down the street.
As never fool for love, I starved for you;
 My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see.
Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view,
 And your remembered smell most agony.


Love wakens love! I felt your hot wrist shiver
 And suddenly the mad victory I planned
  Flashed real, in your burning bending head. . . .
My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river
 In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand
  Quieter than a dead man on a bed.


JEALOUSY

When I see you, who were so wise and cool,
Gazing with silly sickness on that fool
You've given your love to, your adoring hands
Touch his so intimately that each understands,
I know, most hidden things; and when I know
Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow
Of his red lips, and that the empty grace
Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face,
Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love,
That you have given him every touch and move,
Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life,
—Oh! then I know I'm waiting, lover-wife,
For the great time when love is at a close,
And all its fruit's to watch the thickening nose
And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye,
That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die!
Day after day you'll sit with him and note
The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat;
As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat,
And love, love, love to habit!

 And after that,
When all that's fine in man is at an end,
And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend
A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old,
When his rare lips hang flabby and can't hold
Slobber, and you're enduring that worst thing,
Senility 's queasy furtive love-making,
And searching those dear eyes for human meaning,
Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning
A scrap that life's flung by, and love's forgotten,—
Then you'll be tired; and passion dead and rotten;
And he'll be dirty, dirty!
 O lithe and free
And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see,
That's how I'll see your man and you!—
 But you
—Oh, when that time comes, you'll be dirty too!


BLUE EVENING

My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
 Knowing that always, exquisitely,
This April twilight on the river
 Stirs anguish in the heart of me.


For the fast world in that rare glimmer
 Puts on the witchery of a dream,
The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
 The fiery windows, and the stream


With willows leaning quietly over,
 The still ecstatic fading skies . . .
And all these, like a waiting lover,
 Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,


Drift close to me, and sideways bending
 Whisper delicious words.
 But I
Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
 Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.

My agony made the willows quiver;
 I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
 I heard the pale skies fall apart,


And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
 And my voice with the vocal trees
Weeping. And Hatred followed after,
 Shrilling madly down the breeze.


In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
 A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
 Quietly laid on wave and air.


Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
 Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
Her feet were silence on the river;
 And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.


THE CHARM

In darkness the loud sea makes moan;
And earth is shaken, and all evils creep
About her ways.
 Oh, now to know you sleep!
Out of the whirling blinding moil, alone,
Out of the slow grim fight,
One thought to wing—to you, asleep,
In some cool room that's open to the night
Lying half-forward, breathing quietly,
One white hand on the white
Unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair
Quiet and still at length! . . .


Your magic and your beauty and your strength,
Like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree,
Sleeping prevail in earth and air.


In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there.
And through the dreadful hours
The trees and waters and the hills have kept
The sacred vigil while you slept,
And lay a way of dew and flowers
Where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread.

And still the darkness ebbs about your bed.
Quiet, and strange, and loving-kind, you sleep.
And holy joy about the earth is shed;
And holiness upon the deep.


FINDING

From the candles and dumb shadows,
 And the house where love had died,
I stole to the vast moonlight
 And the whispering life outside.
But I found no lips of comfort,
 No home in the moon's light
(I, little and lone and frightened
 In the unfriendly night),
And no meaning in the voices. . . .
 Far over the lands and through
The dark, beyond the ocean,
 I willed to think of you!
For I knew, had you been with me
 I'd have known the words of night,
Found peace of heart, gone gladly
 In comfort of that light.


Oh! the wind with soft beguiling
 Would have stolen my thought away;
And the night, subtly smiling,
 Came by the silver way;
And the moon came down and danced to me,
 And her robe was white and flying;
And trees bent their heads to me
 Mysteriously crying;
And dead voices wept around me;
 And dead soft fingers thrilled;
And the little gods whispered. . . .
 But ever
 Desperately I willed;
Till all grew soft and far
 And silent . . .
 And suddenly
I found you white and radiant,
 Sleeping quietly,
Far out through the tides of darkness.
 And I there in that great light
Was alone no more, nor fearful;
 For there, in the homely night,
Was no thought else that mattered,
 And nothing else was true,
But the white fire of moonlight,
 And a white dream of you.


SONG

"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings,
 And Triumph is his crown.
Earth fades in flame before his wings,
 And Sun and Moon bow down."—
But that, I knew, would never do;
 And Heaven is all too high.
So whenever I meet a Queen, I said,
 I will not catch her eye.


"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said,
 "The gift of Love is this;
A crown of thorns about thy head,
 And vinegar to thy kiss!"—
But Tragedy is not for me;
 And I'm content to be gay.
So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady,
 I went another way.


And so I never feared to see
 You wander down the street,
Or come across the fields to me
 On ordinary feet.
For what they'd never told me of,
 And what I never knew;
It was that all the time, my love,
 Love would be merely you.


THE VOICE

Safe in the magic of my woods
 I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
 And washed with rain and veiled by night,


Silver and blue and green were showing.
 And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
 And quietness crept up the hill;


 And no wind was blowing


And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me—
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.


And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you——
And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,


The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.


The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.


You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, "The view from here is very good!"
You said, "It's nice to be alone a bit!"
And, "How the days are drawing out!" you said.
You said, "The sunset's pretty, isn't it?"

  * * * * *

By God! I wish—I wish that you were dead!


DINING-ROOM TEA

When you were there, and you, and you,
Happiness crowned the night; I too,
Laughing and looking, one of all,
I watched the quivering lamplight fall
On plate and flowers and pouring tea
And cup and cloth; and they and we
Flung all the dancing moments by
With jest and glitter. Lip and eye
Flashed on the glory, shone and cried,
Improvident, unmemoried;
And fitfully and like a flame
The light of laughter went and came.
Proud in their careless transience moved
The changing faces that I loved.


Till suddenly, and otherwhence,
I looked upon your innocence.
For lifted clear and still and strange
From the dark woven flow of change
Under a vast and starless sky
I saw the immortal moment lie.
One instant I, an instant, knew
As God knows all. And it and you
I, above Time, oh, blind! could see
In witless immortality.

I saw the marble cup; the tea,
Hung on the air, an amber stream;
I saw the fire's unglittering gleam,
The painted flame, the frozen smoke.
No more the flooding lamplight broke
On flying eyes and lips and hair;
But lay, but slept unbroken there,
On stiller flesh, and body breathless,
And lips and laughter stayed and deathless,
And words on which no silence grew.
Light was more alive than you.


For suddenly, and otherwhence,
I looked on your magnificence.
I saw the stillness and the light,
And you, august, immortal, white,
Holy and strange; and every glint
Posture and jest and thought and tint
Freed from the mask of transiency,
Triumphant in eternity,
Immote, immortal.


 Dazed at length
Human eyes grew, mortal strength
Wearied; and Time began to creep.
Change closed about me like a sleep.
Light glinted on the eyes I loved.
The cup was filled. The bodies moved.
The drifting petal came to ground.
The laughter chimed its perfect round.
The broken syllable was ended.
And I, so certain and so friended,
How could I cloud, or how distress,
The heaven of your unconsciousness?
Or shake at Time's sufficient spell,
Stammering of lights unutterable?
The eternal holiness of you,
The timeless end, you never knew,
The peace that lay, the light that shone.
You never knew that I had gone
A million miles away, and stayed
A million years. The laughter played
Unbroken round me; and the jest
Flashed on. And we that knew the best
Down wonderful hours grew happier yet.
I sang at heart, and talked, and eat,
And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,
When you were there, and you, and you.


THE GODDESS IN THE WOOD

In a flowered dell the Lady Venus stood,
 Amazed with sorrow. Down the morning one
 Far golden horn in the gold of trees and sun
Rang out; and held; and died. . . . She thought the wood
Grew quieter. Wing, and leaf, and pool of light
 Forgot to dance. Dumb lay the unfailing stream;
 Life one eternal instant rose in dream
Clear out of time, poised on a golden height. . . .


Till a swift terror broke the abrupt hour.
The gold waves purled amidst the green above her;
 And a bird sang. With one sharp-taken breath,
By sunlit branches and unshaken flower,
The immortal limbs flashed to the human lover,
 And the immortal eyes to look on death.


A CHANNEL PASSAGE

The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick
 My cold gorge rose; the long sea rolled; I knew
I must think hard of something, or be sick;
 And could think hard of only one thing—you!
You, you alone could hold my fancy ever!
 And with you memories come, sharp pain, and dole.
Now there's a choice—heartache or tortured liver!
 A sea-sick body, or a you-sick soul!


Do I forget you? Retchings twist and tie me,
 Old meat, good meals, brown gobbets, up I throw.
Do I remember? Acrid return and slimy,
 The sobs and slobber of a last years woe.
And still the sick ship rolls. 'Tis hard, I tell ye,
To choose 'twixt love and nausea, heart and belly.


VICTORY

All night the ways of Heaven were desolate,
 Long roads across a gleaming empty sky.
 Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I,
Alone, serene beyond all love or hate,
Terror or triumph, were content to wait,
 We, silent and all-knowing. Suddenly
 Swept through the heaven low-crouching from on high,
One horseman, downward to the earth's low gate.


Oh, perfect from the ultimate height of living,
 Lightly we turned, through wet woods blossom-hung,
Into the open. Down the supernal roads,
 With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung,
Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving,
 Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.


DAY AND NIGHT

Through my heart's palace Thoughts unnumbered throng;
 And there, most quiet and, as a child, most wise,
High-throned you sit, and gracious. All day long
 Great Hopes gold-armoured, jester Fantasies,
 And pilgrim Dreams, and little beggar Sighs,
Bow to your benediction, go their way.
 And the grave jewelled courtier Memories
Worship and love and tend you, all the day.


But when I sleep, and all my thoughts go straying,
 When the high session of the day is ended,
And darkness comes; then, with the waning light,
 By lilied maidens on your way attended,
Proud from the wonted throne, superbly swaying,
 You, like a queen, pass out into the night.