Chapter III

1

Yet we shall meet--it may be we shall meet And count our days up-gathered, one by one, Like poppies plucked among the burnished wheat, Beneath the red gaze of the August sun; And all our scattered dreams shall flutter home At last. Oh! silent, age-long wandering What since your setting forth have ye become? What gift from those far waters do ye bring?-- _A splash of rain, salt taste of frozen foam, Green sea-weed trailing from a broken wing_.

2

Or we shall find each other--on the brink Of sleep some day, when the cool evening airs Blow bubbles round the pool where wood-birds drink; Or in the common Inn of wayfarers: Both weary, both beside the wide fireplace Drowsing, till at some sudden spark up-blown Shall each awake to find there face to face You and I very tired and alone; And lo! your welcome from my eyes shall gaze And in your eyes there shall I find my own.

3

I will pursue thee down these solitudes Therefore, and thou shalt yet escape me not. I will set traps for thee of subtle moods And wound thee with the arrows of my thought. In thickest forest ways though thou lie hid, Or in some autumn vale of Brocelinde, Or in whatever place of magic forbid, I will pierce through the woven branches like a wind, And drag thee from thy hiding-place amid The secret laughter of the fairy-kind.

4

Oh, triumph still delaying! I must pass Lonely a long time yet, for I know well No fugitive fair dream that ever was Left anywhere traces where her footprints fell. I, lonely hunter in the woods of sleep. The hunt is up--away! I ride, I ride On a white steed, where black-boughed fir-trees keep Watch and the kindly world is shut outside. I am afraid, the haunted woods are deep! I am afraid--afraid! Where dost thou hide?

* * * * *

W. KEAN SEYMOUR

FRUITAGE

For her the proud stars bend, she sees, As never yet, dim sorceries Breaking in silver magic wide On the blue midnight's swirling tide, With arrowy mist and spearing flame That out of central beauty came. The innumerate splendours of the skies Are thronging in her shining eyes; Her body is a fount of light In the plumed garden of the night; Her lily breasts have known the bliss Of the cool air's unfaltering kiss. She is made one with loveliness, Enfranchised from the world's distress, Given utterly to joy, a bride With a bride's hunger satisfied. Now, though she heavily walk, and know The sharp premonitory throe And the life leaping in the gloom Of her most blessed and chosen womb, It is as though foot never was So light upon the glimmering grass. She is shot through with the stars' light, Helped by their calm, unwavering might. In tall, lone-swaying gravity Stoops to her there the eternal tree Whose myriad fruitage ripens on Beneath the light of moon and sun.

IN THE WOOD

Lone shadows move, The night air stirs; This hour of dying Dreams was hers.

In this dusk place Her throat gleamed white In glimmering beauty Of starlight.

Nightingales sang Exultant bliss; The snared stars saw us Sway, and kiss.

Now the bats whirr, The barn owls hoot, Her loveliness Is dust, is mute.

Peace comes not here, No dream-bird trills: They haunt her lodging In the hills.

SIESTA

Bring me some oranges on blue china,
With a jade-and-silver spoon,
And drowse on your silken mats beside me
In the burning noon.

Bring me red wine in cups of crystal,
With melons on chrysoprase,
And place them softly with jewelled fingers
Before my gaze.

Hasten, my dove of scented whisperings,
My lily, my Xacan!
Bring bubbling pipes for the cool shadows,
And my peacock fan.

And bid Isarrib, my chief musician,
Weave quiet songs within,
That my soul in the circles of a great glamour
May float and spin.

And O, you gaudy and whistling parrots
In your high, flowered maze,
Still your harsh, petulant quarrelling
With the mocking jays.

TO ONE WHO EATS LARKS

Ah, my brave Vitellius! Ah, your tastes are marvellous! When you eat your singing birds Do you leave the bones--and words, The proud music in the throat?... Not a note, not a note? Doubtless they were not so pleasant As the brains of a young pheasant, Or flamingoes' tongues, whose duty Never was to utter beauty. But they sang, but they fluted And your rasping lies confuted, And your ugliness laid bare With a lyric in the air. So you bought them on a string, Dangling balls that used to sing, And you gave them to the cook With a fat and happy look.

But you ask me why this fuss! Ah, my brave Vitellius, I am never sure your stringers May not string you other singers, May not tire of lark and wren And attempt to sell you men. Please forgive me, but I've made Certain songs ... and I'm afraid!

IF BEAUTY CAME TO YOU

If Beauty came to you,
Ah, would you know her grace,
And could you in your shadowed prison view
Unscathed her face?

Stepping as noiselessly
As moving moth-wings, so
Might she come suddenly to you or me
And we not know.

Amid these clangs and cries,
Alas, how should we hear
The shy, dim-woven music of her sighs
As she draws near.

Threading through monstrous, black,
Uncharitable hours,
Where the soul shapes its own abhorred rack
Of wasted powers?

* * * * *

HORACE SHIPP

PRISON

I.

The dreadful days go up and up, to fall Through twilight to the sleepless dusk again, Like tortured flies upon a window pane. Wingless or broken-winged, They crawl and crawl ... Meaningless, striving--nowhere after all, Till one is tired of heeding. Tired. A stain of drab unloveliness the days remain Unmoving now, save that across the wall, A patch of sun behind a shadow of bars, Creeps in a stupor. Greys, Grins bloodily, Falters and dies.

Outside a day may slip From noon-glow to a miracle of stars With hours that flush and flood eternity; Whilst here The stagnant waters drip ... and drip.

II.

They tell me I have sinned; that long ago (Weeks--or a cycle of eternity) This thing of dead desire lived lustily, Was stirred with passion, and sinned. It may be so; As seas or hills may be. I only know God's world has shrunken, And that misery, Shrinking my heart, has closed her walls on me, Till in the dead, still soul the senses grow Carious as the ulcer of thought eats deep. Heavy, the slow lusts pace the barren mind From end to end. Barred door and window, Wall inexorable. And the horrors creep on padded feet like warders. Then the blind, pitiful night When hot tears scald and fall.