Chapter II

How can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”:
You will not answer now, “it grows so late”—
And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!

Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word!
Listen a little while—you turn away.
What? Your head droops.... You are frightened?
Run in and hide.

_Westminster Bridge_

(_June Night_)

The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink,
Slide swiftly circlewise and fade
To where the West is olive-pink
And rosy mists the river shade.

And sullen, purposeful and strange
The silent stream glides on, beneath
The patient bridge that will not change,
And all the city holds its breath.

Then gazing towards the sunken sun
A pale girl eyes his lingering gleam,
A soul whose little day is done,
For whom will come no night, no dream.

1908.

_Gladstone Terrace_

A very sordid street of red and green—
Red houses and green paint—but in between
Each villa lies a little garden space
Cherished on Summer Sundays. See his face,
(A two-pound Clerk next morning) as he sweats,
Tending the strawberries which his baby eats!

A fool is he, not virtuous, but content:
He hears no wings of God omnipotent,
Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath.
Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride,
For see, what hopes and longings here reside,
What gracious mysteries of love and death.

_Front Doors_

(_Bayswater_)

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square
The streets have an inhuman air,
The houses—(six imposing floors;
Dark, formidable, fierce front doors;
Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind;
Ball-room or billiard-room behind)—
Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold,
None but the ugly and the old....

Watch, as you wander hereabout,
The people who go in and out!
Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats,
Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats,
Flock in procession, pompous, grand,
Or drive in motors to the Strand;
And massive women, towering high,
Dart glances from a hawklike eye,
Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze,
Then drive (to train for several teas),
Snub the companion, pat the dog,
Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.

Jerusalem no more golden is
Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis!
Her portals strike an awe profound—
“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!
Quell impropriety of tone;
Hawkers and circulars begone”—
For here the ruling race reside
And guard our pledges and their pride.
Her doors are sour: they never smile,
But icily stare for mile on mile—
Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard:
Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

_The Ballad of the Brave Lover_

(_Thames Embankment_)

She wandered by the river’s brink,
Her stricken heart stood still:
She listened for his hastening step
With mind to win or kill.

From Ipswich up to London town
Long days, long nights walked she:
And now had tracked the soldier down
Who caused her shame to be.

She could not breathe, her throat grew dry,
Her soldier looked so brave and strong:
“Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry,
“What brings you here along?”

“From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,”
She moaned, “your broken promise gave.”
He looked and laughed: “Poor little one!
I’ve used you ill, I have.”

She sank, and saw him smile good-bye—
She who had thought to kill or win.
He was too fine, too bold to die,
The weak must suffer for his sin.

_The Quarry_

All down that dismal villa’d street,
With ugly green front doors,
I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feet
And wonder which was yours!

And when the bedroom candles shone
And night fell deep and dark,
The road would fade, and I’d press on
Across some faery park.

And you before me, you so near!
—Elusive, ’mid the trees.
I the bold horseman, you the deer—
What nights, what dreams were these?

Must Love and Beauty always fly
The eager arms of men?
Oh, I shall hunt you till I die,
And when I live again!

_In a Taxi_

Come, give your hands to me, and lean
Your dear bright head against my coat.
Let me tear loose the furs that screen
The ivory column of your throat.

Now, yield your hungry lips to mine,
You passionate child! You cling so tight,
The blood goes to my head like wine,
As we race, breathless, through the night.

How the time flies! We’re nearly there.
Now grow sedate and proud once more—
Put back your furs, bind up your hair,
But pause, awhile, outside your door.

No one can hear! So now, good-bye!
Darling, to crush you, in the gloom,
With kisses, would be ecstasy....
“Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

1908.

_In Praise of London_

_I, the son of London men,_
_Give thanks to London once again._
_Here was I born; and I will die_
_Under this friendly leaden sky—_
_Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I._

City of beauty, flower of cities all—
Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar
(Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall)
While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore—
Yours is a glamour which the years enhance
And in your grimy streets lives all romance!

When I go out into the world
To see the wonders there unfurl’d,
Though marvelling much, when I lie down
My thoughts fly back to my own town.
Memories of familiar streets
Comfort me under foreign sheets
And Cockney humour brings the laugh
When _bocks_ of foreign beer I quaff.

My thoughts fly home. I see again
Remembered houses, roads and men.
The great town grows before my eyes,
I hear its murmurs and its sighs,
Travel, in dreams, the streets I knew
And roam from Greenwich Park to Kew.

I love to think of bland Pall Mall
(Where Charles made love to Pretty Nell)
And rich South Audley Street, and Wapping,
And Bond Street and the Christmas shopping,
Knightsbridge, the Inner Circle train,
And Piccadilly and Park Lane;
Kensington, where “nice” people live
Who give you tea (top-hat) at five;
And Church Street, and that little path
Which leads to the Broad Walk and the Pond
Where boys sail boats and sparrows bath—
And the dear woodland slope beyond....

I love Hyde Park, the Serpentine,
And Marble Arch at half-past nine,
The graceful curve of Regent Street,
The Queen Anne charm of Cheyne Walk
(Its church, with Polyphemus’ eye,
And those great chimneys, climbing the sky!)—
The Inns of Court and that discreet
Tavern where Johnson used to talk;
The bustle of Fleet Street and the blare
Of Oxford Circus, Leicester Square;
Charing Cross Road, with books for all
In shop and window, case and stall;
Imperial Westminster, the Stores,
Where Colonel Tompkins buys cigars;
The Athenæum, where he snores;
The “Troc,” and several other bars;
The hall where Marie makes us roar
With jokes our consciences deplore
And where dear Vesta Tilley sings
—Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!—
Where Robey leaps on from the wings,
And good old X forgets her part.

Then who can think of Richmond Hill
In summertime, without a thrill?—
Remembering days with Rose or Nan
When friendship ended, love began,
And glamorous evenings in the park
Under the beech trees hush’d and dark—
The deer at gaze with glistening eyes,
The London lights aglow in the skies
(But far away) and no sound there
Save the caught breath and little sighs
That come from joy too great to bear.

Richmond, all London lovers know
Your upland glades, and how, below,
The bright Thames twines about your knees
Through the green tracery of your trees....
And just as I on Whitsunday,
Have brought my girl to spend the day,
So to your hill my fathers came
And, sure, my son will do the same.

...

What sights there are, for those who know,
In every part of this great city!
Our men are mixed, it’s true, but oh,
Are not our London maidens pretty?

Look! you may see them everywhere—
Laughing in ball-rooms in Mayfair,
At tea at Ranelagh, or walking
On Sunday in Hyde Park and talking
The latest nonsense! What a sight,
In frocks adorable and costly!
At Epping too (East-enders mostly)
You’ll see good London girls at play;
On Hampstead Heath—and every day
They troop in crowds up Chancery Lane....

I’ll own, some Brixton girls are plain,
The Ealing girls are proud and silly,
They’re a queer lot in Piccadilly
And—personally—I can’t stand
The huzzies who infest the Strand.
But in the bulk, far though you roam,
You’ll find no girls like ours at home.

Then what good cheer is London cheer
When welcoming the infant year;
On Derby day; or Christmas even;
Or when Aunt Jane pops off to Heaven!

In friendly restaurant or grill
You drink your bottle, eat your fill,
Digest, while watching Russian dancers,
Drive next to supper at some pub,
Then mingle with the rag-time prancers,
In a night café—called a club.

And so to bed, should it be June,
While the birds sing their morning tune
And the sun flushes all the East
And tips with rose chimney and roof.
Heigho! the ending of the feast—
The kiss good-bye, and no reproof!

I cannot praise as I would praise
The mother of my nights and days.
Mine only in rough notes to sing
Songs of the streets from which I spring.

_I, the son of London men,_
_Give thanks to London once again._
_Here was I born and I will die_
_Under this friendly leaden sky—_
_Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I._

_Part II_

_Highbrow Hill_

Londonian Athens, I, thy hill sublime
Will celebrate, in my unfeeling rhyme!

In Grave Tannhauser Street and New Thought Lane,
Parsifal Avenue, and Shavian Road
Dwells High Intelligence, with massive brain,
Bearing like Atlas an almighty load—
The burden of decision: “Yes” or “No”?—
Can Nichols stay, or Vachel Lindsay go?

Here dwells the last arbitrament of art.
How great is _he_? Is that one large or small?
Here is the wanton poet made to smart,
Here the uncurbed romancer takes his fall;
Here they deal faithfully with Squiff and Noggs
And here (for dinners) puff Sir Roller Loggs.

Fresh every day, when dawn makes Highbrow Hill
Softened and rosy, blithe and gentle and sweet,
The Intellectuals their quivers fill
With poisonous darts, to fire from safe retreat.

Biffkin and Briggs and Solomon _and_ Snooks
Must be put down, for they lead _awful lives_,
And any simple souls who read their books
Might kiss their housemaids or desert their wives.
Earth must be purged, be cleaned from this disease!
(And England does what Highbrow Hill decrees.)

_Post-Georgian Poet in Search of a Master_

I had been well brought up: I liked the best.
My prose was modelled on Rebecca West,
My “little things” erstwhile reflected tone,
My brother poets claimed me as their own.
In those blithe days, before the War began—
Ah me, I was a safe young Georgian!

Now all is chaos, all confusion.
Bolshes have cast E. M. from his high throne:
Wild women have rushed in, and savage Yanks
Blather of Booth and Heaven: and T. S. E.
Uses great words that are as Greek to me.
Tell me the Truth, and ah, forgo these pranks—
Whom must I imitate? Who’s really It?
On whose embroidered footstool should I sit?

There’s Podgrass now—he seems a coming man;
Writes unintelligible stuff, half French, half Erse.
He told me Philomela had technique
But not much feeling; Crashaw knew his trade,
But Keats had no idea of writing verse....
The thing to read (he said) had just come out,
His latest work, entitled “Bloody Shout.”

And then there’s Father Michael, Secker’s pal,
Who’s left dear Sylvia for the Clergy-house.
Michael lives sumptuously: silver, old oak,
Incunabula, the Yellow Book, Madonnas, Art;
Excited wobblings on the brink of Rome;
The “Inner Life,” birettas, candles, Mass;
Fun with Church Times and Bishops; four hair shirts,
And Mr. Percy Dearmer’s Parson’s Book.
He talked to me of Antinomianism
And stirred the incense, while two candles burned,
Then read aloud his works, with eye upturned.
(Somehow I felt I’d heard it all before—
When I was “boat-boy,” in a pinafore.)

Are Sitwells really safe? Is Iris Tree
A certain guide to higher poesy?
Can Nichols be relied on, for a lead;
Or should I thump it with Sassoon and Read?
Or would it not be vastly better fun
To write of Nymphs, with Richard Aldington?
Or shall I train, and nervously aspire
To join with Edward Shanks and J. C. Squire
—A modest “chorus” in a well-paid choir?

I’ve thought of J. M. Murry and Sturge Moore,
I’ve thought of Yeats (I thought of him before).
I’ve toyed with Aldous Huxley and Monro—
I don’t know where I am, or where to go.

Oh, mighty Mr. Gosse! Unbend, I pray!
Guide one poor poet who has lost his way....

_Merveilleuses des nos Jours_

(1914)

“I will now call on Alberic Morphine to give us a reading.” ...
The rows of young women look up; their eyes glisten; they shiver
With the kind of emotion that’s really very misleading.
All have fine eyes, yellow faces, vile clothes and “a liver.”

They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays;
Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan;
They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays;
And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man.

_Daisymead_

The most intense resort in Highbrow Green
(Where only those who _do_ things may be seen)
Is known as Crookedwych—a sweet retreat,
Serene and sunny, quite unlike a _street_.
Herein is “Daisymead,” the Brownes’ abode,
Where Jones encountered highbrows à la mode.

Jones was a very harmless sort of man,
Not made on any esoteric plan,
And when he struck this sanctuary of art
Poor Jones felt quite unequal to his part.

Art maidens with short hair and naked toes
Deprived him of his hat. They wore old rose
And sang about their “little turtle dove”
And asked him if he’d “sow the seeds of love?”
(They were the Misses Browne). “I’ve come to call....”

“Then follow, to the house-place, sir,” they cried,
“And make you featly welcome. Ma’s inside.”
He followed. Ma received him in the hall.
“I’m seventeen come Sunday, fol-de-lol,”
She trilled untruly, pouring out the tea
From leadless teapot into leadless cups.
Then, “fol-de-lol-de-fol-de-diddle-dee,”
—Handing nut tabloids to the waiting pups.
And more, about the “wraggle gipsies, O.”

Jones murmured, “Pray excuse me. I must go.
I think I am unwell ... the walk too much.
Proteid? No thank you. No, I never touch
Food before dinner ... I can find the door.”
He found it and he fled. Ah, never more!

_Benevolence_

Mrs. Murgatroyd Martin thinks only of doing good:
That is all that she lives for—to succour the _poor_, _poor_, poor.
She wants them to lead nobler lives (that is understood):
To the world of Culture she opens them wide a door.

She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde;
Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas;
Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child;
Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas.

And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights,
She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind,
And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fights
And black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!”

_Mr. Reginald Hyphen_

(_St. James’s Street_)

Mr. Reginald Hyphen is terribly “one of us;”
He was born with a mouth just made for a silver spoon,
And he’s always “dwedfully late” when he comes to dine.
The thought of the Middle Classes makes him swoon,
And he never will dance unless he is sure of the wine—
And O, it was such an affair, when he took a ’bus!

And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart,
He _thinks_ a great deal, and has a devotion to Art.
He has read some Meredith, too—“Rather neat in its way”—
And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.”

_She-Devil_

(_Davies Street_)

White arms, Love, you have, and thin fingers with glittering nails,
And the soft blue smoke curls up from your parted mouth!
The delicate rose of your cheeks never varies nor pales,
And your frocks and your furs are perfection—devourer of youth!

It is thrilling to think of your room and you, wicked, inside—
Adorable snake, with a snake’s unflickering eyes,
And an intimate smile (to share which, fools have died)
And lips soft as a girl’s and like a siren’s, wise!

Devourer of youth! You are never alone by your fire,
You have always a boy there, who thinks you a goddess, ill-used,
And adores you with passion, and brings you the gifts you desire—
And the fiercer he burns, Dear, the better he keeps you amused!

_Ritz_

(_July, 1914_)

White teeth, neat black moustache and lovely eyes—
Face bronzed and beautiful, like a young god—
Tired Rollo is the dreaming school girl’s prize.

He leans against the wall, perhaps will dance
If they ask very nicely: sweet young things!
He’s “an observer,” and he can’t conceal
He’s frightfully bored with all this sort of crowd.
He prefers artists, men of genius;
He has a soul above the idle rich—
“A looker-on, you know, at the world’s game.”
Rude persons laugh. Adonis, rather hot,
Twirls the ineffable moustache and smiles.
—He is so much that other men are not.

1914.

_A Triumphal Ode_

_Written on the occasion of the grand MARCH PAST of British Poets and Men of Letters, which took place under the Auspices of the League of National & Civic Idiocy on VICTORY DAY, July 19th, 1919_

Of Shavian prophets, bearded, and the bleat
Of infant Sitwells baying at the moon;
Of abstruse Eliot, and the effete
Vieux Gosse—Sing Boom! Sing Boom!

See, here they come! The martial music swells;
Northcliffe, beflagged, leads on, with H. G. Wells;
And prancing solemnly, and prancing slow,
Come Hueffer, Shorter and Sir Sidney Low!
Now, there’s a murmuring as of asphodels,
The while each poet mouthes his roundelay—
The bards, the bards! Be still my heart, ’tis they!

Here’s J. C. Squire, and here the laurell’d Shanks;
There’s Ezra’s circle of performing Yanks;
And here that ardent and enduring one
Who, with cool madness, faced th’ opposing Hun
Until—flick! Flick!—they fell down every one.
And here is Lewis, blasting as he goes—
He plays his one-man-band, yet keeps the pose!
Here’s Secker with his owl; the Coterie;
And gentle John with “gray dog Timothy”:
Here’s sly Monro with Chapbook under arm
And fair aspirants round him in a swarm;
Here is our Centaur, with desponding lyre;
And here the Wufflet with adoring sire!

Now come the veterans of Victorian years—
Kipling in khaki, Binyon in tears,
Here Yeats, with eyes distraught, and tangled hair,
Moans the lost vogue of Deirdre, in Mayfair;
While aged Moore, detached, a little bored,
Tells doubtful tales to Mrs. Humphry Ward.

See, now, Dame Propaganda lifts her gamp
And shelters under it each scribbling scamp.
Hola, Sir Hall! Hail Beith! Hail Buchan bland!
See, Dame Corelli takes Hugh Walpole’s hand;
And Dora and Censora hover nigh,
To tempt Sassoon and Read. They cannot buy;
So Bennett weeps, and Beaver heaves a sigh.

Now comes a rabble foul—avert the eyes—
Of arm-chair “patriots” and Lloyd-Georgian spies.
Hurl them from off Parnassus, with a shout—
Even from the Press Club let them be kicked out!
Chase them from London’s pubs, and bid them go
Across the foam, to lunch with Clemenceau!
Chase them with odorous eggs and hunks of cheese!
Be quiet, Muse, I will not sing of these.

Of all the Georgian and Edwardian potes,
Of all the Mile End Yidds in velvet coats,
Of all the sets, the circles and the cliques
Who boost each other’s works in their critiques,
Of all on whom E. M. has ever smiled;
Of all whom Galloway has ever kyled;
Of “marvellous boys,” and of youth’s soulful loom—
Sing Boom!
Sing Boom!
Sing Boom!

_Part III_

_Moritura_

Leave the radiant sun,
Of drowsy rest the giver;
Leave the song of the birds and leave
The sob of the river.

Break loose from his passionate arms,
And awake from thy dream of bliss:
King Death hath marked thy charms
And fain would kiss.

1902.

_The Voices_

“Oh, hear them in the Valley—
The wailing voices cry!
They count the yearly tally
Of lost girls that must die.
Cold fingers in the gloaming,
Will grope one night for me;
I daren’t go heather-roaming,
For fear the ghosts will see.

“And now the rain is falling,
They’ll cry the whole long night,
I tremble at their calling—
O take and hold me tight!
Each of those warning spirits
Was once a girl, betrayed;
O wayward love, be true to me
Who am no more a maid.”

1909.

_Cuckfield Park_

The deer stand outlined on a sky
That glows to red and pales to green:
The restless pine-trees shake and sigh,
And troubled spirits move, unseen.

A brooding quiet holds the night.
It is the hour of dreams, of fears,
When day’s defiant dying light
Fades, with a sombre hint of tears.

We hardly speak, we hardly dare,
Our steps are noiseless on the grass,
And shadows haunt your eyes and hair.
Does love pass as these moments pass?

1910.

“_Now slants the moonlight ..._”

Now slants the moonlight through the trees
And bathes the pathway through the wood:
The large leaves wrangle in the breeze
And sigh, as if they understood.

Dear Heart, it is so still and warm,
—A lovelier night there has not been—
But lonely I have left the farm,
And lonely I have crossed the green.

1910.

“_Sang a Maid at Peep of Day_”

Sang a maid at peep of day
To the blackbird in the yew—
“My true heart has flown away,
Seeking other heart as true.”

“Bird, my heart has taken wings,”
Whispered she, with sorrowful eyes.
“In the raging wind it sings,
In the sun it cries, it cries.”

1910.

_A Home-Coming_

“He was a wilful chap,” said one
“—The kind that often dies alone.”

“He shamed us all,” another said:
“’Tis just as well that he be dead.”

“Poor Jack, poor Jack,” a third one sighed.
“He swam to Bere against the tide

“And beat John Hawkins, on the green.
It’s long since such a lad was seen.”

A fourth one laughed: “’Twould seem the town
He loved so well has let him down.

“A poor thin corpse ’tis, to be sure,
That he’s brought home to make manure.”

They swathed his body, tall and slim,
Then screwed the oak lid down on him.

They put him in his deep-dug hole,
And bawled responses for his soul.

But, ere the gaping earth did close,
One frail hand threw a frail white rose.

_The Kiss_

Cold it was, Dear, when you kissed me:
Still I hear the steady drips
Of the wet from leaves and branches
As we huddled ’neath the tree:
I can feel your arms about me,
And your lips upon my lips,
And it’s you alone I dream of,
—Though you’ve soon forgotten me.

_On the Promenade_

(_March Winds: Seaford_)

“I never will see you again,
Nor go walking with you, nor be friends;
You have rumpled my hair in the rain—
This foolishness ends!
You can carry your kisses elsewhere:
I call it low
To paw one about like a bear—
You can go!”

“Oh, you baby, to take it like that—
Why, you’d better sit down in the shelter
And polish your shoes on the mat—
I’m off to the downs, helter-skelter!
For it’s Heaven to race in the wind,
With the rain in your eyes, on your cheek,
And perhaps, on the top of the hill, by the cliff, I shall find
A fairy will speak!

“Oh, yes, there are fairies up there,
With faces fresh in the dew—
The wild wind kisses their wild long hair,
And they run by the side of you.

“I’m sorry you’re angry, like this,
But I don’t think I want to be friends—”

“If I gave you your kiss—
Would that make amends?”

_June_

The clasped hand, the low laugh and the trill of love,
Intimate whisper and long look and sinking head
That sinks but to be captured, while, above,
The stars stand motionless, the tree seems dead.

Cold, in the stillness, looks the thin moon down;
Far off are murmuring sea and restless town—
As far as life and death and common things—
For two to-night know joy, a joy that sings.

_To ——_

Sleep sound, Oh my love
—Closed eyes, gentle breath—
While I whisper, so you will not hear,
Things I cannot tell you this side death.

_The Case of Pierrot_

When I lie down in my bed
Forty devils guard my head,
They don’t let me sleep,
They laugh when I weep.
All night long they sneer and sneer:

“Dead heart, cruel heart,
Do you know where she is?
How she moans! Don’t you hear?
Under the madman’s kiss.

“See, she’s fallen on her knees!
—Dead heart, take your ease—
Cries for pity, none to care.
Happy Pair!

“Now the Marquis cracks the whip!
Justine up-to-date.
Cannot give _this_ fiend the slip,
For his name is Fate.”

Forty devils guard my head
When I lie down in my bed.
All night long they rave and jeer
And I cannot choose but hear.

1920.

_Pompes Funèbres_

_Round and round in a circle, slowly,_
_Two by two go the mitred mutes:_
_Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,_
_Death for the pretty girls,_
_Death for the brutes!_

Two black horses with two black tails,
And the long black coach with its four black wheels;
Black-edged handkerchiefs, black crêpe veils—
But who minds now what the dead dog feels?

For a corpse is foul as the rose is fair
And the young must love—and the old don’t care.
To-night it’s the dance, to-morrow the fair.
Bury him quick, with a carriage and pair!

_Round and round in a circle, slowly,_
_Two by two go the mitred mutes:_
_Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,_
_Death for the pretty girls,_
_Death for the brutes!_

_Ah! You Moon_

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,
Traitor, like the cruel sun!
You’ve disowned me now I lie
Underneath this alien sky—
Mad, because I cannot die.

Once you liked us, long ago,
When the woods were flower-scented,
When my love, with tender eyes,
Listened to familiar lies
In the forest of St. Cloud.
You were friend to those who woo ...
Moon you might have warned, prevented
Us from battening on hope,
Thrown us down an end of rope!
_This_ was coming, and _you knew_,
Could you treat a lover so!

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,
Traitor, like the cruel sun.

_A Little Poem on Sin_

Christ, since I turned my back upon your altars
Joy has deserted me, the world is dull;
The cry of passion fades away and falters,
And what may be is no more beautiful.

Hand me the scourge again, forsaken Master,
Open your doors and bid me enter in,
Then shall my pulses throb, my heart beat faster,
And rapture kiss me with the lips of sin.

1920.

_Heart and Soul_

The worn heart called the soul that flew,
That soared on high, with fiery wing:
“Once in a house of flesh, we two
Dwelt silent, sorrowing.

“I fled you for all false delights,
Sister, I let you sleep and fade,
While in the breathless summer nights
With deathly joys I played.”

The tired heart wailed and sank and died,
Died terribly, a thousand deaths:
Strange things that passed like wild-birds cried;
The ghosts drew icy breaths.

“Too late! My jewel, Bird of Hope,
You slipt my grasp: now firm and free
You soar to that Olympian slope
Where every soul would be—”

The dead voice failed; the soul flew by,
Nor turned her course, nor dropped her wing:
A cold wind shivered through the sky:
The pale ghosts heard her sing.

The sister of the weary heart,
The bright-winged bird, the bird of fire,
Flew onwards swiftly, and apart,
Towards the heart’s desire.

_The Singer’s Journey_