Chapter D: H. Lawrence (4)

Yet wearied peoples each in turn awake From virtue, as a man from his brief love, And, roughly shaken, face the useless truth; No answer to brute fact has e'er been found. Slaves of your slaves, caged in your furnished rooms, Ushered to meals when reft of appetite-- Though hungry, bound to wait a stated hour-- Your dearest contemplation broken off By the appointed summons to your bath; Racked with more thought for those whom you may flog Than for those dear; obsessed by your possessions With a dull round of stale anxieties;-- Soon maintenance grows the extreme reach of hope For those held in respect, as in a vice, By citizens of whom they are the pick. Of men the least bond is the roving seaman Who hires himself to merchantman or pirate For single voyages, stays where he may please, Lives his purse empty in a dozen ports, And ne'er obeys the ghost of what once was! His laugh chimes readily; his kiss, no symbol Of aught to come, but cordial, eager, hot, Leaves his tomorrow free. With him for comrade Each day shall be enough, and what is good Enjoyed, and what is evil borne or cursed. I go, because I will not have a home, Or here prefer to there, or near to far. I go, because I will not have a friend Lay claim upon my leisure this day week. I will be melted by each smile that takes me; What though a hundred lips should meet with mine! A vagabond I shall be as the moon is. The sun, the waves, the winds, all birds, all beasts, Are ever on the move, and take what comes; They are not parasites like plants and men Rooted in that which fed them yesterday. Not even Memory shall follow Delphis, For I will yield to all impulse save hers, Therein alone subject to prescient rigour; Lest she should lure me back among the dying-- Pilfer the present for the beggar past. Free minds must bargain with each greedy moment And seize the most that lies to hand at once. Ye are too old to understand my words; I yet have youth enough, and can escape From that which sucks each individual man Into the common dream.

Cydilla:

Stay, Delphis, hear what Damon has to say! He is mad!

Damon:

Mad--yes--mad as cruelty! * * * * * Poor, poor Cydilla! was it then to this That all my tale was prologue? Think of Amyntas, think of that poor boy, Bereaved as we are both bereaved! Come, come, Find him, and say that Love himself has sent us To offer our poor service in his stead.

Cydilla:

Good Damon, help me find my wool; my eyes Are blind with tears; then I will come at once! We must be doing something, for I feel We both shall drown our hearts with time to spare.

* * * * *

RONALD ROSS

HESPERUS

Ah whither dost thou float, sweet silent star,
In yonder floods of evening's dying light?
Before the fanning wings of rising night,
Methinks thy silvery bark is driven far
To some lone isle or calmly havened shore,
Where the lorn eye of man can follow thee no more.

How many a one hath watched thee even as I,
And unto thee and thy receding ray
Poured forth his thoughts with many a treasured sigh
Too sweet and strange for the remorseless day;
But thou hast gone and left unto their sight
Too great a host of stars, and yet too black a night.

E'en as I gaze upon thee, thy bright form
Doth sail away among the cloudy isles
Around whose shores the sea of sunlight smiles.
On thee may break no black and boisterous storm
To turn the tenour of thy calm career.
As thou wert long ago so now thou dost appear.

Art thou a tear left by the exiled day
Upon the dusky cheek of drowsy night?
Or dost thou as a lark carol alway
Full in the liquid glow of heavenly light?
Or, bent on discord and angelic wars,
As some bright spirit tread before the trooping stars?

The disenchanted vapours hide thee fast;
The watery twilight fades and night comes on;
One lingering moment more and thou art gone,
Lost in the rising sea of clouds that cast
Their inundations o'er the darkening air;
And wild the night wind wails the lightless world's despair.

* * * * *

EDMUND BEALE SARGANT

THE CUCKOO WOOD

Cuckoo, are you calling me, Or is it a voice of wizardry? In these woodlands I am lost, From glade to glade of flowers tost. Seven times I held my way, And seven times the voice did say, Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from this underwood, Half of green and half of brown, Unless he laid his senses down. Only let him chance to see The snows of the anemone Heaped above its greenery; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from the master wood.

Magic paths there are that cross; Some beset with jewelled moss And boughs all bare; where others run, Bluebells bathe in mist and sun Past a clearing filled with clumps Of primrose round the nutwood stumps; All as gay as gay can be, And bordered with dog-mercury, The wizard flower, the wizard green, Like a Persian carpet seen. Brown, dead bracken lies between, And wrinkled leaves, whence fronds of fern Still untwist and upward turn. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from this wizard wood, Half of green, and half of brown, Unless he laid his senses down.

Seven times I held my way Where new heaps of brushwood lay, All with withies loosely bound, And never heard a human sound. Yet men have toiled and men have rested By yon hurdles darkly-breasted, Woven in and woven out, Piled four-square, and turned about To show their white and sharpened stakes Like teeth of hounds or fangs of snakes. The men are homeward sped, for none Loves silence and a sinking sun. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Woodmen know Souls are lost that hear it so, Seven times upon the wind, To lull the watch-dogs of the mind.

A stranger wood you shall not find! Beech and birch and oak agree Here to dwell in company. Hazel, elder, few men could Name the kinds of underwood. Summer and winter haunt together, And golden light with misty weather. 'Tis summer where this beech is seen Defenceless in its virgin green; All its leaves are smooth and thin, And the sunlight passes in, Passes in and filters through To a green heaven below the blue. Low the branches fall and trace A circle round that mystic place, Guarded on its outward side By hyacinths in all their pride; And within dim moons appear, Wax and wane--I go not near! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How we fear Sights and sounds that come and go Without a cause for men to know!

Why for a whispered doubt should I Shun that other beech-tree high, Red and watchful, still and bare, With a thousand spears in air, Guarding yet its treasured leaf From storm and hail and winter's grief? Unregarded on the ground Leaves of yester-year abound, For what is autumn's gold to one That hoards a life scarce yet begun? Let me so renew my youth, I defend it, nail and tooth, Rooting deep and lifting high. For this my dead leaves hiss and sigh And glow as on the downward road To the dog-snake's dread abode. Noxious things of earth and air, Get you hence, for I prepare To flaunt my beauty in the sun When all beside me are undone. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan shall see The surge of my virginity Overtop the sobered glade. Luminous and unafraid Near his sacred oak I'll spread Lures to tempt him from his bed: His couch, his lair his form shall be By none but by the fair beech-tree.

O cunning Oak! What is your skill To hold the god against my will? Keep your favours back like me, With disfavour he shall see Orange hues of jealousy: Show your leaf in early prime, It shall be dark before its time: Me you shall not rival ever. Silver Birch, would you endeavour, Trembling in your bridal dress, To win at last a dog's caress? Through your twigs so thin and dark Shows the black and ashen bark, Like a face that underneath Tightened eyebrows looks on death. Think not, dwarf, that Pan shall find Aught about you to his mind. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All shall try To win him. But the beech and I, Man and tree made one at last, Alone have power to hold him fast.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Forth I creep, When the flowers fall asleep, And upgather odours rare Floating on the misty air, All to be imprisoned where My sap is rising till they reach The swelling twigs, and thence shall each Separate scent be shaken free As my flowers and leaves agree. Rare in sooth those flowers shall be: Cunningly will I devise Colours to delight the eyes, Slipping from my fissured stem To get by stealth or stratagem The glory of the morning petal. Where the bees at noontide settle, Mine to rifle all their sweets: Honey and bee-bread on the teats Of my blossoms shall be spread, Till the lime-trees shake with dread Of the marvels still to come When their bees about me hum.

Welcome, welcome, cloudless night, Is our labour ended quite? Are the mortal and the tree Now made one in ecstasy, One in foretaste of the dawn? Crescent moon, sink, sink outworn! Stars be buried, stars be born, Mount and dip to tell aright The doings of the morrow's light! Mists, assemble, hide me quite, Till the sun with growing strength Grips your veils, and length by length Tears them down from head to foot; Then to the challenge I am put!

Tell me busy, busy glade, Half in light and half in shade, Is your world of wood-folk there? All are come but the mole and hare; One is blind, and underground Of that tumult hears no sound; The other Pan has crept within, To bask afield in the hare-skin. All are come of woodland fowl But the cuckoo and the owl; The owl's asleep, and the cuckoo-bird Nowhere seen is eachwhere heard. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Those that see The leafing of this great beech-tree, And its flowers of every kind, Woodland lovers have in mind; Those that breathe the scented wind Or touch this bark of satin, could Never issue from our wood.

Tell me, busy, busy glade, Are little flying things afraid? All are come of aery folk, Gnats that hover like a smoke, Butterflies and humble-bees, Insects winged in all degrees, Honey-toilers, pleasure-makers, Of labours and of joys forsakers, Round these boughs to live and die. Only the moth and the dragon-fly Keep their haunts and come not nigh: The moth is moonstruck, she must creep With twitching wings, and half-asleep, Through folds of darkness; and that other, The dragon-fly, Narcissus' brother, Flashes all his burnished mail In a still pool adown the dale.

Tell me, busy, busy glade, Shifting aye in light and shade, Are the dryads peeping forth, More in wonder than in wrath, Each beneath her own dear tree Parting her hair that she may see How queens put on their sovereignty? All are come of Pan's own race, Nymphs and satyrs fill the place, Necks outstretched and ears a-twitching, That Pan may know of all this witching. Heedless stumble the goatfeet Till four-footed things retreat. Cries of Ah! and Ay! and Eh! Scare the forest birds away, And their notes that rang so clear At dawn, you now shall rarely hear: Only a robin here and there Pitches high his trembling voice In a challenge to rejoice.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How two notes Stolen from all woodland throats Make the satyrs stand like stone, Waiting for Pan to call his own! How the couching dryads seem To root themselves as in a dream, And the naiads, wan and whist, To melt into an evening mist!

Tell me, silent, silent glade, All in light that once was shade, All in shade that once was light, How went the creatures from my sight? Where are the shapes that turned to stone, And my tree that reigned alone? Red and watchful, still and bare, With a thousand spears in air, Stands the beech that you would bind Unlawfully to human mind. Gone is every woodland elf To the mighty god himself. Mortal! You yourself are fast! Doubt not Pan shall come at last To put a leer within your eyes That pry into his mysteries. He shall touch the busy brain Lest it ever teem again; Point the ears and twist the feet, Till by day you dare not meet Men, or in the failing light Mutter more than, Friend, good-night!

Tell me, whispering, whispering glade, Am I eager or afraid? Do I wish the god to come? What shall I say if he be dumb? Tell me, wherefore hiss and sigh Those shrivelled leaves? Has Pan gone by? Why do your thousand pools of light Gaze like eyes that fade at night? Pan has but twain, Pan's eyes are bright! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! See, yon stakes Gape and grin like fangs of snakes; Not snakes nor hounds are mouthing thus; Pan himself is watching us. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Now The god is breasting the hill-brow. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan is near: Joy runs trembling back to fear. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All my blood Knocks through the heart whose every thud Chokes me, blinds me, drains my madness. As one half-drowned, I feel life's gladness Ooze from each pore. Towards the sun Downhill I reel that fain would run. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Thornless seem Briars that part as in a dream. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Hazel-boughs Hurt not though they blood the brows.

Cuckoo! In a meadow prone At last I lie, my wits my own; And in my hand I clasp the flower To counteract that magic power; The cuckoo-flower, in a lilac sheet Under body, head and feet. Above me apple-blossoms fleck The cloudless sky, a neighbouring beck With many a happy gurgle goes Down to the farm through alder-rows. Strange it is, and it is sweet, To hear the distant mill-wheel beat, And the kindly cries of men Turning the cattle home again, The clank of pails and all the shades Of laughter of the busy maids. Now is come the evening star, And my limbs new-blooded are. So beside the stream I choose A path that patient anglers use, Which with many twists and turns Brings me where a candle burns, A lowly light, through cottage pane Seen and hid and seen again. Cuckoo! Now you call in vain. I am far and I am free From all woodland wizardry!

* * * * *

JAMES STEPHENS

IN THE POPPY FIELD

Mad Patsy said, he said to me, That every morning he could see An angel walking on the sky; Across the sunny skies of morn He threw great handfuls far and nigh Of poppy seed among the corn; And then, he said, the angels run To see the poppies in the sun.

A poppy is a devil weed, I said to him--he disagreed; He said the devil had no hand In spreading flowers tall and fair Through corn and rye and meadow land, By garth and barrow everywhere: The devil has not any flower, But only money in his power.

And then he stretched out in the sun And rolled upon his back for fun: He kicked his legs and roared for joy Because the sun was shining down, He said he was a little boy And would not work for any clown: He ran and laughed behind a bee, And danced for very ecstasy.

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING

I thought I heard Him calling. Did you hear A sound, a little sound? My curious ear Is dinned with flying noises, and the tree Goes--whisper, whisper, whisper silently Till all its whispers spread into the sound Of a dull roar. Lie closer to the ground, The shade is deep and He may pass us by. We are so very small, and His great eye, Customed to starry majesties, may gaze Too wide to spy us hiding in the maze; Ah, misery! the sun has not yet gone And we are naked: He will look upon Our crouching shame, may make us stand upright Burning in terror--O that it were night! He may not come ... what? listen, listen, now-- He is here! lie closer ... 'Adam, where art thou?'

THE LONELY GOD

So Eden was deserted, and at eve Into the quiet place God came to grieve. His face was sad, His hands hung slackly down Along his robe; too sorrowful to frown He paced along the grassy paths and through The silent trees, and where the flowers grew Tended by Adam. All the birds had gone Out to the world, and singing was not one To cheer the lonely God out of His grief-- The silence broken only when a leaf Tapt lightly on a leaf, or when the wind, Slow-handed, swayed the bushes to its mind.

And so along the base of a round hill, Rolling in fern, He bent His way until He neared the little hut which Adam made, And saw its dusky rooftree overlaid With greenest leaves. Here Adam and his spouse Were wont to nestle in their little house Snug at the dew-time: here He, standing sad, Sighed with the wind, nor any pleasure had In heavenly knowledge, for His darlings twain Had gone from Him to learn the feel of pain, And what was meant by sorrow and despair,-- Drear knowledge for a Father to prepare.

There he looked sadly on the little place; A beehive round it was, without a trace Of occupant or owner; standing dim Among the gloomy trees it seemed to Him A final desolation, the last word Wherewith the lips of silence had been stirred. Chaste and remote, so tiny and so shy, So new withal, so lost to any eye, So pac't of memories all innocent Of days and nights that in it had been spent In blithe communion, Adam, Eve, and He, Afar from Heaven and its gaudery; And now no more! He still must be the God But not the friend; a Father with a rod Whose voice was fear, whose countenance a threat, Whose coming terror, and whose going wet With penitential tears; not evermore Would they run forth to meet Him as before With careless laughter, striving each to be First to His hand and dancing in their glee To see Him coming--they would hide instead At His approach, or stand and hang the head, Speaking in whispers, and would learn to pray Instead of asking, 'Father, if we may.'

Never again to Eden would He haste At cool of evening, when the sun had paced Back from the tree-tops, slanting from the rim Of a low cloud, what time the twilight dim Knit tree to tree in shadow, gathering slow Till all had met and vanished in the flow Of dusky silence, and a brooding star Stared at the growing darkness from afar, While haply now and then some nested bird Would lift upon the air a sleepy word Most musical, or swing its airy bed To the high moon that drifted overhead.

'Twas good to quit at evening His great throne, To lay His crown aside, and all alone Down through the quiet air to stoop and glide Unkenned by angels: silently to hide In the green fields, by dappled shades, where brooks Through leafy solitudes and quiet nooks Flowed far from heavenly majesty and pride, From light astounding and the wheeling tide Of roaring stars. Thus does it ever seem Good to the best to stay aside and dream In narrow places, where the hand can feel Something beside, and know that it is real. His angels! silly creatures who could sing And sing again, and delicately fling The smoky censer, bow and stand aside All mute in adoration: thronging wide, Till nowhere could He look but soon He saw An angel bending humbly to the law Mechanic; knowing nothing more of pain, Than when they were forbid to sing again, Or swing anew the censer, or bow down In humble adoration of His frown. This was the thought in Eden as He trod-- ... It is a lonely thing to be a God.

So long! afar through Time He bent His mind, For the beginning, which He could not find, Through endless centuries and backwards still Endless for ever, till His 'stonied will Halted in circles, dizzied in the swing Of mazy nothingness.--His mind could bring Not to subjection, grip or hold the theme Whose wide horizon melted like a dream To thinnest edges. Infinite behind The piling centuries were trodden blind In gulfs chaotic--so He could not see When He was not who always had To Be.

Not even godly fortitude can stare Into Eternity, nor easy bear The insolent vacuity of Time: It is too much, the mind can never climb Up to its meaning, for, without an end, Without beginning, plan, or scope, or trend To point a path, there nothing is to hold And steady surmise: so the mind is rolled And swayed and drowned in dull Immensity. Eternity outfaces even Me With its indifference, and the fruitless year Would swing as fruitless were I never here.

And so for ever, day and night the same, Years flying swiftly nowhere, like a game Played random by a madman, without end Or any reasoned object but to spend What is unspendable--Eternal Woe! O Weariness of Time that fast or slow Goes never further, never has in view An ending to the thing it seeks to do, And so does nothing: merely ebb and flow, From nowhere into nowhere, touching so The shores of many stars and passing on, Careless of what may come or what has gone.

O solitude unspeakable! to be For ever with oneself! never to see An equal face, or feel an equal hand, To sit in state and issue reprimand, Admonishment or glory, and to smile Disdaining what has happened the while! O to be breast to breast against a foe! Against a friend! to strive and not to know The laboured outcome: love nor be aware How much the other loved, and greatly care With passion for that happy love or hate, Nor know what joy or dole was hid in fate, For I have ranged the spacy width and gone Swift north and south, striving to look upon An ending somewhere. Many days I sped Hard to the west, a thousand years I fled Eastwards in fury, but I could not find The fringes of the Infinite. Behind And yet behind, and ever at the end Came new beginnings, paths that did not wend To anywhere were there: and ever vast And vaster spaces opened--till at last Dizzied with distance, thrilling to a pain Unnameable, I turned to Heaven again. And there My angels were prepared to fling The cloudy incense, there prepared to sing My praise and glory--O, in fury I Then roared them senseless, then threw down the sky And stamped upon it, buffeted a star With My great fist, and flung the sun afar: Shouted My anger till the mighty sound Rung to the width, frighting the furthest bound And scope of hearing: tumult vaster still, Thronging the echo, dinned My ears, until I fled in silence, seeking out a place To hide Me from the very thought of Space.

And so, He thought, in Mine own Image I Have made a man, remote from Heaven high And all its humble angels: I have poured My essence in his nostrils: I have cored His heart with My own spirit; part of Me, His mind with laboured growth unceasingly Must strive to equal Mine; must ever grow By virtue of My essence till he know Both good and evil through the solemn test Of sin and retribution, till, with zest, He feels his godhead, soars to challenge Me In Mine own Heaven for supremacy.

Through savage beasts and still more savage clay, Invincible, I bid him fight a way To greater battles, crawling through defeat Into defeat again: ordained to meet Disaster in disaster; prone to fall, I prick him with My memory to call Defiance at his victor and arise With anguished fury to his greater size Through tribulation, terror, and despair. Astounded, he must fight to higher air, Climb battle into battle till he be Confronted with a flaming sword and Me.

So growing age by age to greater strength, To greater beauty, skill and deep intent: With wisdom wrung from pain, with energy Nourished in sin and sorrow, he will be Strong, pure and proud an enemy to meet, Tremendous on a battle-field, or sweet To walk by as a friend with candid mind. --Dear enemy or friend so hard to find, I yet shall find you, yet shall put My breast In enmity or love against your breast: Shall smite or clasp with equal ecstasy The enemy or friend who grows to Me.

The topmost blossom of his growing I Shall take unto Me, cherish and lift high Beside Myself upon My holy throne:-- It is not good for God to be alone. The perfect woman of his perfect race Shall sit beside Me in the highest place And be My Goddess, Queen, Companion, Wife, The rounder of My majesty, the life, Of My ambition. She will smile to see Me bending down to worship at her knee Who never bent before, and she will say, 'Dear God, who was it taught 'Thee' how to pray?'

And through eternity, adown the slope Of never-ending time, compact of hope, Of zest and young enjoyment, I and She Will walk together, sowing jollity Among the raving stars, and laughter through The vacancies of Heaven, till the blue Vast amplitudes of space lift up a song, The echo of our presence, rolled along And ever rolling where the planets sing The majesty and glory of the King. Then conquered, thou, Eternity, shalt lie Under My hand as little as a fly.

I am the Master: I the mighty God And you My workshop. Your pavilions trod By Me and Mine shall never cease to be, For you are but the magnitude of Me, The width of My extension, the surround Of My dense splendour. Rolling, rolling round, To steeped infinity, and out beyond My own strong comprehension, you are bond And servile to My doings. Let you swing More wide and ever wide, you do but fling Around this instant Me, and measure still The breadth and the proportion of My Will.

Then stooping to the hut--a beehive round-- God entered in and saw upon the ground The dusty garland, Adam, (learned to weave) Had loving placed upon the head of Eve Before the terror came, when joyous they Could look for God at closing of the day Profound and happy. So the Mighty Guest Rent, took, and placed the blossoms in His breast. 'This,' said He gently, 'I shall show My queen When she hath grown to Me in space serene, And say "'twas worn by Eve."' So, smiling fair, He spread abroad His wings upon the air.

* * * * *

ROBERT CALVERLEY TREVELYAN

DIRGE

Gone is he now. One flower the less Is left to make For thee less lone Earth's wilderness, Where thou Must still live on.

What hath been, ne'er May be again. Yet oft of old, To cheat despair, Tales false and fair In vain Of death were told.

O vain belief! O'erweening dreams! Trust not fond hope, Nor think that bliss Which neither seems, Nor is, Aught else than grief.

* * * * *

BIBLIOGRAPHY

(These lists, which include poetical works only, are in some cases incomplete.)

LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE

Interludes and Poems. John Lane. 1908
Mary and the Bramble. Published by the Author. 1910
The Sale of St. Thomas. " " 1911
Emblems of Love. John Lane. 1912
Deborah (three act play) " " 1912

GORDON BOTTOMLEY

The Crier by Night (one act play). Unicorn Press. 1902.
(Out of print.) [1]
Midsummer Eve (one act pastoral) Peartree Press. 1905
The Riding to Lithend (one act play) " " 1909
The Gate of Smaragdus. Elkin Mathews. 1904
Chambers of Imagery (First Series). " 1907
Chambers of Imagery (Second Series). " 1912
A Vision of Giorgione. T. B. Mosher
(Portland, Maine, U.S.A.). 1910

RUPERT BROOKE

Poems. Sidgwick and Jackson. 1911

G. K. CHESTERTON

The Wild Knight. Grant Richards. 1900
The Ballad of the White Horse. Methuen. 1911

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

The Soul's Destroyer. Alston Rivers. 1906
New Poems. Elkin Mathews. 1907
Nature Poems A. C. Fifield. 1908
Farewell to Poesy. " " 1910
Songs of Joy. " " 1911

WALTER DE LA MARE

Songs of Childhood. Longmans. 1902
Poems. Murray. 1906
The Listeners. Constable. 1912

JOHN DRINKWATER

Lyrical and Other Poems. Samurai Press. 1908. (Out of print.)
Poems of Men and Hours. David Nutt. 1911
Cophetua (one act play). " " 1911
Poems of Love and Earth. " " 1912

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

Forty-Two Poems. J. M. Dent and Sons. 1911

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

On the Threshold. Elkin Mathews. 1907
The Stonefolds. " " 1907
Daily Bread. " " 1910
Fires. " " 1912