Chapter III

And by and by Pan made a flute for me,
And when I took the flute I seemed to see
Visions of bodied-thoughts, gay-clothed or dark,
And each thought made a sound: and some the lark
Took for his song—the gayest did he take—
But I for mine took sombre ones, to make
A mournful wail for my lost love, but while
I sang I did forget my grief and smile.
And then the sweetness of the tunes I made
Thrilled me, and sorrow vanished and I played
Enraptured, with the sounds that charmed me best;
And I made songs for pleasure, while the West
Crimsoned behind the dark, enchanted woods.
Still by the silent pool, in varying moods,
All night beneath the stars I laughed and sang,
And through the shadows joyful echoes rang,
And presently dryads slipt from tree to tree;
Nymphs from the field and stream crept close to me
And stealthy satyrs; and web-footed men
Climbed from the lake; and from a fairy glen
Came trooping little people with bright eyes,
Who listened while I made them melodies.
Then slender women, with white limbs and hair
Dusky as night, sought out my reedy lair
To hear my singing, and the loveliest one
Lay in my arms until the night was done.

1909.

_Part IV_

_Brighton Beach_

(_Whit-Monday, 1909_)

Chocolates and brandy balls and butterscotch,
“Tit-Bits,” “The Mother’s Friend” and “Woman’s Life,”
Sixpenny photographs, a silver watch,
A “little wonder” of a pocket-knife—
All these for sale: the sunshine, given free,
Beats down upon the beach and on the sea
Where ma and brats—fat legs and little feet—
Paddle and laugh and redden in the heat.
All through the happy day they call and shout,
Shriek with delight and giggle and “hooray”;
And two alone look gloomy and put out,
Causing a lady to her pal to say:
“’Oo’s that young man wot give ’is girl a shove?”
“O them poor sulky devils, they’re in love!”

_Beaugency-sur-Loire_

A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the heart grows merry!
But I think of a little farm slid by, and a dark girl at the ferry.
The sun dies, and a bird cries, and a bright star’s gleaming:
And I afloat, and all alone, with the long night for dreaming....

A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the stream swirls under;
And here am I by the still white town, in a sad, hush’d wonder.
Lovers sigh and the leaves sigh—and bright eyes peeping:
A boy laughs and a girl laughs ... and ah! who’s weeping?

1912.

_In Picardy_

Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea—
A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines
That might shine round the Graal; and we
Stand very silent, underneath the pines.

Oh, swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!
Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,
Looking roguishly back and flying onward—so
I follow, flashing after. Blessed night!

1912.

_Calle Memo O Loredan_

We were staying (that night) in a very old palace—
Very dark, very large, and sheer to the water below.
The rooms were silent and strange, and you were frightened:
The silver lamp gave a feeble, flickering glow.

And the bed had a high dark tester and carved black posts.
And behind our heads was a glimmer of old brocade.
Do you remember? you thought the shadows were full of ghosts,
And the sound of the lapping water made you afraid.

Ah, and your face shone pale, in the gleam of that quivering flame!
And your bosom was rich with the round pearls row on row;
And you looked proud and jewelled, and passionate without shame—
Like some Princess who stooped to her lover, a long while ago.

1912.

_Barcelona_

A squalid station, tramcars, dusty palms
In a great square; and then the surging streets
That cut the town in two, where its heart beats.
Crowds jostle to and fro, brats cadge for alms,
Sell lottery tickets, hand their sister’s card
(With her address, nude photograph and hours);
Men offer little birds, old women flow’rs;
Red-coated guards loaf by; a half-blind bard
Drones out stale tunes; and amorous ladies stare
(Clad in rich clothes, with very bad black eyes)
At men with Brownings bulging at their thighs
Who’ll fight for a Republic—when they dare.

1914.

_Juillac-le-Coq_

(_Charente_)

It’s to Juillac-le-coq, where the vines stretch o’er the plain,
And the little streams are running eau-de-vie and the sweet champagne,
That I’d take my pipe and smoke it, sitting on some garden wall,
And kick my heels and dream my dreams, and never work at all.
_For the sun’s bright, and the moon’s bright, and all the women’s eyes_
_Are bright there; and joy’s there, and love that fools despise._

It’s a little dusty village, full of laughing men and girls;
At the thought of it my breath comes short, my tired brain spins and
whirls.
I must tramp along and find it, choose my sunny white-washed wall,
And sing my songs, and dream my dreams, and never work at all.
_There are vines there, and wines there, and straight, long dazzling
ways_
_That shine white, on a fine night, when high the full moon sways._

1910.

_Roads_

Long roads that stretch out hard and white,
Long roads that climb into the sky,
They haunt me in this London night:
I knew them well in days gone by—

Knew them and loved them! Bright they shone—
They led to that enchanting land,
Where all the throneless gods live on
And where men go, who understand;

Where hills too lovely to be true
Rise dazzling, in diviner air,
And under heavens for ever blue
Love grows to friendship fine and rare.

Far from a bitter world of toil
They led, those roads of long ago:
They climbed the skies to fairy soil,
They glittered like a line of snow.

1910.

_Envoi_

_Ars Longa_

They hanged the poet up next day.
It was a rare and curious treat;
They never had seen so much meat
Suspended, juicily, in May.

They sat them down and made a feast,
And, carving him, they sang his songs
Of lovely girls, and shameful wrongs,
And amorous customs in the East.

But Gubbins, nosey man for pelf,
Denounced their joyous foozaloo
And piously dispersed the crew—
Then ate the poet’s soul himself....

_Some Press Opinions of Mr. Goldring’s Verses._

_James Elroy Flecker_ (in _The Cambridge Review_): “Mr. Goldring is a young poet; his technique in these days, when so high a standard is set, is careless ... yet one feels that a book like his ‘Country Boy’ ought to sell thousands, not mere hundreds, so full it is of the joy of life, of modern love and sorrow. It is a book about the people, for the people. It is full of the magic of proper names:

‘And ere he went to London
Our maidens pleased him well,
As little Rose from Yeovil
And dozens more can tell.’

Is there not all the honey and sweetness and summer of the West Country in the sound of her—‘little Rose from Yeovil.’ Could anything give the weariness of suburban pavements, yet make them sublime, better than this:

‘On through the dripping moonless night
Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,
They trace their footsteps, by the light
Of love that fills their weary eyes.’

For he knows, as all true modern poets know, that the world has become a fairy world again, and that the name of Camden Town can haunt us as much as Xanadu, nay more. We cannot place him with Mr. Yeats, Mr. Housman or Mr. Masefield: but he should be loved by thousands, and the student of the future will treasure his work as a document of fine English sentiment and feeling long after our Francis Thompson, our Watson and our Trench are forgotten.”

_Birmingham Daily Post_: “If Mr. Douglas Goldring does not belie the promise of his first book, a good deal will be heard of him, and the attractively produced little volume before us will become precious to the collector. What matters above all else in a young poet is personality—individuality of feeling and outlook. Possessing this, his style may safely be left to develop itself; and this quality is unmistakably present on every page of ‘A Country Boy, and Other Poems.’... Already his individuality of vision is beginning to make its own music.”

_Edward Thomas_: (In the London _Bookman_): “His book ‘Streets’ consists of experiments in capturing the soul, or one of the souls, of twenty or thirty London streets. In some he speaks of his own feeling towards them; in others he speaks for them as if he were an inhabitant. His methods vary almost as much as his streets, from the downright to the romantic, but he is invariably interesting, often brilliant.”

_Sunday Times_: “Mr. Douglas Goldring has caught the glamour of London’s highways and by-ways ... there is real poetry in this slender volume, and Mr. Goldring has the art of suffusing with ecstasy apparently commonplace things....”

_Evening Standard_: “Poems of London streets remarkable for their freshness. They are short and impressionistic, at times suggesting comparison with the work of Mr. Davies and Mr. James Stephens.... But the poet has his own thoughts, and his own methods of expression admirably suited to them. This little volume deserves recognition.”

_Morning Post_: “Mr. Goldring’s book has been a great comfort to us. All lovers of London will love it.”

_Rebecca West_ (_Star_): “I insist on saying that his volume ‘Streets’ contains some of the loveliest verse that has ever been written about London.”

_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_

End of Project Gutenberg's Streets, and Other Verses, by Douglas Goldring