EXPLANATION
SUBTLETY OF THE SERPENT
"Now the serpent was more
subtil than any beast of
the field which the Lord
God had made."
GENESIS iii. 1.
Through the green masses of the undergrowth,
Pools of silent water,
Where float large flowers and patches of white light,
Crawls the serpent, subtle, sad,
And tired of well-doing.
Nevermore will he help humanity.
Venomously he hisses at the Cherubim
Whose flaming sword sears the Heavens,
A sword whose flame turns every way
To keep the path of the Tree-of-Life.
A tropic spring, this first one,
With leaves like spears and banners;
But the ground is sweet with fallen petals
Of great blossoms
That heave their hot breath at the droning insects.
The air is full of the twittering of birds,
Whose innocence appeals to Adam
—Already outside the garden—
While, high up in their swaying green cradles
The monkeys carry on their high-pitched chatter.
The serpent reasoned thus—
"For long time have I been at war
With the ape-tribe;
Small apes with clutching hands,
Great apes (how hideous they are!)
Whom the God-of-Man
Has made in the image of Man.
They tried to kill me:
I tried to kill them.
But Adam and Eve deceived me,
Looking scornfully at the great apes,
They pretended to a difference.
For a long time I loved them,
Fascinated by their words,
By their story of the Creation—
But now, O Lord,
Give me a good old-fashioned ape
Every time
—An ape who tries to kill me
Without a chatter of clean-hands, law-and-order,
Crime passionel,
Self-defence or helping-me-to-help-myself.
I may be a snake in the grass,
But I am not a hypocrite.
I may change my skin,
But I am not ashamed of it.
I have never pretended to be a super-snake
Or to walk except on my belly—
* * * * *
It is not only the ignorance of good or evil
That raises the monkey above the man
(Though the man knows evil and therefore prefers it),
But the fact that the monkey
Cannot yet disguise the good with bad words,
Or the bad with good ones.
* * * * *
Never before have I been cursed;
But man has made his God
Curse me with black words.
Now, therefore,
Will I curse Mankind.
—Man shall know good, but shall not act on it.
He shall know good, and turn it to evil purpose.
His twin curses shall be words and knowledge;
I, the snake, know a thing-or-two;
I know that man is a self-made monkey,
—And he knows it too!
But he will disguise it
With a God of his making,
A blustering God, a revengeful God,
A God who curses the Serpent
With sophistry, subtlety, and—words.
But I know that Man is still
An ape at heart,
A talkative chattering ape.
His curiosity shall discover many strange secrets,
But he will use them
For his two recreations,
Lying and killing,
Or—as he calls them—
Conversation and Sport.
His words shall girdle a continent
Swiftly, as a flash of fire;
They shall be written down,
Every day,
For millions of men to read
—But they will still be lies—black lies!
Men shall journey the world over
To kill the beasts of the field, the forest and jungle;
He shall kill them secretly, without their knowing
As with a thunder-bolt:
But his own kind
Will he kill in millions,
Slaughter and butcher
With the last refinements of torture.
—And words, words,
Shall be the cause and end of it."
As the serpent crawled away on his belly
Through the silent waters of the undergrowth,
He heard two sharp voices,
Outside the garden.
"You did"—"I didn't."
"You did"—"I didn't."
—"It was the serpent."
A long silence, and then the second act,
When the brutal voice of the first statesman
Roared out
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
DE LUXE
"The Presence, that rose thus
so strangely beside the waters, is
expressive of what in the ways
of a thousand years man had
come to desire."—Walter Pater.
MRS. FREUDENTHAL CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR
A nose, however aquiline,
Escapes detection in a throng;
So she hopes; but sense of sin
Made her shrink and steal along
Streets glazed by mocking summer heat
To semblance of a cool canal,
Where iridescent insects beat
Their wings upon the liquid wall,
Where radiant insects, carrion-fed,
Buzz and flutter busily,
Smile, or frown, or nod the head,
Expressing some familiar lie.
Enter the house, ascend the stair!
Consult the scintillating ball;
Beatrice Freudenthal, beware!
Eve felt like you before the Fall.
Within the shining mystic globe,
Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown;
A modern prophetess will probe
The future—for one guinea down.
For that amount the future's sword
From crystal scabbard she will drag;
She can unpack the future's hoard,
As we unpack a Gladstone bag.
Without the agency of Man,
Solely by fasting and by prayer,
The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan
Could move a wine cup through the air
Until it reached him; then he drank,
Fermented juice of rye or grape;
The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank
Away, astonished and agape.
Before the Lama turns to grapple
With State-Affairs, he learns to spin
(Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple),
In mid-air, sixty times—to win
Amusement mixed with approbation
From sceptical ambassadors,
For any kind of levitation
Increases prestige with the Powers!
Such things were practised—did not tend
To promote war or anarchy
—Yet now such things would even end
A Constitutional Monarchy.
NIGHT THOUGHTS
Magic for a holy race
Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden
The future, in its crystal case,
Lies packed—so near and yet forbidden!
Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones
May weave a spell, or dance like Tich,
Yet ponder on the bleaching bones
Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch.
Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call
Without a qualm—yet how can she obey
The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul,
She has consulted Endor)? How can she
Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel,
Once there insist on resting in their den,
To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel
With frowns—with bones and biscuits, now and then?
For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of
Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend,
Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff
Eat with Artistic Ladies without end.
Money is power—a golden pedestal
Atones for beauty that is long, long dead—
As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all,
The lions who have not thundered—and then fled.
Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng
Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone—
Then use them as a bait, step up a rung—
But how begin? At night she plans alone
Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room,
The silence of South Kensington is deep,
No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom
—And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep!
Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake,
And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin?
Till suddenly she melts—as small waves break,
So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin.
For now she has it—clasps the golden key
That shall unbar that stranger—Popularity.
How many noses are forgiven thee,
Forgotten, in the name of Charity?
First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause,
And then the stomachs of the well-to-do,
Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus
—Until herself becomes a War-horse too.
THE WAR-HORSE CHANTS
Was there war once,
I have forgotten it!
Was there war once?
—War means more trade.
Poor Lady X
Has given up her motor-car,
Poor Lady Y
Has shut up her house.
Was there war once?
I have forgotten it.
Was there war once?
—Now food is here.
Now I remember
How much I suffered—
Very bad form
To mention the war.
Such dreadful suffering
Injures my appetite—
All these brave men
Dying for me—
Was there war once?
Yes, I remember it.
Was there ... was once...?
A TOUCH OF NATURE
Trained to a charm of manner, to a smile
—Enamelled and embalmed by Madame Rose
(Shame that an artist of this skill, this style,
Can never sign her work), no War-Horse shows
Any emotion. The poor Spartan Youth
Though the fox gnawed his entrails, would not cry;
These never wince, nor hurl the mirror at Truth,
Though Old Age disembowel them secretly.
Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley
Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend
The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally
To overwhelm them at their sudden end—
For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young,
And these—and these—may die at balls or races,
Or living death may make them loll the tongue,
Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces.
The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred
Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning
Of eyes—dead eyes—that know quite well they're dead—
And yet retain a certain childish cunning.
And each day till the end, is dragged along
This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb,
Toward the sea where wondering children throng,
Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom
That almost apes them—save the open eye
Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter,
This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die,"
While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter.
Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past,
—A few months younger these—and laugh together—
(She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast
An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather.
They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes,
—And wonder if her lover had been bored
"Look at the poor old thing!"
The dumb voice chokes;
The eye is open yet—each word a sword!
YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM
Battista Sforza, led by unicorns,
Triumphant, ever set in amber light
By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns
Her empty palace, still, that floating height
Where Raphael was born—Isotta's name,
Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom
Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame
His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb.
Then, even tyrants drunk with blood and pride,
And ever vaunting poison-cup and knife,
No less than angels beauty made; they died,
But Art, their pleasure, still extols their life.
Thus power, thus gold, sought pleasure in the past
But wooed her strangely, in a different mood
—As Pallas or Minerva—things that last,
Carved both in mind and heart, in stone and wood.
Now many palaces and Tuscan towns
Crumble upon a half-deserted hill,
Slowly their stone surrenders to the flowers;
The drip and flowing of their fountains fill
The night with cool—the night that is alive
With chanting frog and owl and nightingale;
Who knows but that these things may yet contrive
To please, when tank and war-memorial fail?
Gonzaga, D'Este, Medici are gone,
Or dreary sons approach their unnoticed fall,
Top-hatted, leave a beauty-hating throne
To fawn upon a Mrs. Freudenthal,
Or find their pleasure at a football match
—Express a dullard similarity
To other ox-eyes—lifting up the latch
Upon a similar vulgarity.
For pleasure, too, is old; has lost her realm,
—Degraded to a mumbling hag—for now
Stands Golf—for pleasure—at an armoured helm,
The Cenotaph—for Youth—at iron prow!
Yet never cruelty reaped such vast reward
As in these latter days, and with such ease,
When the whole world became a slaughter-yard
And stank with crime, and reeked with foul disease.
—No crime of passion—only crime for gold,
Or crimes of rulers drunk with their stupidity;
The people walk with faces deathly cold,
Or marked and masked with their cupidity.
But Mrs. Freudenthal knows her own mind,
And means to follow up and win the game,
Seek pleasure with the others of her kind,
Who live and die alike, and share the same
Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes
Exaggerated visions of its rider,
So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies
A War-horse's importance—like a spider
She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn
To join their ranks, to rally to their banner;
Beside the feeding of them, she must learn
To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner!
Allow no personality to stamp
Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress;
Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp
The necessary look of nothingness.
You must acquire a careful conversation
Remember that War-horses of True Breed
Only feel interest—if ever—in relation
To other ones—and, never, never read!
Know though the names of authors, and conceivably
The names of their most fashionable book;
But never talk too far, or irretrievably
You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook.
Then music, as a rule, you love too well
To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk
About—if not too loud, it helps to swell
The frankly social impulse toward talk.
You simply love the Opera, and force
Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage;
The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse
Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage!
If you see modern pictures, in their glass
Ecstatically examine the old strife
Between your food and figure—should he pass,
Discuss with friends the painter's private life.
Though, safety-first, you find it really best
To cast your rapture on the gilded air,
When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest,
Within the mansion of a millionaire.
Still you encourage those whom you can hire
To fix on canvas, for the future race
Of War-horses to simper at—admire,
The painted image of your painted face.
And any artist, author, or musician,
—If second-rate—is useful as a bait
To fish for guests—remember words like "Titian"
"—Shakespeare" "—Mozart," let go—and trust to Fate
To pull you through—avoid ideas—they're common
And might crack through the varnish of your smile,
Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon
Filling your soul with pity, and things vile.
THE OPEN DOOR
A light, within her glassy car, betrays
Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity
Of heavy curling features, and displays
A likeness to Assyrian Divinity.
When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside;
The yellow windows shout their nakedness...
Until again the weary buildings hide
Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness.
So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp
Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night
Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp,
Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light
Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill
Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded
—A broken chair, a figure standing still,
A withered plant—mean drama that, unheeded,
Flashes its image on the world's dark screen
But for a moment—yet the play goes on,
Vibrates through worlds—to mingle in a scene
Of final war or crime, or revolution;
But though finite to us, this act of blood
Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark
Of whirling planets, though a curious God
Might for the moment, notice a vague mark.
Again we make God in the image of Man
—Imagine God has made us in His image—
Reigns Law-and-Order for another span
To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage.
The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again
The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust
A hand to catch the comet's golden rain,
Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust.
Can man be falling once more through the black
Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame?
—But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track,
Intent upon it, means to win the game.
Houses rush past her—but she does not see,
Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity
She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea
Outside the glittering home of Charity.
Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest
On music and on muffins—all for sake
Of Charity; the music gives a zest
To whispered conversation—if awake,
Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony
May cause the facial scaffolding to fall;
They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye,
And move uneasily within each stall,
For music has a strange, unwelcome power
Of smearing sentiment about the mouth
Like children, after eating jam, they glower
In heavy, stupefaction—cross, uncouth.
The car arrives, the open door,
Expels a scorching flood of light—
The noise outside dies down—the floor
Is slippery and very bright.
INTRODUCING
It takes a camel thirty days
To cross the sinister sand of Lop
Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise
Without cessation, dare not stop.
Though unaware of the subtle danger
Of buried learning, of civilisation,
He feels himself on his guard—a stranger
With Ignorance as his true Salvation.
Unknown to him beneath the extent
Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden
With frozen gesture, ears intent
On sounds forgotten and forbidden.
—For muttering of muted bell
Swells music from the nightingales
Whose crystal gurglings excel
The singing streams that formed these vales
So fruitfully luxuriant still
To eyes closed like a curving sword
—Though now no sound save droning thrill
Of shifting sand is ever heard.
Yet of an influence here felt
Tradition tells the Bedouin.
Into grey sand the mirages melt.
Spell the Arab's road to ruin.
On through the dusk he hears his name
Called, then repeated—seek he must
That voice which calls, like wealth or fame
Only to lead from dust to dust;
Or death may come through the burning night
With the drumming of a multitude,
For the Devil revels in the sight
Of death in the desert solitude.
Though the camel can kneel, he never prays
Careless if God or Devil is near,
Stoutly he bears his burden of days
With Seven Stomachs—and no fear.
Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house
When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent
Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows
But that he changed it after—by Royal Warrant?)
Mrs. Freudenthal, irate,
Decides to diet, to get thin.
Everyone must deprecate
Decay of manners. With no chin
The arrogant yet gluttonous camel
Never shows satiety;
Would rather rest in asphodel
Than figure in Society,
But Mrs. Kinfoot, spotting a new head
To add to her collection—grasps her hand,
And Mrs. Freudenthal is gently led
Within the portals of the Promised Land.
MALGRÉ SOI
The voices weave a web of futile sound;
A fan is dropped by Lady Carabas;
Restored to her: but Mrs. Kinfoot frowned,
Guarding the door, as Cerberus his pass,
But suddenly, great waves of sound obtrude
Upon the pleasant party in this room;
While we enjoy the music's interlude,
Outside there swells the trumpet-call of doom.
Mosaic tombs or unmarked graves—asunder
Are rent. King Dodon rises from the dead
And while the quivering heavens thunder,
He smooths his robe, then calmly shakes his head
Free of the ages' dust—but now the voices
Of these condemned (for judgment will not tarry)
Shrill out in woe; but one, alone, rejoices,
For Mrs. Kinfoot scents another quarry.
The Army of the Dead are on the march
To meet their Maker on his ivory throne;
He sits beneath the rainbow's radiant arch,
Dispensing judgment. Oh! atone, atone!
But Mrs. Kinfoot saw a sailor-sinner [*]
—With one arm—leave St. Paul's and walk away
And Mrs. Kinfoot longed to give a dinner
To meet the Judge upon the Judgment day!
[*] Editor's note: Lord Nelson(?).
Above God's head a dozen suns kept guard
Like sentinels. Her erring feet were led
Up to a crowded mount, where God's regard
Was fixed upon her, while He gravely said:
"Anne Kinfoot, worthy mother, and good wife,
Your weakness and your faults are all forgiven;
Go you, my child, to everlasting life,
And take your husband, also, up to Heaven."
But she could see the Counsellors and Kings
And brilliant bearers of a famous name,
Tangled with snakes and horrid crawling things
Sent down to torture and eternal flame.
Then Mrs. Kinfoot lied in agony: "Oh, Lord,
I am as others of my class and station,"
She cried, "Oh, have me bound, and burnt and gored
Oh! send me down to suffer my damnation.
I swear I beat my children!" Oh, despondent
She was; "I am a sinner. I will tell
How I escaped a Ducal Co-respondent
Last year—my God—I must insist on—Hell.
But the Great Judge was not deceived—He knew
The worthy virtue of the Kinfoot line;
Yet as she went to Heaven, constant, true
To principle, she murmured, "Will you dine
To meet..." but dragged away, she dwells on high
And notes, but rather disapproves the eccentricity
Of Saints and Early Christians, who try
To lessen the burden of her domesticity.
She has to play upon a golden harp,
Join in the chorus of the heavenly choir;
Her answers to the Saints are sometimes sharp,
She longs to singe her wings, and share the fire.
Night never comes, so when she tries to flee
To that perpetual party down below,
The angels catch her, shouting out with glee,
"Dear Mrs. Kinfoot—you are good!——We know!"
PARADISE REGAINED
Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out
From the Gold Bar of Heaven,
Shed tears, like icicles, to flout
Hell's suffering, to leaven
The Torment of the Upper Ten—
—Or was it because now and then
She heard the glad hilarious cries,
(A party down below again)
Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes
For torture she could not attain?
Or heard the strains that she adored
—Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord
As here, nor Heber's hints of ire—
But Russian Music, for the latter
Was sent down to eternal fire
To promote fashionable chatter,
Which, as on earth, when music sounds
E'en torture cannot keep in bounds.
And Jacob's ladder, as she leans
Invites escape; with deep delight
She recollects what "climbing" means!
—But angels guard her day and night,
Or rather day and day, because
Eternal glory never thaws
To dusk—again strange music blares
Its strangled message through all space,
While, lit by multi-coloured flares,
Hell's blackness gains a certain grace.
* * * * *
"Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!"
—And then the Gold Bar snap'd
—And like a bull
She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes
The golden minarets, the opal towers
Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams
About her, seems to wither them like flowers.
Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair
Bowed down with age—is taken unaware,
Slithers, then falls—but, like a shooting-star,
Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins,
Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far
Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins!
Can you consign to everlasting flame
The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?"
And oh! the people, oh! the parties here!
Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat!
Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer;
The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that
Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara
Is made of snakes and scorpions—they are a
Present from the Devil, whose assistance
She claimed on earth—Himself now welcomes in
The new arrival, saying "For Persistence
You have no equal, so, though free from Sin,
We here create you Honorary Member,
Beginning from the Fifth day of November,
(A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett
Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell,
For here are some whom she has never met
—And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell!
FIVE PORTRAITS AND A GROUP
I. THE GENERAL'S WIFE REFUSES
It isn't that I don't like them,
My dear Mrs. Kinfoot,
But I know
I am not clever,
And I like your old friends best.
As for the General
He disapproves of Art,
And does not believe in it.
He has noticed
That Artists
Have an odd look in their eyes,
And a shifty expression.
In fact,
The General disapproves of Art.
He finds that Artists
Are stupid
And difficult to talk to—
He remembers meeting one
In '97
Who was not interested
In Polo,
—And appeared
To be unaware of the existence
Of the old Duke of Cambridge.
My husband didn't get angry,
He just said to him, like that,
"What are you interested in?
ART, I suppose?"
In spite of this
The General thinks
That music is more dangerous
—And subversive of discipline
Than painting—
For—in painting—
That is to say
In good painting—
You can see put down on canvas
What you can see yourself—
—And you can touch it
With your finger—
A picture should be the same
As a coloured photograph,
Except that the camera
Reveals things
Invisible to the Human Eye;
That is wrong!
(By the Human Eye
The General says
He means
His own eye)
But in Music
You can see nothing,
And you are unable
To touch it
With your fingers;
The General disapproves of Art,
—But it makes him positively nervous
To hear music.
The General says that,
As far as he can make out,
All musicians
Have been German—
But he can only remember
The name of one—
Nietzsche!
As the war
Was German in origin,
It is obvious that it was made
By German Composers
And not
By German Generals
—Many of whom were fine fellows
Who loved a good joke.
The General remembers one
Who laughed like anything
At one of his stories.
The war was made by German musicians
—Just as surely
As our own
Pacific and imaginative policy
Was interpreted
By Kipling and Lady Butler.
"Never trust a Man
Who plays the piano,"
The General says.
He thinks that
In the main,
The British have a sound interest
In this matter.
Probably Charles I,
Played the piano—
And, at any rate,
He collected Pictures.
The English would never
Behead anyone
For governing badly;
It is only Barbarians,
Like the Russians,
Who would do this.
The General
Disapproves of Art.
But, of all these things,
The General says
He dislikes poetry most,
Kipling is different;
He is a Man-of-the-World.
But the General says
That if he got hold
Of one of these long-haired
Conscientious Objectors,
Who write things
Which don't even rhyme
He'd——
So you see, dear,
That it's better for us
Not to come.
II. AUX BORDS DE LA MER
Where frightened woolly clouds, like sheep
Scurry across blue skies; where sleep
Sings from the little waves that reach
In strict formation to the beach,
Are houses—covers of red-plush,
To hide our thoughts in, lest we blush.
* * * * *
Here live kind ladies—hence they come
To persecute us—I am dumb
When they give from wide saucer-eye
Intolerable sympathy,
Or testify solicitude,
By platitude on platitude,
Mix Law-and-Order, Church-and-State
With little tales of Bishop Tait,
Or harass my afflicted soul
With most fantastic rigmarole
Of Bolshevik and Pope in league
With Jewish and Sinn-Fein intrigue—
I love to watch them, as they troop
Revolving, through each circus-hoop
Of new-laid eggs—left at the door—
With Patriotism—for the Poor—
Of ball-committee, Church Bazaar,
All leading up to a great war,
A new great war—greater by far
—Oh! much more great—than any war.
Kind lady, leave me, go enthral
The pauper-ward, and hospital!
III. GIARDINO PUBBLICO
Petunias in mass formation,
An angry rose, a hard carnation,
Hot yellow grass, a yellow palm
Rising, giraffe-like, into calm
—All these glare hotly in the sun.
Behind are woods, where shadows run
Like water through the dripping shade
That leaves and laughing wind have made.
Here silence, like a silver bird,
Pecks at the fruit-ripe heat. We heard
Townward, the voices, glazed with starch,
Of Tourists on belated march
From church to church, to praise by rule
The beauties of the Tuscan school,
Clanging of trams, a hidden flute,
Sharp as the taste of unripe fruit;
Street organs join with tolling bell
To threaten us with both Heaven and Hell,
But through all taps a nearing sound
As of stage-horses pawing ground.
Then like a whale, confined in cage,
(In grandeur of a borrowed carriage)
The old Marchesa swam in sight
In tinkling jet that caught the light,
Making the sun hit out each tone
As if it played a xylophone,
Till she seems like a rainbow, where
She swells, and whale-like, spouts the air.
* * * * *
And as she drove, she imposed her will
Upon all things both live and still;
Lovers hid quickly—none withstood
That awful glance of widowhood;
Each child, each tree, the shrilling heat
Became encased in glacial jet,
The very songbird in the air
Became a scarecrow, dangling there,
While, if you turned to stare, you knew
The punishment Lot's wife went through.
* * * * *
Her crystal cage moves on. Stagnation
Now thaws again to animation;
Gladly the world receives reprieve
Till six o'clock to-morrow eve,
When punctual as the sun, she'll drive
Life out of everything alive,
Then in gigantic glory, fade
Sunward, through the western glade....
IV. ULTIMATE JUDGMENT
Within the sunny greenness of the close,
Secure, a heavy breathing fell, then rose—
Here undulating chins sway to and fro,
As heavy blossoms do; the cheek's faint glow
Points to post-prandial port. The willow weeps
Hushed are the birds—in fact—the Bishop sleeps.
Then, suddenly, the wide sky blazes red;
Up from their graves arise the solemn dead,
The world is shaken; buildings fall in twain,
Exulting hills shout loud, then shout again
While, with the thunder of deep rolling drums
The angels sing—— At last Salvation comes.
The weak, the humble, the disdained, the poor
Are judged the first, and climb to Heaven's door.
* * * * * *
The Bishop wakes to see his palace crash
Down on the rocking ground—but in a flash
It dawns upon him;—with impressive frown,
He sees his second-housemaid in a crown,
In rainbow robes that glisten like a prism
"I warned them..." said the Bishop—
"Bolshevism!"
V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN
We thank thee,
O Lord,
That the War is over.
We can now
Turn our attention
Again
To money-making.
Railway-Shares must go up;
Wages must come down;
Smoke shall come out
Of the chimneys of the North,
And we will manufacture battle-ships.
We thank thee, O Lord,
But we must refuse
To consider
Music, Painting, or Poetry.
Our sons and brothers
Went forth to fight,
To kill certain things,
Cubism, Futurism and Vers-libre
"All this Poetry-and-Rubbish,"
We said
"Will not stand the test of war."
We will not read a book
—Unless it is a best seller.
There has been enough art
In the past,
Life is concerned
With killing and maiming.
If they cannot kill men
Why can't they kill animals?
There is still
Big Game in Africa
—Or there might be trouble
Among the natives.
We thank thee, O Lord,
But we will not read poetry.
But as the Pharisees
Approached the tomb
They saw the boulder
Rolled back,
And that the tomb was empty
—They said
"It's very disconcerting."
I am not at all
Narrow-minded.
I know a tune
When I hear one,
And I know
What I like—
I did not so much mind
That He blasphemed
Saying that He was the Son-of-God,
But He was never
What I call
A Sportsman;
He went out into the desert
For forty days
—And never shot anything
And when He hoped He would drown
He walked on the water.
... No—we will not read poetry.
THE GROUP
ENGLISH TEA-ROOMS
Why do they sit in darkness,
Hiss like geese?
Outside the sun flashes his strong wings
Against the green-slit shutters,
Through which you can see
Him bathing in the street.
Like a bird he preens himself at the windows,
Then dances back with the swimming flash of a gold-fish.
Why do you hiss like geese,
What do you hide,
With your thin sibilance of genteel speech?
* * * * *
The Colonel, usually a rollicking character,
In the manner of El Capitano,
Simpers, like any schoolgirl.
Miss Vera complains that her brother
Is suffering from catarrh.
On the other hand
Hotel-life is easier than home-life,
She just rings the bell,
Orders anything she wants,
—And there it is—punctual to the minute.
Both Sir William and his daughter
Are pleased with their holiday;
Admire the flora and the fauna;
Miss Ishmael sketches, and the place abounds
In peasants, picturesque old-bit-and-corner—
* * * * *
If they should die...
Say only this of them,
That there's a corner in some foreign field
That is for ever England...
They travel; yet all foreign things
Are barr'd and bolted out of range
... While England benefits by the exchange.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun
A sector of its lucent arc
About the disillusioned sun
Of Autumn. The bright angry spark
Of Heaven in each upturned eye
Denotes religious ecstasy.
We, too, have spun our Sunday round
Of Church and beef and after-sleep
In houses where obtrudes no sound
But breathing, regular and deep,
Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed,
Demands a visit to the Dead.
For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget,
As from life's tree they clatter down,
And Death has caught some in her net
Even on Sunday,—in this Town,
Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet!
The dead leaves rattle down the street.
Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate
Their way along; if Death comes soon
They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float
Heavenward, like some huge balloon.
Religion dims each vacant eye
As we approach the cemet'ry.
Proudly we walk; with care we bend
To lead our children by the hand,
Here, where all, rich and poor, must end
—This portal to a better land
To which—if in good business—
We have hereditary access;
Where to afford the Saints relief
From prayer and from religious questions,
Round after round of deathless beef
Flatters celestial digestions;
Where, in white robe, with golden crown,
We watch our enemies sent down,
To other spheres, while we lean out,
Divinest pity in our eyes,
And wonder why these sinners flout
Our kindly pitying surprise,
Why look so angry when we play
On gold harps as they go away,
A hymn tune, dear, familiar?
But now we stand within the space
Where marble females drape a tear
Above a whisker'd marble face.
"Isn't it pretty?" Even now
Rich and exotic blossoms grow
About each granite monument
Of men frock-coated, unaware
Of Judgment; what emolument
Requites a weeping willow's care?
Look! Over there a broken column
Is watched by one geranium,
Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold
Damnation and eternal fire
To those who will not reckon gold—
Who are not worthy of their hire,
For marble tombs are prized above
Such brittle things as thought or love.
The crystal web of dusk now clings
From evergreen to tropic tree,
Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings
A mingled scent of mould and tea
That causes silence to be rent
By one scream—childish, but intent.
For children will not realise
That they should rest without a sound
With folded hands and downcast eyes
Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground.
And so, in sorrow, we turn back
To hasten on our high-tea track.
But after, in the night, we dream
Of Heaven as a marbled bank,
In which, in one continual stream,
We give our gold for heavenly rank,
Where each Saint, standing like a sentry,
Explains a mystic double-entry.
The Director of the Bank is God—
Stares our foes coldly in the face,
But gives us quite a friendly nod,
And beckons us to share His place.
CORPSE DAY
July 19th, 1919.
Dusk floated up from the earth beneath,
Held in the arms of the evening wind
—The evening wind that softly creeps
Along the jasper-terraces,
To bear with it
The old, sad scent
Of midsummer, of trees and flowers
Whose bell-shaped blossoms, shaken, torn
By the rough fingers of the day
Ring out their frail and honeyed notes.
* * * * *
Up from the earth there rose
Sounds of great triumph and rejoicing.
* * * * *
Our Lord Jesus, the Son of Man,
Smiled
And leant over the ramparts of Heaven.
Beneath Him
Through the welling clouds of darkness
He could see
The swarming of mighty crowds.
It was in the Christian Continent,
Especially,
That the people chanted
Hymns and pÆans of joy.
But it seemed to Our Lord
That through the noisy cries of triumph
He could still detect
A bitter sobbing
—The continuous weeping of widows and children
Which had haunted Him for so long,
Though He saw only
The bonfires,
The arches of triumph,
The processions,
And the fireworks
That soared up
Through the darkening sky,
To fall in showers of flame
Upon the citadel of Heaven.
As a rocket burst,
There fell from it,
Screaming in horror,
Hundreds of men
Twisted into the likeness of animals
—Writhing men
Without feet,
Without legs,
Without arms,
Without faces....
The earth-cities still rejoiced.
Old, fat men leant out to cheer
From bone-built palaces.
Gold flowed like blood
Through the streets;
Crowds became drunk
On liquor distilled from corpses.
And peering down
The Son of Man looked into the world;
He saw
That within the churches and the temples
His image had been set up;
But, from time to time,
Through twenty centuries,
The priests had touched up the countenance
So as to make war more easy
Or intimidate the people—
Until now the face
Had become the face of Moloch!
The people did not notice
The change
... But Jesus wept!
