  A Glimpse from the TrainAt nine in the morning there passed a church, At ten there passed me by the sea, At twelve a town of smoke and smirch, At two a forest of oak and birch, And then, on a platform, she. Her I could see, though she saw not me: I queried, "Get out to her do I dare?" But I kept my seat in my search for a plea, And the wheels moved on. O could it but be That I had alighted there! THOMAS HARDY TarantellaDo you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the dark of the vine verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in—— And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground. No sound: Only the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom. H. BELLOC Lines Written in Gallipoli88 The author of this poem, a Fellow of All Souls, went out to Gallipoli in the Royal Naval Division with Charles Lister, Rupert Brooke, and Denis Browne. He was afterwards killed in France. I saw a man this morning Who did not wish to die, I ask and cannot answer If otherwise wish I. Fair broke the day this morning Against the Dardanelles, The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks Were cold as cold sea shells. But other shells are waiting Across the Ægean sea, Shrapnel and high explosive, Shells and hells for me. O Hell of ships and cities, Hell of men like me, Fatal second Helen, Why must I follow thee? Achilles came to Troyland, And I to Chersonese: He turned from wrath to battle, And I from three days' peace. Was it so hard, Achilles, So very hard to die? Thou knowest and I know not, So much the happier I. I will go back this morning From Imbros over the sea. Stand in the trench, Achilles, Flame-capped, and shout for me. PATRICK SHAW-STEWART NovemberAs I walk the misty hill All is languid, fogged and still; Not a note of any bird, Nor any motion's hint is heard Save from soaking thickets round Trickle or water's rushing sound, And from ghostly trees the drip Of runnel dews or whispering slip Of leaves, which in a body launch Listlessly from the stagnant branch, To strew the marl, already strown With litter sodden as its own. A rheum, like blight, hangs on the briers, And from the clammy ground suspires A sweet frail sick autumnal scent Of stale frost furring weeds long spent, And wafted on, like one who sleeps, A feeble vapour hangs or creeps, Exhaling on the fungus mould A breath of age, fatigue and cold. Oozed from the bracken's desolate track, By dark rains havocked and drenched black, A fog about the coppice drifts Or slowly thickens up and lifts Into the moist despondent air. Mist, grief, and stillness everywhere.... And in me, too, there is no sound Save welling as of tears profound Where in me cloud, grief, stillness reign, And an intolerable pain Begins. Rolled on as in a flood there come Memories of childhood, boyhood, home And that which, sudden, pangs me most, Thought of the first-beloved, long lost, Too easy lost! My cold lips frame Unheard of her upon my breath: "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" No voice answers on the hill. All is shrouded, sad and still ... Stillness, fogged brakes and fog on high. Only in me the waters cry Who mourn the hours now slipped for ever. Hours of boding, joy and fever, When we loved, by chance beguiled, I a boy and you a child; Child! But with an angel's air. Astonished, eager, unaware, Or elfin, wandering with grace Foreign to any fireside race; And with a gaiety unknown In the light feet and hair back-blown; And with a sadness yet more strange In meagre cheeks which knew to change Or faint or fired more swift than sight, And forlorn hands and lips pressed white, And fragile voice and head downcast To hide tears, lifted at the last To speed with one pale smile the wise Glance of the grey immortal eyes. How strange it was that we should dare Compound a miracle so rare As, twixt this pace and Time's next pace, Each to discern th' elected's face; Yet stranger that the high sweet fire, In hearts nigh foreign to desire, Could burn, sigh, weep and burn again, As oh, it never has since then! Most strange of all that we so young Dared learn but would not speak love's tongue, Love pledged but in the reveries Of our sad and dreaming eyes.... Now upon such journey bound me, Grief, disquiet and stillness round me, As bids me where I cannot tell, Turn I and sigh, unseen, farewell: Breathe the name as soft as mist, And again—a sigh, a death— "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" No voice answers, but the mist Glows for a moment amethyst Ere the hid sun dissolves away, And dimness, growing dimmer gray, Hides all ... until I nothing see But the blind walls enclosing me, And no sound and no motion hear But the vague water throbbing near, Sole voice upon the darkening hill, Where all is blank and dead and still. ROBERT NICHOLS Draft for "A First and Last Song"Deep in the harvest of the night the sickle of the moon is sweeping, We have sowed, O my desire, now is the time for reaping! Turn not your face, O heart, give not your love To aught of heaven or the stars above, These dauntless robbers purloined long ago The crown of Kaous, the belt of Kai Khosro; And what have we to search for in the skies Who have the blue pavilion of your eyes? Or what need of the gold gates flung apart Having the crimson portals of your heart? ... So shall it be when some day by and by You mount the glitt'ring ramparts of the sky, Loud to the wheeling heavens you shall boast: "O sun and moon and Pleiads at the most You're worth a wisp of barley or of straw Unseen, unheeded, on Love's threshing floor: And God the praises that your angels sing Are all celestial but can never bring The simple wonder of a mortal's doubt Upon those faces upturned and devout That every blessing of Your work recall, Nor ever need to ask: What means it all?" Be peace! The hour is passing. Here or there The curtain swings to lay life's secret bare. Ah, when the dawn of ending breaks around, Be it that in Love's garden I am found. To immortality I leave but this: Your head reclining in a swoon of bliss, Your hand uplifted to pour out the wine, The minstrels singing this one song of mine. COLERIDGE KENNARD A Country MoodTake now a country mood, Resolve, distil it: Nine Acre swaying alive, June flowers that fill it, Spicy sweetbriar bush, The uneasy wren Fluttering from ash to birch And back again, Milkwort on its low stem, Spread hawthorn-tree, Sunlight patching the wood, A hive-bound bee, Girls riding nim-nim-nim. Ladies, trot-trot, Gentlemen hard at gallop, Shouting, steam-hot. Now over the rough turf Bridles go jingle, And there's a well-loved pool By Fox's Dingle Where Sweetheart, my brown mare, Old Glory's daughter, May loll her leathern tongue In snow-cool water. ROBERT GRAVES SciroccoOut of that high pavilion Where the sick, wind-harassed sun In the whiteness of the day Ghostly shone and stole away— ParchÈd with the utter thirst Of unnumbered Libyan sands, Thou, cloud-gathering spirit, burst Out of arid Africa To the tideless sea, and smote On our pale, moon-coolÈd lands The hot breath of a lion's throat. And that furnace-heated breath Blew into my placid dreams The heart of fire from whence it came: Haunt of beauty and of death Where the forest breaks in flame Of flaunting blossom, where the flood Of life pulses hot and stark, Where a wing'd death breeds in mud And tumult of tree-shadowed streams— Black waters, desolately hurled Through the uttermost, lost, dark, Secret places of the world. There, O swift and terrible Being, wast thou born; and thence, Like a demon loosed from hell, Stripped with rending wings the dense Echoing forests, till their bowed Plumes of trees like tattered cloud Were toss'd and torn, and cried aloud As the wood were rack'd with pain: Thence thou freed'st thy wings, and soon From the moaning, stricken plain In whorlÈd eagle-soarings rose To melt the sun-defeating snows Of the Mountains of the Moon, To dull their glaciers with fierce breath, To slip the avalanches' rein, To set the laughing torrents free Where men of thirst must wither and die While the vultures stare in the sun's eye; Where slowly sifting sands are strown On broken cities, whose bleaching bones Whiten in moonlight stone on stone Over their pitiful dust thy blast Passed in columns of whirling sand, Leapt the desert and swept the strand Of the cool and quiet sea, Gathering mighty shapes, and proud Phantoms of monstrous, wave-born cloud, And northward drove this panoply Till the sky seemed charging on the land.... Yet, in that plumÈd helm, the most Of thy hot power was cooled or lost, So that it came to me at length, Faint and tepid and shorn of strength, To shiver an olive-grove that heaves A myriad moonlight-coloured leaves, And in the stone-pine's dome set free A murmur of the middle sea: A puff of warm air in the night So spent by its impetuous flight It scarce invades my pillar'd closes,— To waft their fragrance from the sweet Buds of my lemon-coloured roses Or strew blown petals at my feet: To kiss my cheek with a warm sigh And in the tired darkness die. FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG Anacapri |
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