** L* "^ «bv* • ** ^ --"OK* ^ ** • . i « y • ***** : -lilf* 8 ^^ wW* ; *?%> : .iH «* » • o ***<&&:. *~ f i&& ^ °c The Book of Modern British Verse /, The Book of Modern British Verse Edited by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, I9I 9 BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY (incorporated) THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. JAN 1 2 1920 v OC! 4561453 V ^0 ^ TO H. P. S. THESE SYDNEIAN SHOWERS GOSSAMERY APRIL GOLDEN OCTOBER FOREWORD This little collection is intended to present to Ameri- can readers the character of contemporary British verse. The period has now definitely assumed the name of " Georgian." It began with John Masefield and has grown into the newer blossoming of Seigfried Sassoon, Robert Graves, and Robert Nichols. The late petals of the Victorian flower began to droop under the reign of Edward VII. They dropped to the ground at the first touch of the frosty truth in the sub- stance, and the converting concreteness in the expres- sion, of " The Everlasting Mercy " and M The Widow in the Bye Street." The new era began with an as- sault upon reality and a shock of symbols. And upon it descended the conflagration of the world. The sow- ing was turned to the surface by a world war. The re-sowing began in the trenches : the first fruits of which are beautiful to the eye but bitter to the taste. What the full harvest will be no one can say, because the present bad weather of social, economic, and polit- ical turmoil is raging over the fields of dream. The contemporary poets of Great Britain are much read and admired in America, a compliment not paid by Great Britain to American poets. I have edited this volume as a companion to the " Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse " to link the contemporaneous FOREWORD periods of British and American poetry. The present volume will serve to indicate, I trust, what the most recent character of British poetry is like. Points of difference with our own art, and they are fundamental in mood, may be studied. The instinct at present in America to appreciate good poetry from whatever source, will not permit these points of national and cultural difference to dull the enjoyment of an art whose nature we had begun to look upon as a little in- adequate to our conception and understanding of life. Our own poetic independence has brought us to the point when we can enjoy British poetry when it is most British. W. S. B. Arlington Heights, Massachusetts. October 2, 1919. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For selections in this volume thanks are due to the fol- lowing publishers for permission to use the poems by the authors mentioned : The Macmillan Co. for poems by John Masefield, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Ralph Hodgson, James Stephens, and George Rostrevor. E. P. Dutton and Co., for poems by Winifred M. Letts, Siegfried Sassoon, Evelyn Underhill and Herbert Trench. Henry Holt and Co., for poems by Walter de la Mare, Padraic Colum and Edward Thomas. George H. Doran Co., poems by Cicely Fox Smith and May Doney. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., poems by Robert Graves, William H. Davies, Hester Sainsbury, and J. C. Squire. Frederick A. Stokes Co., poems by Robert Nichols, Theo- dore Maynard and Thomas MacDonagh. John Lane Co., poems by Lascelles Abercrombie, Iris Tree and Rupert Brooke. Houghton Mifflin Co., for poems by John Drinkwater and F. S. Flint. Duffield and Co., for poems by Francis Ledwidge. Longmans, Green and Co., for poems by Eva Gore-Booth, Willoughby Weaving and Bernard Gilbert; and as the American representatives of B. H. Blackwell of Ox- ford, for poems by Esbert Sitwell, Sacheverell Sitwell, Edith Sitwell, Sherard Vines, Aldous Huxley, T. W. Earp, Lucy Hawkins, Elizabeth Rendall, Dorothy D. Sayers, Gwen Upcott and Fredegond Shove. G. P. Putnams' Sons, for poems by John McCrae, Charles Hamilton Sorley, and James C. Welsh. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Four Seas Co., for poems by Seosamh MacGath- mhaoil (Joseph Campbell), and Richard Aldington. Thomas B. Mosher, for poems by Lucy Lyttelton. R. W. Huebsch, for a poem by Irene Rutherford McLeod. Small, Maynard and Co., for a poem by Joseph Mary Plunkett. Elkin Mathews, for poems by Gordon Bottomley. Burns and Oates, for a poem by Gilbert K. Chesterton. Martin Secker, for poems by James Elroy Flecker. Selwyn and Blunt, for poems by John Freeman. Sidgwick and Jackson, for a poem by W. J. Turner. Poetry Bookshop, London, for poems by Harold Monro. The Smart Set Magazine, for the poem by Lord Dunsany. CONTENTS i. Time, You Old Gipsy Man I Ralph Hodgson 2. The Star 2 Willoughby Weaving 3. Discovery 3 John Freeman 4. Music Comes 4 John Freeman 5. Clavichords 5 Osbert Sitwell 6. Who Buys Land 7 Seosamh MacCathmhaoil 7. Symbols 8 John Drinkwater 8. So Much is Altered 8 T. W. Earp 9. Man 9 William H. Davies 10. A Man Dreams that He is the Creator .... 10 Fredegond Shove 11. Every Thing 11 Harold Monro 12. Children's Song 14 Ford Madox Hueifer 13. The Carol of the Poor Children 15 Richard Mid die ton 14. Wishes for My Son 16 Thomas MacDonagh xi CONTENTS 15. The Two Children 18 William H. Davie s 16. Quod Semper 18 Lucy Lyttelton 17. Catharine 20 William H. Davies 18. Eager Spring 21 Gordon Bottomley 19. A Song of April 22 Francis Ledwidge 20. Spring 23 Hester Sainsbury 21. Sunrise on Rydal Water 26 John Drinkwater 22. The Bird at Dawn 28 Harold Monro 23. The Kingfisher 20, William H. Davies 24. Netted Strawberries 29 Gordon Bottomley 2$. The Wind 3 1 , Elizabeth Rendall 26. In the Country 32 William H. Davies 27. Behind the Closed Eye 33 Francis Ledwidge 28. Wanderlust 34 Gerald Gould 29. The South Country 35 Hilaire Be Hoc 30. I AM THE MOUNTAINY SlNGER 37 Seosamh MacCathmhaoil 31. The Ascetics 38 George Rostrevor xii CONTENTS 32. Reciprocity 39 John Drinkwater 33. Magic 40 W . J. Turner 34. Stone Trees 42 John Freeman 35. If I Should Ever by Chance 43 Edward Thomas 36. What Shall I Give? 44 Edward Thomas 37. If I Were to Own 45 Edward Thomas 38. And You, Helen 46 Edward Thomas 39. The Fish 47 Rupert Brooke 40. Mole 49 Aid ous Huxley 41. The Bull 51 Ralph Hodgson 42. Bodily Beauty 58 George Rostrevor 43. Any Lover, Any Lass 59 Richard Mid diet on 44. " Bid Adieu to Girlish Days " 60 James Joyce 45. Love Came to Us 61 James Joyce 46. After Two Years 61 Richard Aldington 47. A Song of Woman's Smiling 62 May Doney 48. To My Wife 64 James C. Welsh xiii CONTENTS 49. C. L. M 65 John Maseiield 50. The Mandrake's Horrid Scream 66 Bernard Gilbert 51. An Old Woman of the Roads . 69 Padraic Colum 52. Old Woman Forever Sitting 70 Iris Tree 53. Xo Wife 71 Bernard Gilbert 54. Marriage Song 76 Lascelles Abercrombie 55. The Affinity 82 Anne Wick ham 56. The Ballad of Camden Town 83 James Elroy Flecker 57- Eve 85 Ralph Hodgson 58. Balkis 87 Lascelles Abercrombie 59. Lancelot and Guinevere 89 Gerald Gould 60. A Ballad of Doom 90 Elisabeth Rend all 61. Dust 93 Rupert Brooke 62. To a Greek Marble 95 Richard Aldington 63. Epilogue 96 Lascelles Abercrombie 64. The Golden Journey to Samarkand 101 James Elroy Flecker 65. Arabia 104 Walter de la Mare xiv CONTENTS 66. Babylon 105 Ralph Hodgson 67. Babylon . . . . 107 Viola Taylor 68. The Bough of Nonsense 108 Robert Graves 69. A Song for Grocers 109 Sherard Vines 70. " PSITTACHUS EOIS IMITATRIX ALES AB INDIS " . .Ill Sacheverell Sitwell 71. Fables . .' 112 Sacheverell Sitwell 72. Check 113 James Stephens 73. Myself on the Merry-Go-Round 114 Edith Sitwell 74. Philosophy 116 Cicely Fox Smith 75. Billy's Yarn 118 Cicely Fox Smith 76. "Ships that Pass" 119 Cicely Fox Smith 77. " In Prize" 122 Cicely Fox Smith 78. The Little Waves of Breffny 124 Eva Gore-Booth 79. Cargoes 125 John M as c field 80. Deep Water Jack 125 Cicely Fox Smith 81. Uxbridge Road 126 Evelyn Under hill 82. Sorley's Weather 128 Robert Graves xv CONTENTS 83. A Drover 129 Padraic Colum 84. Haymaking 131 Edward Thomas 85. There are Songs Enough 132 Iris Tree 86. Happy is England Now 134 John Freeman 87. August, 1914 135 John Maseileld 88. 1914 138 Rupert Brooke 89. The Kiss 141 Siegfried Sassoon 90. The Spires of Oxford 142 Winifred M. Letts 91. Conscripts 143 Siegfried Sassoon 92. Youth and Age 144 Osbert Sitwell 93. Before Action 145 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 94. The Iron Music 146 Ford Madox Huetfer 95. To the Poet Before Battle 147 Ivor Gurney 96. The Fear 147 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 97. The Question 148 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 98. In the Trenches 148 Richard Aldington 99. Dreamers 150 Siegfried Sassoon xvi CONTENTS ioo. Dusk 150 F. S. Flint 101. The Birds Flit Unafraid 153 Herbert Trench 102. A Mystic as Soldier 153 Siegfried Sassoo)i 103. Terror 154 Richard Aldington 104. Into Battle 156 Julian Grenfell 105. The Assault Heroic 157 Robert Graz cs 106. The Assault 159 Robert Nichols 107. To Any Dead Officer 163 Siegfried Sassoon 108. By the Wood 165 Robert Nichols 109. Songs from the Evil Wood 166 Lord Dunsany 110. It's a Queer Time 170 Robert Graves in. Back 171 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 112. The Return 172 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 113. To an Officer in Regent Street 172 Lucy Hawkins 114. To Germany 173 Charles Hamilton Sorley 115. The Rainbow 173 Leslie Coulson 116. Discharged — Totally Disabled 175 Irene Rutherford McLeod xvii CONTEXTS 117. To a Bull-Dog 177 /. C. Squire 118. When It's Over 180 Max Plow man 119. In Flanders Fields 182 John McCrac 120. The Old Houses of Flanders 182 Ford Madox Hueffcr 121. Pic-nic 183 Rose Macaulay 122. The Dying Patriot 185 James Elroy Flecker 123. Lepanto 187 G. K. Chesterton 124. I AM THE GlLLY OF CHRIST . . IQ4 Seosamh MacCathmhaoil 125. Regnum Caelorum Vim Patitur 195 Evelyn Under hill 126. Brother Fidelis 197 Gwen Upeott 127. Two Carols 199 Evelyn Under hill 128. Triptych 200 Robert Nichols 129. Simon the Cyrenean 209 Lucy Lyttelton 130. Birthright 211 John Drink water 131. Harvest 211 Eva Gore-Booth 132. The Dark Way 212 Joseph Mary Plunk ett 133. The Backward Glance * . . . . 214 Evelyn Under hill xviii CONTENTS 134. Gallows 215 Edward Thomas 135. Plaint of Friendship by Death Broken .... 217 Robert Nichols 136. An Epitaph 220 Walter de la Mare 137. The Listeners 220 Walter de la Mare 138. The Whisperers 221 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 139. The House of the Soul: Lay 222 Dorothy L. Sayers 140. Divina Com media 232 Eva Gore-Booth 141. Niccolo Machiavelli 238 Bernard Gilbert 142. Biography 2 ^q John MaseHeld J 43. Nod 24 g Walter de la Mare 144. Sonnet 24Q Fredegond Shove 145. Kisses in the Rain 249 D. H. Lawrence 146. We Would See Love 251 Charles Williams 147. Amourette 252 Anna Wickham 148. The Faithful Amorist 253 Anna Wickham 149- The Mummer 254 Anna Wickham 150. The World's Miser 255 Theodore Maynard 151- Apocalypse 256 Theodore Maynard xix The Book of Modern British Verse Time, You Old Gipsy Man TIME, you old gipsy man, Will you rrot stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I'll give you Will you be my guest. Bells for your jennet Of silver the best. Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing. Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome ; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein — Only a moment, And off once again ; Off to some citv THE BOOK OF Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? Ralph Hodgson The Star BEAUTY had first my pride; But now my heart she hath, And all the whole world wide Is Beauty's path ! By mountain, field and flood I walked in hardihood; But now with delicate pace Her steps I trace. Once did my spirit dare In fond presumptuous dream To make her ways more fair That fair did seem. But all the world became Her ways elect, to shame With their least lovely lot My loftiest thought. MODERN BRITISH VERSE Her worshipful bright fire ! Ah! Whither will it lead My burning faint desire And feet that bleed? Far in my failing view, A pure and blazing gem, She lights on earth the New Jerusalem ! Willoughby Weaving 3 Discovery BEAUTY walked over the hills and made them bright. She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars, But not like stars cold, severe, terrible. Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped, Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide. Hers the bright light within the quick green Of every new leaf on the oldest tree. It was her swimming made the river run Shining as the sun; Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark, Singing in the incessant lark . . . All this was hers — yet all this had not been Except 'twas seen. It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright; My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins, The vehemence of transfiguring thought — 3 THE BOOK OF Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains — That made thy wonders wonderful. For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee, Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play, Empty of meaning and so of all delight. Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss, Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth, And I have paid thee with my thankfulness. John Freeman Music Comes MUSIC comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep Dreamily, half asleep; When through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep, Oboe oboe following, Flute answering clear high flute, Voices, voices — falling mute, And the jarring drums. At night I heard First a waking bird Out of the quiet darkness sing . . . Music comes Strangely to the brain asleep ! And I heard Soft, wizard fingers sweep Music from the trembling string, 4 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep; Oboe oboe following, Flute calling clear high flute, Voices faint, falling mute, And low jarring drums; Then all those airs Sweetly jangled — newly strange, Rich with change . . . Was it the wind in the reeds? Did the wind range Over the trembling string; Into flute and oboe pouring Solemn music; sinking, soaring Low to high, Up and down the sky? Was it the w T ind jarring Drowsy far-off drums? Strangely to the brain asleep Music comes. John Freeman 5 Clavichords [To Mrs. Gordon Woodhouse] ITS pure and dulcet tone So clear and cool Rings out — tho' muffled by the centuries Passed by ; Each note THE BOOK OF A distant sigh From some dead lovely throat. A sad' cascade of sound Floods the dim room with faded memories Of beauty that has gone. Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool, Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground) ; — Like moonlit skies Or some far song harmonious and sublime — Breaking the leaden slumber of the night. A perfume, faint yet fair As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn Seeming to flower alone Within the arid wilderness of Time The music fills the air Soft as the outspread fluttering wings Of flower-bright butterflies That dive and float Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn. The rippling sound of silver strings Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves Break over rocks, And into hidden caves Of silent waters — never to be found — Waters as clear and glistening as gems. And in this ancient pool of melodies, So soothing, deep, We search for strange lost images and diadems And old drowned pleasures, — Each one shining bright 6 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep. As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat Blown by a salt cool breeze — Laden with age-old treasures And rich merchandise, Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas, — So this last glowing note Hovers a while, — then dies. Osbert Sitwell 6 Who Buys Land WHO buys land buys many stones. Who buys flesh buys many bones ; Who buys eggs buys many shells. Who buys love buys nothing else. Love is a burr upon the floor. Love is a thief behind the door; Who loves leman for her breath May quench his fire and cry for death ! Love is a bridle, love is a load, Love is a thorn upon the road ; Love is the fly that flits its hour, Love is the shining venom-flower. Love is a net, love is a snare, Love is a bubble blown with air ; THE BOOK OF Love starts hot, and waning cold, Is withered in the grave's mould ! Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) 7 Symbols I SAW history in a poet's song, In a river reach and a gallows-hill, In a bridal bed, and a secret wrong, In a crown of thorns: in a daffodil. I imagined measureless time in a day, And starry space in a wagon-road, And the treasure of all good harvests lay In a single seed that the sower sowed. My garden-wind had driven and havened again All ships that ever had gone to sea, And I saw the glory of all dead men In the shadow that went by the side of me. John Drinkwater 8 So Mitch is Altered SO much is altered; we no longer write As those poets did, who, in their pride and might, Went from their fellows and made a lonely song Of their own victory or defeat and wrong, Hewed out a great battle with the world. For they were titans; passion on passion hurled, 8 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Raised them to God. Men saw them, as from far Eve-weary shepherds watch a distant star. But now we go to cities, feel the need To be near each other, to flow in crowds, to feed On their rich human presences. We have said That the ancient terror, loneliness, is dead. Soul is like soul ; the old enmity is past, The w r ar of self and self. And now at last The poet has learned to serve; with the rest he weaves The one fair pattern, and with them believes That life is a green tree with many whispering leaves. T. W. Earp Man I SAW Time running by — Stop, Thief, was all the cry. I heard a voice say, Peace ! Let this vain clamour cease. Can ye bring lightning back That leaves upon its track Men, horses, oak trees dead? Canst bring back Time? it said. There's nothing in Man's mind Can catch Time up behind ; In front of that fast Thief There's no one — end this grief. Tut, what is Man? How frail! A grain, a little nail, The wind, a change of cloth — A fly can give him death. THE BOOK OF Some fishes in the sea Are born to outlive thee, And owls, and toads, and trees — And is Man more than these? I see Man's face in all Things, be they great or small ; I see the face of him In things that fly or swim; One fate for all, I see — Whatever that may be. Imagination fits Life to a day; though its Length were a thousand years, 'Twould not decrease our fears; What strikes men cold and dumb Is that Death's time must come. William H. Davies io A Man Dreams That He is the Creator 1SAT in heaven like the sun Above a storm when winter was: I took the snowflakes one by one And turned their fragile shapes to glass: I washed the rivers blue with rain And made the meadows green again. I took the birds and touched their springs, Until they sang unearthly joys: io MODERN BRITISH VERSE They flew about on golden wings And glittered like an angel's toys : I filled the fields with flowers' eyes, As white as stars in Paradise. And then I looked on man and knew Him still intent on death — still proud; Whereat into a rage I flew And turned my body to a cloud: In the dark shower of my soul The star of earth was swallowed whole. Fredegond Shove ii Every Thing SINCE man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), He has not understood the little cries And foreign conversations of the small Delightful creatures that have followed him Not far behind; Has failed to hear the sympathetic call Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind Reposeful Teraphim Of his domestic happiness; the Stool He sat on, or the Door he entered through He has not thanked them, overbearing fool ! What is he coming to? ii THE BOOK OF But you should listen to the talk of these. Honest they are, and patient they have kept, Served him without his Thank you or his Please I often heard The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, Murmuring, before I slept. The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud, Then bowed, And in a smoky argument Into the darkness went. The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath : — 4 Pooh ! I have boiled his water, I don't know Why; and he always says I boil too slow. He never calls me " Sukie, dear," and oh, I wonder why I squander my desire Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire.' Now the old Copper Basin suddenly Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, Bumping and crying: 'I can fall by myself; Without a woman's hand To patronize and coax and flatter me. I understand The lean and poise of gravitable land.' It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, Twisted itself convulsively about, Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare, It stares and grins at me. The old impetuous Gas above my head Begins irascibly to flare and fret, 12 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Wheezing into its epileptic jet, Reminding me 1 ought to go to bed. The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot. Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again. The Putty cracks against the window-pane. A piece of Paper in the basket shoves Another piece, and toward the bottom moves. My independent Pencil, while I write", Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock Stirs all its body and begins to rock. Warning the waiting presence of the Night, Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain Ticking of ordinary work again. You do well to remind me, and I praise Your strangely individual foreign ways. You call me from myself to recognize Companionship in your unselfish eyes. I want your dear acquaintances, although I pass you arrogantly over, throw Your lovely sounds, and squander them along My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong. Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat. You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat, Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak. Your touch grow kindlier from week to week. It well becomes our mutual happiness 13 THE BOOK OF To go toward the same end more or less. There is not much dissimilarity, Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine, Between the purposes of you and me, And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine. Harold Monro 12 Children's Song SOMETIMES wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again ; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know Why the weather alters so. When the weather's really good We go nutting in the wood; When it rains we stay at home, And then sometimes other some Of the neighbors' children come. Sometimes we have jam and meat, All the things we like to eat; Sometimes we make do with bread And potatoes boiled instead. Once when we were put to bed We had nowt and mother cried, But that was after father died. So, sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; 14 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know If things will always alter so. Ford Madox Hueffer 13 The Carol of the Poor Children WE are the poor children, come out to see the sights On this day of all days, on this night of nights; The stars in merry parties are dancing in the sky, A fine star, a new star, is shining on high ! We are the poor children, our lips are frosty blue, We cannot sing our carol as well as rich folk do ; Our bellies are so empty we have no singing voice, But this night of all nights good children must rejoice. We do rejoice, we do rejoice, as hard as we can try, A fine star, a new star, is shining in the sky ! And while we sing our carol, we think of the delight The happy kings and shepherds make in Bethlehem to-night. Are we naked, mother, and are we starving-poor — Oh, see what gifts the kings have brought outside the stable door ; Are we cold, mother, the ass will give his hay To make the manger warm and keep the cruel winds away. 15 THE BOOK OF We are the poor children, but not so poor who sing Our carol with our voiceless hearts to greet the new- born king, On this night of all nights, when in the frosty sky A new star, a kind star, is shining on high ! Richard Middleton 14 Wishes for My Son Born on St. Cecilia's Day, 1912 NOW, my son, is life for you, And I wish you joy of it, — Joy of power in all you do, Deeper passion, better wit Than I had who had enough, Quicker life and length thereof, More of every gift but love. Love I have beyond all men, Love that now you share with me — What have I to wish you then But that you be good and free, And that God to you may give Grace in stronger days to live? For I wish you more than I Ever knew of glorious deed, Though no rapture passed me by That an eager heart could heed, Though I followed heights and sought Things the sequel never brought: 16 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Wild and perilous holy things Flaming with a martyr's blood, And the joy that laughs and sings Where a foe must be withstood, Joy of headlong happy chance Leading on the battle dance. But I found no enemy, No man in a world of wrong, That Christ's word of Charity Did not render clean and strong — Who was I to judge my kind, . Blindest groper of the blind? God to you may give the sight And the clear undoubting strength Wars to knit for single right, Freedom's war to knit at length, And to win, through wrath and strife, To the sequel of my life, But for you, so small and young, Born on Saint Cecilia's Day, I in more harmonious song Now for nearer joys should pray — Simple joys: the natural growth Of your childhood and your youth, Courage, innocence, and truth : These for you, so small and young, In your hand and heart and tongue. Thomas MacDonagh THE BOOK OF 15 The Two Children 44 A H, little boy! I see ii You have a wooden spade^ Into this sand you dig So deep — for what?" I said. " There's more rich gold," said he, " Down under where I stand, Than twenty elephants Could move across the land." 11 Ah, little girl with wool ! — What are you making now ? " " Some stockings for a bird, To keep his legs from snow." And there those children are, So happy, small, and proud: The boy that digs his grave, The girl that knits her shroud. William H. Davie s 16 Quod Semper CHILD WHAT wind is this across the roofs so softly makes his way, That hardly makes the wires to sing, or soaring smokes to sway? 18 MODERN BRITISH VERSE WIND I am a weary southern wind that blows the livelong day Over the stones of Babylon, Babylon, Babylon, The ruined walls of Babylon, all fallen in decay. Oh, I have blown o'er Babylon when royal was her state, When fifty men in gold and steel kept watch at every gate, When merchant-men and boys and maids thronged early by and late Under the gates of Babylon, Babylon, Babylon, The marble gates of Babylon, when Babylon was great. CHILD Good weary wind, a little while pray let your course be stayed, And tell me of the talk they held and what the people said, The funny folk of Babylon before that they were dead, That walked abroad in Babylon, Babylon, Babylon, Before the towers of Babylon along the ground were laid. WIND The folk that walked in Babylon, they talked of wind and rain, 19 THE BOOK OF Of ladies' looks, of learned books, of merchants' loss and gain, How such-an-one loved such-a-maid that loved him not again (For maids were fair in Babylon), Babylon, Babylon, Also the poor in Babylon of hunger did complain. CHILD But this is what the people say as on their way they go, Under my window in the street, I heard them down below. WIND What other should men talk about five thousand years ago? For men they were in Babylon, Babylon, Babylon, That now are dust in Babylon I scatter to-and-fro. Lucy Lyttelton 77 Catharine WE children every morn would wait For Catharine, at the garden gate; Behind school-time, her sunny hair Would melt the master's frown of care, What time his hand but threatened pain, Shaking aloft his awful cane; 20 MODERN BRITISH VERSE So here one summer's morn we wait For Catharine at the garden gate. To Dave I say — " There's sure to be Some coral isle unknown at sea, And — if I see it first — 'tis mine! But I'll give it to Catharine." " When she grows up," says Dave to me, " Some ruler in a far countree, Where every voice but his is dumb, Owner of pearls, and gold, and gun, Will build for her a shining throne, Higher than his, and near his own; And he, who would not list before, Will listen to Catharine, and adore Her face and form; and," Dave went on — When came a man there pale and wan, Whose face was dark and wet though kind, He, coming there, seemed like a wind Whose breath is rain, yet will not stop To give the parched flowers a drop: " Go, children, to your school," he said, " And tell the master Catharine's dead." William H. Davics iS Eager Spring WHIRL, snow, on the blackbird's chatter; You will not hinder his song to come. East wind, Sleepless, you cannot scatter Quince-bud, almond-bud, Little grape-hyacinth's 21 THE BOOK OF Clustering brood, Xor unfurl the tips of the plum. No half born stalk of a lily stops; There is sap in the storm-torn bush ; And, ruffled by gusts in a snow-blurred copse, " Pity to wait," sings a thrush. Love, there are few Springs left for us; They go, and the count of them as they go Makes surer the count that is left for us. More than the East wind, more than the snow, I would put back these hours that bring Buds and bees and are lost ; I would hold the night and the frost, To save for us one more Spring. Gordon Bottomley i g A Song of April THE censer of the eglantine was moved By little lane winds, and the watching faces Of garden flowerets, which of old she loved. Peep shyly outward from their silent places. But when the sun arose the flowers grew bolder, And she will be in white, I thought, and she Will have a cuckoo on her either shoulder, And woodbine twines and fragrant wings of pea. And I will meet her on the hills of South, And I will lead her to a northern water. My wild one, the sweet, beautiful, uncouth, 22 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The eldest maiden of the Winter's daughter. And down the rainbows of her noon shall slide Lark music, and the little sunbeam people And nomad wings shall fill the river side, And ground winds rocking in the lily's steeple. Francis Lcdzvidge 20 Spring EARTH like a butterfly Leaps in gold From its chrysalis old And stiff and cold. A frail pale sky On the brink of dissolving in dreams Covers the year's new birth ; While a passionless sun spinning beams To recapture the heart of the earth — Half daring, half shy, Looking ready to die, Like a sigh, If a violent wind went by — Marries earth to the sky. The grass breaks in ripples of flowers, In purple and chrome, As a sea breaks in foam ; And the lilacs in fountains and showers Of emerald rain, fling Their tiny green buds on the wing — Just poised on the edge of the spring — 23 THE BOOK OF To fly Bye and bye, To burst into loveliness airily fair, In garlands for dryads to weave in their hair, In a virginal dance With a scent to entrance The sweet fickle air — And late when the evening Comes subtle and blue, And stars are all opening Hearts of bright dew — The sun will slip easily, Tenderly, Bright, Out of sight, More silver than gold To behold — Not as in summer he dies, When low in the West he lies In the sanguine flood Of his own heart's blood, Shot by the shaft of the maiden moon, With regret in his eyes That the amazon comes too soon. And my little son Has run From me To the flowery hills, to the dappled sea ; For somebody told him that shepherds in spring Taste the new green sap of the old green trees, And pluck a feather from the wing 24 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Of a throstle While they sing, All together, In a ring, And toss it up into the breeze; And their brains Go mad with the ecstasy coursing their veins, And they wreathe them in violets, dance them in dew, Till their ankles are blue, Through and through Enchantingly cold with sweet pains — While the sun in the clouds Gold-dapples the sheep, Till the stars in bright crowds Tempt the shepherds to sleep; Who with eyes, wild dark, And hair like a flame, Singing still like the lark, Cry loud on the name Of each his Corinna to come and be tame To his love, Like a dove ; And their sheep Turn to silver — and sleep. And my little boy With his young spring joy Will not discover the leanness of truth ; With the magical. Tragical, Credence of youth He will think the sane shepherds he meets on his way 25 THE BOOK OF Are mad to-morrow To his sorrow, Or yesterday. Hester Sainsbury 2i Sunrise on Rydal Water COME down at dawn from windless hills Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island boughs One silence and one element. W r here wonder goes surely as once It went By Galilean prows. Moveless the water and the mist, Moveless the secret air above, Hushed, as upon some happy tryst The poised expectancy of love ; What spirit is it that adores What mighty presence yet unseen? What consummation works apace Between These rapt enchanted shores? Never did virgin beauty wake Devouter to the bridal feast Than moves this hour upon the lake In adoration to the east. 26 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Here is the bride a god may know, The primal will, the young consent, Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent The god shall leap — and, lo, Over the lake's end strikes the sun — White, flameless fire ; some purity Thrilling the mist, a splendor won Out of the world's heart. Let there be Thoughts, and atonements, and desires; Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue ; Where now we move with mortal care Among Immortal dews and fires. So the old mating goes apace, Wind with the sea, and blood with thought. Lover with lover ; and the grace Of understanding comes unsought When stars into the twilight steer, Or thrushes build among the may, Or wonder moves between the hills, And day Comes up on Rydal mere. John Drinkwatcr THE BOOK OF 22 The Bird at Dawn WHAT I saw was just one eye In the dawn as I was going: A bird can carry all the sky In that little button glowing. Never in my life I went So deep into the firmament. He was standing on a tree, All in blossom overflowing; And he purposely looked hard at me, At first, as if to question merrily: "Where are you going?" But next some far more serious thing to say ; I could not answer, could not look away. Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye : Little mirror of all sky ! — And then the after-song another tree Held, and sent radiating back on me. If no man had invented human word, And a bird-song had been The only way to utter what we mean, What would we men have heard, What understood, what seen. Between the trills and pauses, in between The singing and the silence of a bird? Harold Monro 28 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 2 J The Kingfisher IT was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep. Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its mark ; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings. Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain ; Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me. William H. D civics 24 Netted Strawberries 1AM a willow-wren : I twitter in the grass on the chimney-top ; The apples far below will never drop Or turn quite bright, though when 29 THE BOOK OF The aimless wind is still I stand upon the big ones and I peck And find soft places, leaving spot and speck When 1 have munched my fill. Apples and plums I know (Plums are dark weights and full of golden rain That wets neck-feathers when I dip and strain, And stickys each plumy row). But past my well-kept trees The quick small woman in her puffy gown. That flutters as if its sleeves and skirts had grown For flying and airy ease, Has planted little bushes Of large cool leaves that cover and shade and hide Things redder than plums and with gold dimples pied. Dropping on new-cut rushes. At first I thought with spite Such heady scent was only a flower's wide cup; But flower-scents never made my throat close up. And so I stood in my flight. Yet over all there sways A web like those revealed by dawn and dew, But not like those that break and let me through Shivering the drops all ways. Though I alight and swing I never reach the things that tumble and crush, 3° MODERN BRITISH VERSE And if I had such long large legs as a thrush The web would tangle and cling. Gordon Bottomlcy 25 The Wind WHY does the wind so want to be Here in my little room w r ith me? He's all the world to blow about. But just because I keep him out He cannot be a moment still, But frets upon my window sill. And sometimes brings a noisy rain To help him batter at the pane. Upon my door he comes to knock. He rattles, rattles at the lock And lifts the latch and stirs the key — Then waits a moment breathlessly. And soon, more fiercely than before, He shakes my little trembling door, And though " Come in, come in ! " I say, He neither comes nor goes away. Barefoot across the chilly floor I run and open wide the door ; He rushes in and back again He goes to batter door and pane, Pleased to have blown my candle out. He's all the world to blow about. 3i THE BOOK OF Why does he want so much to be Here in my little room with me ? Elizabeth Rendall 26 In the Country THIS life is sweetest; in this wood I hear no .children cry for food: I see no woman, white with care : Xo man, with muscles wasting here. No doubt it is a selfish thing To fly from human suffering; No doubt he is a selfish man, Who shuns poor creatures sad and wan. But 'tis a wretched life to face Hunger in almost every place ; Cursed with a hand that's empty, when The heart is full to help all men. Can I admire the statue great, When living men starve at its feet ! Can I admire the park's green tree, A roof for homeless misery ! When I can see few men in need, I then have power to help by deed, Nor lose my cheerfulness in pity — Which I must do in every city. 32 MODERN BRITISH VERSE For when I am in those great places, I see ten thousand suffering faces: Before me stares a wolfish eye, Behind me creeps a groan or sigh. William H. Davies 27 Behind the Closed Eye I WALK the old frequented ways That wind around the tangled braes, I live again the sunny days Ere I the city knew. And scenes of old again are born, The woodbine lassoing the thorn, And drooping Ruth-like in the corn The poppies weep the dew. Above me in their hundred schools The magpies bend their young to rules, And like an apron full of jewels The dewy cobweb swings. And frisking in the stream below The troutlets make the circles flow, And the hungry crane doth watch them grow As a smoker does his rings. Above me smokes the little town, With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown 33 THE BOOK OF And its octagon spire toned smoothly down As the holy minds within. And wondrous impudently sweet, Half of him passion, half conceit, The blackbird calls adown the street Like the piper of Hamelin. I hear him, and I feel the lure Drawing me back to the homely moor, I'll go and close the mountains' door On the city's strife and din. Francis Lcdwidge 28 Wanderlust BEYOND the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And East and West the wanderlust that will not let me be; It works in me like madness, dear, to bid me say good-by ! For the seas call and the stars call, and oh, the call of the sky ! I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; 34 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And there's no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, Eor the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird ! Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away ; And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why, You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the white road and the sky ! Gerald Gould 2Q The South Country WHEN I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind ; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind. The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea ; And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me. 35 THE BOOK OF The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and gray; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away. The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song. But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies ; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise. I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: 36 MODERN BRITISH VERSE x\nd I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me. Hilaire Belloc 30 / Am the Mount ainy Singer 1AM the mountainy singer — The voice of the peasant's dream, The cry of the wind on the wooded hill, The leap of the fish in the stream. 37 THE BOOK OF Quiet and love I sing — The cairn on the mountain crest, The cailin in her lover's arms, The child at its mother's breast. Beauty and peace I sing — The fire on the open hearth, The caill each spinning at her wheel. The plough in the broken earth. Travail and pain I sing — The bride on the childing bed, The dark man laboring at his rhymes, The ewe in the lambing shed. Sorrow and death I sing — The canker come on the corn, The fisher lost in the mountain loch, The cry at the mouth of morn. No other life I sing. For I am sprung of the stock That broke the hilly land for bread, And built the nest in the rock ! Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) j / The Ascetics A GES long the hills have stood A solitary brotherhood. Ages long with sinews bare Thev have shouldered the keen air, 38 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They have wrestled with the skies Hiddenly for a dark prize. Merry Spring with her wanton train- Tiptoes, tiptoes by in vain ; Ye, O hills, never behold Her brave dust of green and gold Flashing by, the pride, the mirth, The myriad fluttering of the earth. This wild magic ye have lost — Tell me, at so bitter cost, What the guerdon ye have won? " Speech with the moon, speech with the sun ; Valiancy to meet unbowed The challenge of the thundercloud. And, to quicken us for fresh wars, Gay communion with the stars ! " George Rostrevor 32 Reciprocity I DO not think that skies and meadows are Moral, or that the fixture of a star Comes of a quiet spirit, or that trees Have wisdom in their windless silences. Yet these are things invested in my mood With constancy, and peace, and fortitude, That in my troubled season I can cry Upon the wide composure of the sky, 39 THE BOOK OF And envy fields, and wish that I might be As little daunted as a star or tree. John Drinkwatcr 33 Magic 1LOVE a still conservatory That's full of giant, breathless palms, Azaleas, clematis and vines, Whose quietness great Trees becalms Filling the air with foliage, A curved and dreamy statuary. I like to hear a cold, pure rill Of water trickling low, afar With sudden little jerks and purls Into a tank or stoneware jar, The song of a tiny sleeping bird Held like a shadow in its trill. I love the mossy quietness That grows upon the great stone flags, The dark tree-ferns, the staghorn ferns, The prehistoric, antlered stags That carven stand and stare among The silent, ferny wilderness. And are they birds or souls that flit Among the trees so silently? And are they fish or ghosts that haunt The still pools of the rockery? — 40 MODERN BRITISH VERSE For I am but a sculptured rock As in that magic place I sit. Still as a great jewel is the air With boughs and leaves smooth-carved in it, And rocks and trees and giant ferns, And blooms with inner radiance lit, And naked water like a nymph That dances, tireless, slim and bare. I watch a white Nyanza float Upon a green, untroubled pool, A fairyland Ophelia, she Has cast herself in water cool, And lies while fairy cymbals ring, Drowned in her fairy castle moat. The goldfish sing a winding song Below her pale and waxen face, The water-nymph is dancing by, Lifting smooth arms with mournful grace, A stainless white dream she floats on While fairies beat a fairy gong. Silent the Cattleyas blaze And thin red orchid shapes of Death Peer savagely with twisted lips Sucking an eerie, phantom breath With that bright, spotted, fever'd lust That watches lonely travellers craze. 4i THE BOOK OF Gigantic, mauve and hairy leaves Hang like obliterated faces Full of dim unattained expression, Such as haunts virgin forest places When Silence leaps among the trees And the echoing heart deceives. IV. J. Turner 34 Stone Trees LAST night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a. swift terror on the dark. In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like ; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark. Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark. And cows astonied stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid. From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear. In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed, an age, or time was nought. Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill 42 MODERN BRITISH VERSE . Grey granite trees was music wrought. *In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still. It seemed an age, or time was none . . . Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And shivered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep. Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind. From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd : Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light. And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl. John Freeman J5 // / Should Ever by Chance IF I should ever by chance grow rich I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, And let them all to my elder daughter. The rent I shall ask of her will be only Each year's first violets, white and lonely, The first primroses and orchises — She must find them before I do, that is. 43 THE BOOK OF But if she finds a blossom on furze Without rent they shall all for ever be hers, Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, — I shall give them all to my elder daughter. Edward Thomas 36 What Shall I Give? WHAT shall I give my daughter the younger More than will keep her from cold and hunger ? I shall not give her anything. If she shared South Weald and Havering, Their acres, the two brooks running between Paine's Brook and Weald Brook, With peewit, woodpecker, swan, and rook, She would be no richer than the queen Who once on a time sat in Havering Bower Alone, with the shadows, pleasure and power. She could do no more with Samarcand, Or the mountains of a mountain land, And its far white house above cottages, Like Venus above the Pleiades. Her small hands I would not cumber With so many acres and their lumber, But leave her Steep and her own world And her spectacled self with hair uncurled, Wanting a thousand little things That time without contentment brings. Edward Thomas 44 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 37 If I Were to Own IF I were to own this countryside As far as a man in a day could ride, And the Tyes were mine for giving or letting, — Wingle Tye and Margaretting Tye, and Skreens, Gooshays, and Cockerells, Shellow, Rochetts, Bandish, and Pickerells, Martins, Lambkins, and Lillyputs, Their copses, ponds, roads, and ruts, Fields where plough-horses steam and plovers Fling and whimper, hedges that lovers Love, and orchards, shrubberies, walls Where the sun untroubled by north wind falls, And single trees where the thrush sings well His proverbs untranslatable, I would give them all to my son If he would let me any one For a song, a blackbird's song, at dawn. He would have no more, till on my lawn Never a one was left, because I Had shot them to put them into a pie, — His Essex blackbirds, every one, And I was left old and alone. Then unless I could pay, for rent, a song As sweet as a blackbird's, and as long — No more — he should have the house, not I : Margaretting or Wingle Tye, Or it might be Skreens, Gooshays, or Cockerells, 45 THE BOOK OF Shellow, Rochetts, Bandish, or Pickerells, Martins, Lambkins, or Lillyputs, Should be his till the cart tracks had no ruts. Edward Thomas 38 And You, Helen AND you, Helen, what should I give you? So many things I would give you Had I an infinite great store Offered me and I stood before To choose. I would give you youth, All kinds of loveliness and truth, A clear eye as good as mine, Lands, waters, flowers, wine, As many children as your heart Might wish for, a far better art Than mine can be, all you have lost Upon the travelling waters tossed Or given to me. If I could choose Freely in that great treasure-house Anything from any shelf, I would give you back yourself. And power to discriminate What you want and want it not too late. Many fair days free from care And heart to enjoy both foul and fair. And myself, too, if I could find Where it lay hidden and it proved kind. Edward Thomas 46 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 39 The Fish IN a cool curving world he lies And ripples with dark ecstasies. The kind luxurious- lapse and steal Shapes all his universe to feel And know and be ; the clinging stream Closes his memory, glooms his dream. Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides Superb on unreturning tides. Those silent waters weave for him A fluctuant mutable world and dim, Where wavering masses bulge and gape Mysterious, and shape to shape Dies momently through whorl and hollow, And form and line and solid follow Solid and line and form to dream Fantastic down the eternal stream ; An obscure world, a shifting world, Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled, Or serpentine, or driving arrows, Or serene sliding, or March narrows, There slipping wave and shore are one, And weed and mud. No ray of sun, But glow to glow fades down the deep (As dream to unknown dream in sleep) ; Shaken translucency illumes The hyaline of drifting glooms; The strange soft-handed depth subdues Drowned colour there, but black to hues, 47 THE BOOK OF As death to living, decomposes — Red darkness of the heart of roses. Blue brilliant from dead starless skies, And gold that lies behind the eyes, The unknown unnameable sightless white That is the essential flame of night, Lusterless purple, hooded green, The myriad hues that lie between Darkness and darkness ! . . . And all's one, Gentle, embracing, quiet, dun. The world he rests in, world he knows, Perpetual curving. Only — grows And eddy in that ordered falling A knowledge from the gloom, a calling Weed in the wave, gleam in the mud — The dark fire leaps along his blood; Dateless and deathless, blind and still. The intricate impulse works its will ; His woven world drops back ; and he. Sans providence, sans memory, Unconscious and directly driven Fades to some dank sufficient heaven. O world of lips, O world of laughter, Where hope is fleet and thought flies after, Of lights in the clear night, of cries That drift along the wave and rise Thin to the glittering stars above, You know the hands, the eyes of love ! 4 8 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The strife of limbs, the sightless clinging, The infinite distance, and the singing Blown by the wind, a flame of sound, The gleam, the flowers, and vast around The horizon, and the heights above — You know the sigh, the song of love ! But there the night is close, and there Darkness is cold and strange and bare; And the secret deeps are whisperless ; And rhythm is all deliciousness ; And joy is in the throbbing tide, Whose intricate fingers treat and glide In felt bewildering harmonies Of trembling touch ; and music is The exquisite knocking of the blood. Space is no more, under the mud ; His bliss is older than the sun. Silent and straight the waters run. The lights, the cries, the willows dim, And the dark tide are one with him. Rupert Brooke 40 Mole TUNNELLED in solid blackness creeps, The old mole-soul and wakes or sleeps, He knows not which, but tunnels on Through ages of oblivion, Until at last the long constraint 49 THE BOOK OF Of each handwall is lost and faint ; Comes daylight creeping from afar ; And mole-work grows crepuscular. Tunnel meets air and bursts; mole sees Men hugely walking ... or are they trees? And far horizons smoking blue And wandering clouds for ever new. Green hills, like lighted lamps aglow Or quenching 'neath the cloud-shadow. Quenching and blazing turn by turn Spring's great green signals fitfully burn. Mole travels on, but finds the steering A harder task of pioneering Than when he thridded through the strait. Blind catacombs that ancient fate Had carved for him. Stupid and dumb And blind and touchless he had come A way without a turn ; but here Under the sky the passenger Chooses his own best way, and mole Distracted wanders ; yet his hole Regrets not much wherein he crept But runs, a joyous nympholept, This way and that, by all made mad: River nymph and Oread, Ocean's daughters, and Lorelei Combing the silken mystery, The glaucous gold of her rivery tresses . . . Each haunts the traveller, each possesses The drunken wavering soul awhile, Then with a phantom's cock-crow smile Mocks craving with sheer vanishment. 5° MODERN BRITISH VERSE Mole-eyes grow hawk's ; knowledge is lent In grudging driblets that pay high Unconscionable usury To relenting life. Mole learns To travel more secure ; the turns Of his long way less puzzling seem And all those magic forms that gleam In airy invitation cheat Less often than they did of old. The earth slopes upward, fold on fold Of quiet hills that meet the gold Serenity of western skies. Over the world's edge with clear eyes Our mole transcendent sees his way Tunnelled in light. He must obey Necessity again and thrid Close catacombs as erst he did, Fate's tunnellings himself must bore Through the sunset's inmost core. The guiding walls to each hand shine Luminous and crystalline ; And mole shall tunnel on and on Till night let fall oblivion. Aldous L. Huxley 41 The Bull SEE an unhappy bull, Sick in soul and body both, Slouching in the undergrowth THE BOOK OF Of the forest beautiful, Banished from the herd he led, Bulls and cows a thousand head Cranes and gaudy parrots go Up and down the burning sky; Tree-top cats purr drowsily In the dim-day green below; And troops of monkeys, nutting, some, All disputing, go and come; And things abominable sit Picking offal buck or swine, On the mess and over it Burnished flies and beetles shine And spiders big as bladders lie Under hemlocks ten foot high ; And a dotted serpent curled Round and round and round a tree, Yellowing its greenery. Keeps a watch on all the world, All the world and this old bull In the forest beautiful. Bravely by his fall he came: One he led, a bull of blood Newly come to lustihood. Fought and put his prince to shame Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head Tameless even while it bled. 5 2 MODERN BRITISH VERSE There they left him, every one, Left him there without a lick, Left him for the birds to pick, Left him there for carrion, Vilely from their bosom cast Wisdom, worth and love at last. When the lion left his lair And roared his beauty through the hills, And the vultures pecked their quills And flew into the middle air, Then this prince no more to reign Came to life and lived again. He snuffed the herd in far retreat. He saw the blood upon the ground, And snuffed the burning airs around Still with beevish odours sweet, While the blood ran down his head And his mouth ran slaver red. Pity him, this fallen chief, All his splendour, all his strength All his body's breadth and length Dwindled down with shame and grief, Half the bull he was before, Bones and leather, nothing more. See him standing dewlap-deep In the rushes at the lake, Surly, stupid, half asleep, Waiting for his heart to break 53 THE BOOK OF And the birds to join the flies Feasting at his bloodshot eyes, — Standing with his head hung down In a stupor, dreaming things: Green savannas, jungles brown, Battlefields and bellowings, Bulls undone and lions dead And vultures flapping overhead. Dreaming things: of days he spent With his mother gaunt and lean In the valley warm and green, Full of baby wonderment. Blinking out of silly eyes At a hundred mysteries; Dreaming over once again I low he wandered with a throng Of bulls and cows a thousand strong, Wandered on from plain to plain, Up the hill and down the dale, Always at his mother's tail; How he lagged behind the herd. Lagged and tottered, weak of limb, And she turned and ran to him, Blaring at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies Waiting for the flesh that dies. 54 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Dreaming maybe of a day When her drained and drying paps Turned him to the sweets and saps. Richer fountains by the way. And she left the bull she bore And he looked to her no more; And his little frame grew stout, And his little legs grew strong And the way was not so long; And his little horns came out, And he played at butting trees And boulder-stones and tortoises. Joined a game of knobby skulls With the youngsters of his year, All the other little bulls, Learning both to bruise and bear, Learning how to stand a shock Like a little bull of rock. Dreaming of a day less dim, Dreaming of a time less far, When the faint but certain star Of destiny burned clear for him, And a fierce and wild unrest Broke the quiet of his breast, And the gristles of his youth Hardened in his comely pow, And he came to fighting growth, Beat his bull and won his cow, 55 THE BOOK OF And flew his tail and trampled off Passed the tallest, vain enough, And curved about in splendour full And curved again and snuffed the airs As who should say Come out who dares ! And all beheld a bull, a Bull, And knew that here was surely one That backed for no bull, fearing none. And the leader of the herd Looked and saw, and beat the ground, And shook the forest with his sound, Bellowed at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies Waiting for the flesh that dies. Dreaming, this old bull forlorn, Surely dreaming of the hour When he came to sultan power, And they owned him master-horn, Chiefest bull of all among Bulls and cows a thousand strong; And in all the tramping herd Not a bull that barred his way, Not a cow that said him nay. Not a bull or cow that erred In the furnace of his look. Dared a second, worse rebuke ; 56 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Not in all the forest wide, Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen, Not another dared him then, Dared him and again defied; Not a sovereign buck or boar Came a second-time for4»or,e; Not a serpent that survived Once the terrors of his hoof Risked a second time reproof, Came a second time and lived, Not a serpent in its skin Came again for discipline; Not a leopard bright as flame, Flashing fingerhooks of steel, That a wooden tree might feel, Met his fury once and came For a second reprimand, Not a leopard in the land; Not a lion of them all, Not a lion of the hills, Hero of a thousand kills, Dared a second fight and fall, Dared that ram terrific twice, Paid a second time the price. . . . Pity him, this dupe of dream, Leader of the herd again Only in his daft old brain, Once again the bull supreme 57 THE BOOK OF And bull enough to bear the part Only in his tameless heart. Pity him that he must wake; Even now the swarm of flies Blackening his bloodshot eyes Bursts and blusters round the lake. Scattered from the feast half-fed, By great shadows overhead. And the dreamer turns away From his visionary herds And his splendid yesterday, Turns to meet the loathly birds Flocking round him from the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies. Ralph Hodgson 42 Bodily Beauty HER curving bosom images A tender-folded thought Whose grace, too exquisite for speech, Was in her body wrought. The shining vale between her breasts Is like a quiet joy, Such as no malison can harm Xor any shade annov. 58 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Yea, all her bodily beauty is A subtle-fashioned scroll, Where God has written visibly Brave hintings of her soul. George Rostrevor 4 3 Any Lover, Any Lass WHY are her eyes so bright, so bright, Why do her lips control The kisses of a summer night. When I would love her soul ? God set her brave eyes wide apart And painted them with fire ; They stir the ashes of my heart To embers of desire. Her lips so tenderly are wrought In so divine a shape That I am servant to my thought And can nowise escape. Her body is a flower, her hair About her neck doth play; I find her colors everywhere, They are the pride of day. Her little hands are soft, and when I see her fingers move 59 THE BOOK OF 1 know in very truth that men Have died for less than love. Ah, dear, live, lovely thing ! my eyes Have sought her like a prayer; It is my better self that cries, : ' Would she were not so fair ! " Would I might forfeit ecstasy And find a calmer place, Where I might undesirous see Her too desired face. Nor feel her eyes so bright, so bright, Nor hear her lips unroll Dream after dream the lifelong night, When I would love her soul. Richard Middleton 44 " Bid Adieu to Girlish Days " BID adieu, adieu, adieu, Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo Thee and woo thy girlish ways — The zone that doth become thee fair, The snood upon thy yellow hair. When thou hast heard his name upon The bugles of the cherubim, 60 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Begin thou softly to unzone Thy girlish bosom unto him, And softly to undo the snood That is the sign of maidenhood. James Joyce 45 Love Came to Us LOVE came to us in time gone by When one at twilight shyly played And one in fear was standing nigh For Love at first is all afraid. We were grave lovers. Love is past. That had his sweet hours many a one ; W T elcome to us now at the last The ways that we shall go upon. James Joyce 46 After Two Years SHE is all so slight And tender and white As a May morning. She walks without hood At dusk. It is good To hear her sing. It is God's will That I shall love her still 61 THE BOOK OF As He loves Mary. And night and day I will go forth to pray That she love me. She is as gold Lovely, and far more eold. Do thou pray with me, For if I win grace To kiss twice her face God has done well to me. Richard Aldington 47 A Song of Woman's Smiling I HAVE the freedom of my mouth As never yet till now ; Being grey-haired, I may be the South Of womanhood's w r arm brow Above a smiling-out that beams On all my world from deepening dreams. My head is all a^blossomy With snows of coming fruit; My heart is like an orchard tree A-bud with growth's pursuit; I in strange places to strange eyes May verily smile angelwise. Yea, I may be to men a grace Of what in me is bright, 62 MODERN BRITISH VERSE By the clear-shining of my face, In meekest wisdom's right ; Because in me there is no maid, Nor minx, of whom to be afraid. I do not seek them; no sweet veil Of girlhood's modesty Is fine as this through which I hail Their hearts with sympathy — Knit of the sunned hours and the rains — Dear weather of life's joys and pains. With all my Love's love in my years, My breath flowers as the sod ; I am daisied with joy's bloom from tears, Like a little field of God; By every smile's ray that unfurls I am younger than all glad, sweet girls. Something like Aaron's rod I shine. To the world's eyes increased As proof mysteriously divine My dear Love is God's Priest, Whose hallowing of my mouth's control Makes me a smiling of his soul. Yea, I am girlhood's verity In womanhood made truth As wisdom that is ecstasy ; Men feel my spirit's youth Smiles into such a happy light From God's touch, while my hair turns white. 63 THE BOOK OF Yea, even as angelhood it feels, Sometimes, for Heaven to show This freshness which my freedom seals: — My God ! I thank Thee so For giving my soul's smiles to me In such a precious liberty. May Doney 48 To My Wife WHEN sere has touched the leaf with age And Time brings Leisure's glow, Turn softly o'er this scribbled page And learn the things I know. If in the waning summer night A fragrance lightly blows, When winds remember roses bright, Think to yourself . . . He knows. When sleeps the regal sire of day In western glory red, And lazy, crawling mists betray The winding river's bed, When moor birds call, and night birds cry, And night scents fill the air From winds that know where thyme-beds lie, Think to yourself . . . He's there. When day with evening fondly parts Along the gorsv hills, 64 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And tawny dusk a veil imparts O'er little bogland rills, Turn to the thoughts of yesterday Among the cool green groves, And think that always and for aye As well as now . . . He loves. Yet there will come a time when I, Dear heart, shall leave your side As stars fade quietly from the sky When dawn wins day for bride ; Scent of the fragrant birk and briar May fail their round to steer, Think to yourself — though worlds in fire May perish . . . He is here. James C. Welsh 49 C. L. M. IN the dark womb where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her. Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, 65 THE BOOK OF Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind. If the grave's gates could be undone. She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me. What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leached Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached? What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed. O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed, John M as e field jo The Mandrake's Horrid Scream WHY ain't the Mester back ? Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neigh- bours. An' when he's finished wi' his labours, 66 MODERN BRITISH VERSE He gallops off full crack ! I sits aloan an' shaakes wi* fear While he be rousin' at the " Deer." Them what's in towns has niver tried To live aloan, all terrified ; They talk about churchyards at night, Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep In any place what made them creep ! Coz allers they've a friend about To hear if they should give a shout! They dunno what it is to fear But — here — IV hat's that? Only the cat ! An' she's as black as Death's own self, She squats all loathly on yon shelf, Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me I wish the Devil — No! Not He ! I didn't mean to mention names, Nor interfere wi' others' gaames : They saay as cats is really witches, Like Betty Williamson, now dead, W r hat uster wear her husband's breeches An' ate the queerest food, foak said; She set beside her open door Wi' one foot allers off the floor, Quietly knitting; one eye cast To overlook- you as you passed; An' just the same, yon nasty critter 67 THE BOOK OF Stares at me now that soft an' bitter ! Oh, Dear ! I wish my man would come ! May ague twist, an' strike him dumb ! May fairies nip his liver out An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. Forsaking me, all loansome here With iverything what's wrong and queer. From out my winder, where I sit I see the willows round yon pit : Dark Pit where Moller Homes was found As some said, — accidental drowned ! — But I heard screechin', terrified, About the time he must a died. Having noa bottom, soa they say; Its dreadful secrets there must stay Until the Resurrection Day ! Oh where the Devil is that Tom? Til give him "pub" when he gits hoam: The wind is moanin' round that Pit As if somebody wished to flit : There's Things in there what stirs by night An' if you see, yer hair turns white ; Around, they say, the Mandrake grows What's pulled at dead of night by those Who little care although it screams To wake poor mortals from their dreams. Our parson tells of Powers Evil : (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) Where should they laay, but in yon Pit? What makes me squirl to think on it: All gashly arms a-reachin' out 68 MODERN BRITISH VERSE To clamber up yer water spout An' reach you through — Oh Lor! Who's that? 'Tis something comin' I hear it hummin' ... My dear good Tom ! Thank God it's him ! I was afraid of something grim — I've bin a-wantin' you soa long — You lousy mawkin, stinkin' strong Of beer an' bacca ! Off to bed! I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed: Tore morn, you'll wish as you was dead. Bernard Gilbert 51 An Old Woman of the Roads Oto have a little house ! To own the hearth and stool and all ! The heaped up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall ! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down ! A dresser filled with shining delft, Speckled and white and blue and brown ! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, 69 THE BOOK OF And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store ! I could be quiet there at night Besides the fire and by myself. Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking cloth and the shining delft ! Och ! but I'm weary of mist and dark. And roads where there's never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road. And the crying wind and the lonesome hush ! And I am praying to God on high. And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house — a house of my own — Out of the wind's and the rain's way. Padraic Colum 52 Old Woman Forever Sitting OLD woman forever sitting Alone in the large hotel under the fans. Infinitely alone where around you spin So many lives like painted tops. Smearing the void a moment with their hues, Giddily catching at balance as they pause. What crime was yours, old woman, What sin against the Earth That she should give you now 70 MODERN BRITISH VERSE A cap of dust and furrows on your cheeks, And at the end A hole dug in the mould? Is death the promise of Fate's last rebound. Revenge of Time that waits within the clock And laughs awry at life, For a kiss, for a dream, for a child that you t>ore. For a fresh rose pinned to your bosom? The owl is in your spirit. Blinking through the oldest tree of wisdom — And now your fingers are weaving The cold pale invisible blossoms of death Into a waxen wreath. And Time Sits down beside you knitting with quick hands Grey counterpanes to cover up a grave ! Iris Tree 53 No Wife TOM! Tom! What yer think? I've 'ed the Parson's wife The first time in 'er life, acrost our door! What for? What for? Why, Tom, you'd niver niver guess! Not if you lived as old as Grammer Bess What's lately swore She's a hunder an' four — She wants us two, to go off an git spliced! 7* THE BOOK OF Oh Christ! What's got 'er now: The cow ! You well may swear; Coz 'ow she dare — an' why — Will make you swear agen, or laugh — surelie ! Just light yer pipe Now you look comfortable — so You're rough — old Tom — I know — Black as a crow ! But I'm fond on yer lad As any fool could see ! An' whether we're good or bad You've bin maain good ter me. But — blast 'er silly eyes ! What yer say to 'er, then? I said a lot ! I telled 'er what ! A-comin' 'ere wi' 'er fancy airs, 'Er what's never known no cares, Lookin' that wise — Just coz she catched a Parson ! (An' noa great shaakes ayther — She'd nowt of a feyther While 'er half-brother run away to sea An' took to blue water Wi' their ole cook's daughter) "You talk of 'sin' an' ' shame,' " I sez, "tb me? You talks just like a fool 72 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Or a silly bairn at school Coz nobody about could doubt, But what we're happy together him an' me; Just look," I sez, "at any in this street What couple can you find about to beat My Tom an' me what's bin together years, Happy an' comfortable; Never noa serious trouble — Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears — Good reason why ! " I sez — sez I — "Coz we're a free an' equal pair; We got to treat each other fair Or else we part." Well said now, Missus ! That were smart ! " To part ! " sez she, " lookin' all down her noaz, "Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?" I sez — sez I — " that dudn't bother me Coz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz. I can maintain 'em by mysen," sez I, " An' would at any time o' day. I'm not a slave — an' anyway I'd manage if I 'ed to do, I'm not a slave," I sez, "like you!" You didn't — Come ! — I did — I did! — I meant it too. " If your man turns up stunt," sez I, 73 THE BOOK OF ' You can't goa off, or let him fly ; You can't maintain yoursen — not you ! — Lettin' aloan the bairns, you ain't ! (That made her squirm all down her back !) 'Ow could you wok up on a stack? Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh ? If your man drinks or starts to thresh You couldn't leave him coz he holds yer : You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer; Yer ain't like me, as free as air. I'm not afraid whoever stare, Nayther is Tom ! We minds oursens An' thinks noa more of foaks than hens, Coz if I doant behave mysen — Or him — We parts ! " — Why doant we? Why? Becoz we're free an' happy here, Becoz we treats each other fair ! " You give 'er the rough of yer tongue, old gel, But — what a sell ! Comin' 'ere to ride rough shod Coz she's a " wife." Why — bless my life She doesn't know she's born : She couldn't find her own corn ! I sent 'er off wi' a flea in er ear ! An will again if she dost come near! 74 MODERN BRITISH VERSE But she weant ! The white faced critter — Wi a noaz like a knife An' a smile that bitter As if she would kill. A wife! What does she know of life? — Nowt ! Nor ever will ! — But tomorrer's Sunday An' we'll go to Church ! What? Yes! Just for once; an' sit together, Like birds of a feather ! We ain't ashamed to show our faces To them what thinks we be disgraces. We'll goa together Tom — for sure We'll goa this once an' then noa more — If you be willin'? Aye, lass — I'm willin' — I'll back you up as I've allers done, Agen Parson's wife or anyone. Aye; agen all the country round, Coz you're as good as could be found — An' now — old gel — it's omost eight, Come on yer know we moant be late, Off to the wShip for our glass of aale; This yarn of yourn'll make a taale ! What's that — yer bunnet? 75 THE BOOK OF All rate ... be quick — I'll wait for yer agen the gate. Bernard Gilbert 54 Marriage Song COME up, dear chosen morning, come, Blessing the air with light, And bid the sky repent of being dark : Let all the spaces round the world be white, And give the earth her green again. Into new hours of beautiful delight, Out of the shadow where she has lain, Bring the earth awake for glee. Shining with dews as fresh and clear As my beloved's voice upon the air. For now, O morning chosen of all days, on thee A wondrous duty lies : There was an evening that did loveliness foretell, Thence upon thee, O chosen morn, it fell To fashion into perfect destiny The radiant prophecy. For in an evening of young moon, that went Filling the moist air with a rosy fire, I and my beloved knew our love ; And knew that thou, O morning, wouldst arise To give us knowledge of achieved desire. For, standing stricken with astonishment, Half terrified with delight, -6 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Even as the moon did into clear air move And made a golden light, Lo there, croucht up against it, a dark hill, A monstrous back of earth, a spine Of hunched rock, furred with great growth of pine, Lay like a beast, snout in its paws, asleep ; Yet in its sleeping seemed it miserable, As though strong fear must always keep Hold of its heart, and drive its blood in dream. Yea, for to our new love, did it not seem, That dark and quiet length of hill, The sleeping grief of the world? — Out of it we Had like imaginations stept to be Beauty and golden w r onder ; and for the lovely fear Of coming perfect joy, had changed The terror that dreamt there ! And now the golden moon had turned To shining white, white as our souls that burned With vision of our prophecy assured: Suddenly white was the moon ; but she At once did on a woven modesty Of cloud, and soon went in obscured: And we were dark, and vanisht that strange hill. But yet it was not long before There opened in the sky a narrow door, Made with pearl lintel and pearl sill ; And the earth's night see'd pressing there, — All as a beggar on some festival would peer, — To gaze into a room of light beyond, The hidden silver splendour of the moon. Yea, and we also, we Long gazed wistfully 77 THE BOOK OF Towards thee, O morning, come at last, And towards the light that thou wilt pour upon us soon ! ii O soul who still art strange to sense, Who often against beauty wouldst complain, Doubting between joy and pain: If like the startling touch of something keen Against thee, it hath been To follow from an upland height The swift sun hunting rain Across the April meadows of a plain, Until the fields would flash into the air Their joyous green, like emeralds alight, Or when in the blue of night's mid-noon The burning naked moon Draws to a brink of cloudy weather near, A breadth of snow, firm and soft as a wing, Stretcht out over a wind that gently goes, — Through the white sleep of snowy cloud there grows An azure-border'd shining ring, The gleaming dream of the approaching joy of her; — What now wilt thou do, Soul? What now, If with such things as these troubled thou wert? How wilt thou now endure, or how Not now be strangely hurt ? — When utter beauty must come closer to thee Than even anger or fear could be; When thou, like metal in a kiln, must lie Seized by beauty's mightily able flame; Enjoyed by beauty as by the ruthless glee 78 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Of an unescapable power; Obeying beauty as air obeys a cry ; Yea, one thing made of beauty and thee, As steel and a white heat are made the same! — Ah, but I know how this infirmity Will fail and be not, no, not memory, When I begin the marvellous hour. This only is my heart's strain'd eagerness, Long waiting for its bliss, — But from those other fears, from those That keep to Love so close, From fears that are the shadow of ^delight, Hide me, joys; make them unknown to night! in Thou bright God that in dream earnest to me last night, Thou with the flesh made of a golden light, Knew I not thee, thee and thy heart, Knew I not well, God, who thou wert? Yea, and my soul divinely understood The light what was beneath thee a ground, The golden light that cover'd thee round, Turning my sleep to a fiery morn, W T as as a heavenly oath there sworn Promising me an immortal good : Well I knew thee, God of Marriages, thee and thy flame ! Ah, but wherefore beside thee came That fearful sight of another mood? Why in thy light, to thy hand chained, 79 THE BOOK OF Towards me its bondage terribly strained, Why came with thee that dreadful hound, The wild hound Fear, black, ravenous and gaunt? Why him with thee should thy dear light surround? Why broughtest thou that beast to haunt The blissful footsteps of my golden dream? — All shadowy black the body dread, All frenzied fire the head, — The hunger of its mouth a hollow crimson flame, The hatred in its eyes ablaze Fierce and greei^ stabbing the ruddy glaze, And sharp white jetting fire the teeth snarl'd at me, And white the dribbling rage of froth, — A throat that gaped to bay and paws working violently, Yet soundless all as a winging moth : Tugging towards me, famishing for my heart; — Even while thou, O golden god, were still Looking the beautiful kindness of thy will Into my soul, even then must I be, With thy bright promise looking at me, Then bitterly of that hound afraid? — Darkness, I know, attendeth bright, And light comes not but shadow comes; And heart must know, if it know thy light, Thy wild hound Fear, the shadow of love's delight Yea, is it thus? Are we so made Of death and darkness, that even thou, O golden God of the joys of love, Thy mind to us canst only prove, The glorious devices of thy mind, By so revealing how thy journeying here Through this mortality, doth closely bind 80 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Thy brightness to the shadow of dreadful Fear? Ah no, it shall not be ! Thy joyous light Shall hide me from the hunger of fear to-night. IV For wonderfully to live I now begin : So that the darkness which accompanies Our being here, is fasten'd up within The power of light that holdeth me; And from these shining chains, to see My joy with bold misliking eyes, The shrouded figure will not dare arise. For henceforth, from to-night, I am wholly gone into the bright Safety of the beauty of love : Not only all my waking vigours plied Under the searching glory of love, But knowing myself with love all satisfied Even when my life is hidden in sleep ; As high clouds, to themselves that keep The moon's white company, are all possest Silverly with the presence of their guest; Or as a darken'd room That hath within it roses, whence the air And quietness are taken everywhere Deliciously by sweet perfume. Lasccllcs Abercrombic 81 THE BOOK OF 55 The Affinity 1HAVE to thank God I'm a woman, For in these ordered days a woman only Is free to be very hungry, very lonely. It is sad for Feminism, but still clear That man, more often than woman, is a pioneer. If I would confide a new thought, First to a man must it be brought. Now, for our sins, it is my bitter fate That such a man wills soon to be my mate, And so of friendship is quick end: When I have gained a love I lose a friend. It is well within the order of things That man should listen when his mate sings But the true male never yet walked Who liked to listen when his mate talked. I would be married to a full man, As would all women since the world began ; But from a wealth of living I have proved I must be silent, if I would be loved. Now of my silence I have much wealth, I have to do my thinking all by stealth. My thought may never see the day; My mind is like a catacomb where early Christians pray. 82 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And of my silence I have much pain, But of these pangs I have great gain; For I must take to drugs or drink, Or I must write the things I think. If my sex would let me speak, I would be very lazy and most weak; I should speak only, and the things I spoke Would fill the air a while, and clear like smoke. The things I think now I write down And some day I will show them to the town. When I am sad I make thought clear; I can re-read it all next year. I have to thank God I'm a woman For in these ordered days a woman only Is free to be very hungry, very lonely. Anna Wickham j6 The Ballad of Camden Town 1 WALKED with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown. Hers was a proud and noble face A secret heart and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies. 83 THE BOOK OF A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue. But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies. When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store. She left the latch key on its nail, And saw me nevermore. Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town. What 'came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly. What 'came of her? The river flows So deep and wide and stilly, And waits to catch the fallen rose And clasp the broken lily. I dream she dwells in London still And breathes the evening air, 8 4 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And often walk to Primrose Hill, And hope to meet her there. Once more together we will live, For I will find her yet : I have so little to forgive; So much I can't forget. James Elro\ Flecker 57 E w EVE, with her basket, was Deep in the bells and grass, Wading in bells and grass Up to her knees, Picking a dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Down in the bells and grass Under the trees. Mute as a mouse in a Corner the cobra lay, Curled round a bough of the Cinnamon tall . . . Now to get even and Humble proud heaven and Now was the moment or Never at all " Eva ! " Each syllable Light as a flower fell, 85 THE BOOK OF " Eva ! " he whispered the Wondering maid, Soft as a bubble sung Out of a linnet's lung, Soft and most silverly " Eva ! " he said. Picture that orchard sprite, Eve, with her body white, Supple and smooth to her Slim finger tips, Wondering, listening, Listening, wondering, Eve with a berry Half-way to her lips. Oh had our simple Eve Seen through the make-believe ! Had she but known the Pretender he was ! Out of the boughs he came, Whispering still her name, Tumbling in twenty rings Into the grass. Here was the strangest pair In the world anywhere, Eve in the bells and grass Kneeling, and he Telling his story low. . . . Singing birds saw them go 86 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Down the dark path to The Blasphemous Tree. Oh what a clatter when Titmouse and Jenny Wren Saw him successful and Taking his leave ! How the birds rated him, How they all hated him ! How they all pitied Poor motherless Eve ! Picture her crying Outside in the lane, Eve, with no dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Haunting the gate of the Orchard in vain . . . Picture the lewd delight Under the hill to-night — " Eva ! " the toast goes round, " Eva ! " again. Ralph Hodgson 58 Balkis BALKIS was in her marble town, And shadow over the world came down. Whiteness of walls, towers and piers, That all day dazzled eyes to tears, Turned from being white-golden flame, 87 THE BOOK OF And like the deep sea blue became. Balkis into her garden went; Her spirit was in discontent Like a torch in restless air. Joylessly she wandered there. And saw her city's azure white Lying under the great night, Beautiful as the memory Of a worshipping world would be In the mind of a god, in the hour When he must kill his outward power ; And, coming to a pool where trees Grew in double greeneries, Saw herself, as she went by The water, walking beautifully, And saw the stars shine in the glance Of her eyes, and her own fair countenance Passing, pale and wonderful, Across the night that filled the pool. And cruel was the grief that played With the queen's spirit; and she said: '' What do I hear, reigning alone ? For to be unloved is to be alone. There is no man in all my land Dare my longing understand ; The whole folk like a peasant bows Lest its look should meet my brows And be harmed by this beauty of mine. I burn their brains as I were sign Of God's beautiful anger sent To master them with punishment Of beauty that must pour distress 88 MODERN BRITISH VERSE On hearts grown dark with ugliness. But it is I am the punisht one. Is there no man, is there none, In whom my beauty will but move The lust of a delighted love; In whom some spirit of God so thrives That we may wed our lonely lives? Is there no man, is there none? She said, " I will go to Solomon." Lascelles Abercrombie 59 Lancelot and Guinevere SIR LANCELOT beside the mere Rode at the golden close of day, And the sad eyes of Guinevere Went with him, with him, all the way. The golden light to silver turned, The mist came up out of the mere, And steadily before him burned The sombre gaze of Guinevere. A dreadful chill about him crept, The pleasant air to winter turned; Like the wan eyes of one that wept ; Far through the mist the faint stars burned. All that had sinned in days gone by Like pale companions round him crept — 89 THE BOOK OF All that beneath the morning sky Had called the night to mind and wept. But strangest showed his own offence Of all the shadows creeping by; The star of his magnificence Fell from its station in the sky. The lean wind robbed him of his pride; Keen grew the sting of his offence; And like a lamp within him died The flame of his magnificence. The drifting phantoms of the mere Were death to pleasure and to pride; The joy he had of Guinevere Faded into the dark and died. Oh loss of hope with loss of day In mist and shadow of the mere ! — Where with him, with him, all the way. Went the sad eyes of Guinevere. Gerald Gould do A Ballad of Doom 4 4T ADIES, pretty ladies, 1—J What do you lack? Ladies, pretty ladies, Choose from my pack. 90 MODERN BRITISH VERSE All the way to Heaven and all the way to Hell I went to fetch the fairings I have to sell." " If you've been to Heaven, if you've been to Hell, I will pay a pretty price for a thing that you can tell — How does my true love and how fares the foe Who slew him on a winters night, very long ago? " " I went the road to Heaven — it is a weary way — I passed the open gate of Hell — you may reach it in a day Of all the many folk I saw, how should I know Which was your true love and which was your foe? " " My love he is a gallant, blue-eyed and debonair " — " A thousand thousand such as he you may meet with anywhere " — 41 He bears upon his breast the marks of wounds and kisses seven." "J saw not any man like this in all the courts of Heaven." " My foe he is a dour man and his hand is bitten through — A little sign of love I gave for the deed he dared to do"— "Lady, pretty lady, 'tis other news you lack." 1 This fairing only, pedlar, will I have from out your pack." 9i THE BOOK OF " O lady, there in Heaven I saw the blessed stand A-praising God, and one there was who had a bitten hand; And one among the damned I saw, who knew not any rest, Marks of wounds and kisses seven were burning on his breast." " Go, go again, good pedlar, and bring me word again Why he I hate is doomed to bliss and he I love to pain. Go, cry my name in Heaven, in Hell my name declare, That I may know before I go what was answered there." " Lady, pretty lady, What do you lack? Lady, pretty lady, Choose from my pack. I've been again to Heaven, Lve been again to Hell, Here are news that you may choose from those I have to sell." " O what said my lover and what said my foe ? Tell me, trusty pedlar, that I may know. I'll take the road to Heaven or go my way to Hell, Give me news that I may choose and I will pay you well." " I cried your name before the damned, and he who was your friend — 1 A curse upon the silly fool who brought me to my end : J v 92 MODERN BRITISH VERSE I cried your name before the saints, and he who was your foe Caught me with his bitten hand and would not let me go- II He held me long in my despite, conjuring me by God And hope of Heaven, to come again back by the path I trod And swear your false-fair lover had been for ever true, And he your foe was damned in Hell for the deed he willed to do ! " " I'll climb the road to Heaven and kiss the wounded hand Of him who is a lover true, and he will understand. Then will I take my way to Hell, unto my lover-foe — False or true I love him, and God will let me go.'' " Ladies, pretty ladies, What do you lack ? Ladies, pretty ladies, Choose from my pack. All the way to Heaven and all the w r ay to Hell I went to fetch these pretty fairings I have to sell." Elizabeth Rendall 61 Dust WHEN the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night; 93 . THE BOOK OF When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labor of my breath — When we are dust, when we are dust ! Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died, And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind. And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways, Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you. Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow Upon the peace; and, past desiring So high a beauty in the air, 94 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there, They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light, Out of the garden higher, higher . . . But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above ; And they will know — poor fools, they'll know ! - One moment, what it is to love. Rupert Brooke 62 To a Greek Marble WHITE grave goddess, Pity my sadness, silence of Paros. 1 am not of these about thy feet, These garments and decorum; I am thy brother, The lover of aforetime crying to thee, And thou nearest me not. 95 THE BOOK OF I have whispered thee in thy solitudes Of our loves in Phrygia, The far ecstasy of burning noons When the fragile pipes Ceased in the cypress shade, And the brown fingers of the shepherd Moved over slim shoulders ; And only the cicada sang. I have told thee of the hills And the lisp of reeds And the sun upon thy breasts, And thou hearest me not, Thou hearest me not. Richard Aldington 63 Epilogue WHAT shall we do for Love these days? How shall we make an altar-blaze To smite the horny eyes of men With the renown of our Heaven, And to the unbelievers prove Our service to our dear god, Love? What torches shall we lift above The crowd that pushes through the mire, To amaze the dark heads with strange fire? I should think I were much to blame, If never I held some fragrant flame Above the noises of the world, 9 6 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares, Worshipt before the sacred fires That are like flashing curtains furl'd Across the presence of our lord Love. Nay, would that I could fill the gaze Of the whole earth with some great praise Made in a marvel for men's eyes, Some tower of glittering masonries, Therein such a spirit flourishing Men should see what my heart can sing: All that Love hath done to me Built into stone, a visible glee ; Marble carried to gleaming height As moved aloft by inward delight ; Not as with toil of chisels hewn, But seeming poised in a mighty tune. For of all those who have been known To lodge with our kind host, the sun, I envy one for just one thing: In Cordova of the Moors There dwelt a passion-minded King, Who set great bands of marble-hewers To fashion his heart's thanksgiving In a tall palace, shapen so All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish lass. His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone He sent, as if the stone were glass Fired and into beauty blown. Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric stood, 97 THE BOOK OF Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly spaced Seriously the fabric stood. But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament. Wreathing up like ravishment, Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make, Well I can see that shining song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides. You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been A young god's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame; Such an immortal passion Quiver'd among the slim hewn stone. And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star, Wherein a wine, that will be poured Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored. 9 8 MODERN BRITISH VERSE But within this fretted shell, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude. For right amidst there was a court, Where always musked silences Listened to water and to trees ; And herbage of all fragrant sort, — Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury, — Was the grass of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid. Tarring the air with rumour cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness, Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were ; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl, A brinded loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipt Into the water ; but quick as fear Back his shining brown head slipt To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack, Split shatter'd gold about his back. 99 THE BOOK OF So within that green-veiled air. Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud, — Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake On the leafage overbowed, — Often the King and his love-lass Let the delicious hours pass. All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixt in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and passion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is God's word written in ecstasies, And where is now the palace gone, All the magical skill'd stone, All the dreaming towers wrought By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was? How could such a wonder pass? Ah, it was but built in vain Against the stupid horns of Rome, That pusht down into the common loam The loveliness that shone in Spain. But we have raised it up again ! A loftier palace, fairer far, Is ours, and one that fears no war. Safe in marvellous walls we are; ioo MODERN BRITISH VERSE Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above Our unapproacht and perfect hour Within the splendours of love's power. Lascellcs Abercrombie 64 The Golden Journey to Samarkand At the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad, in olden time. the merchants (together) AWAY, for we are ready to a man ! Our camels sniff the evening and are glad. Lead on, O master of the Caravan : Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad. THE CHIEF DRAPER Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine, Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils, And broideries of intricate design, And printed hangings in enormous bales? THE CHIEF GROCER We have rose-candy, we have spikenard, Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice, And such sweet jams meticulously jarred As God's own Prophet eats in Paradise. 101 THE BOOK OF THE PRINCIPAL JEWS And we have manuscripts in peacock styles By AH of Damascus ; we have swords Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles, And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN But you are nothing but a lot of Jews. THE PRINCIPAL JEWS Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes, You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way? THE PILGRIMS We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go Always a little further: it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, Across that angry or that glimmering sea, White on a throne or guarded in a cave There lives a prophet who can understand Why men were born but surely we are brave, Who make the golden journey to Samarkand. THE CHIEF MERCHANT We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away ! ONE OF THE WOMEN O turn your eyes to where your children stand. Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay! 102 MODERN BRITISH VERSE THE MERCHANTS (in ckOYUS) We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. AN OLD MAN Have you not girls and garlands in your homes, Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command? Seek not excess : God hateth him who roams ! THE MERCHANTS (in chorus) We make the golden journey to Samarkand. A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells When shadows pass gigantic on the sand. And softly through the silence beat the bells Along the golden road to Samarkand. A MERCHANT W r e travel not for trafficking alone : By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned : For lust of knowing what should not be known We make the golden journey to Samarkand. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN Open the gate, O watchman of the night ! THE WATCHMAN Ho, travellers, I open. For what land Leave you the dim-moon city of delight? THE MERCHANTS (with d sllOllt) We make the golden journey to Samarkand. (The Caravan passes through the gate,) 103 THE BOOK OF the watchman (consoling the women) What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus. Men are unwise and curiously planned. A WOMAN They have their dreams, and do not think of us. voices of the caravan (in the distance, singing) We make the golden journey to Samarkand. James Elroy Flecker 65 Arabia FAR are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon ; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies. Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear murk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians In the brooding silence of night. 104 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They haunt me — her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say — ' He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away.' Walter de la Marc 66 Babylon IF you could bring her glories back ! You gentle sirs who sift the dust And burrow in the mould and must Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; Who catalogue and pigeon-hole The faded splendours of her soul And put her greatness under glass — If you could bring her past to pass ! If you could bring her dead to life! The soldier lad; the market wife: Madam buying fowls from her; Tip, the butcher's bandy cur ; Workmen carting bricks and clay; Babel passing to and fro On the business of a day Gone three thousand years ago — That you cannot ; then be done, Put the goblet down again, 105 THE BOOK OF Let the broken arch remain, Leave the dead men's dust alone Is it nothing how she lies, This old mother of you all, You great cities proud and tall Towering to a hundred skies Round a world she never knew, Is it nothing, this, to you? Must the ghoulish work go on Till her very floors are gone? While there's still a brick to save Drive these people from her grave ! The Jewish seer when he cried Woe to Babel's lust and pride Saw the foxes at her gates; Once again the wild thing waits. Then leave her in her last decay A house of owls, a foxes 1 den; The desert that till yesterday Hid her from the eyes of men In its proper time and way Will take her to itself again. Ralph Hodgson 1 06 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 67 Babylon I'M going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain — For, oh, the music stirs my blood as once it did before And still I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The dancing feet in Babylon, of those who took my floor. I'm going silent all my years, but garnered in my brain Is that swift wit which used to flash and cut them like a sword And now I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The foolish tongues in Babylon, of those who took my word. I'm going lonely all my days, who was the first to crave The second, fierce, unsteady voice, that struggled to speak free — And now I watch in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The pallid loves in Babylon of men who once loved me. I'm sleeping early by a flame as one content and gray, But, oh, I dream a dream of dreams beneath a winter moon, I breathe the breath of Babylon, of Babylon, of Baby- lon, The scent of silks in Babylon that floated to a tune. 107 THE BOOK OF A band of years has flogged me out — an exile's fate is mine, To sit with mumbling crones and still a heart that cries with youth. But, oh, to walk in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The happy streets in Babylon, when once the dream was truth. Viola Taylor 68 The Bough of Nonsense AN IDYLL BACK from the Somme two Fusiliers Limped painfully home; the elder said, S. " Robert, I've lived three thousand years This Summer, and I'm nine parts dead." R. " But if that's truly so," I cried, " quick, now, Through these great oaks and see the famous bough " Where once a nonsense built her nest With skulls and flowers and all things queer, In an old boot, with patient breast Hatching three eggs; and the next year. . . ." S. " Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did." Said he, " Before this quaint mood fails, We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," R. " Hanging it up with monkey tails In a deep grove all hushed and dim . . ." 1 08 MODERN BRITISH VERSE S. " To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees," R. "Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese," S. u Which men are wise beyond their time, And worship nonsense, no one more." R. " Hard by, among old quince and lime, They've built a temple with no floor," S. " And whosoever worships in that place, He disappears from sight and leaves no trace." R. " Once the Galatians built a fane To Sense : what duller God than that ? " 5. " But the first day of autumn rain The roof fell in and crushed them flat." R. Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls When nonsense is foundation for the w r alls." I tell him old Galatian tales; He caps them in quick Portuguese, While phantom creatures with green scales Scramble and roll among the trees. The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings. Robert Graves 69 A Song For Grocers HEAVEN bless grocers' shops wherein Raisins are with tawny skin, Murrey wine, and green liqueurs, Curious spice in canisters, 109 THE BOOK OF Honest ham, and mother tea, Isinglass and carroway, Rennet, vinegar, and salt That honour has, and clear cobalt: Coffee, that swart Mussulman, Caviar the Caspian, Suave oil, angry condiments, Anchovies, and sweet essence Of clove and almond, honeycomb, Jam our English orchards from. Portly cheeses full of mould, Sugars and treacles brown or gold; Soap, to keep us pure, and white Candles, the slim sons of light, Butter like the flow'r of gorse. Wheat meal fine and oat meal coarse, Soda for our maid's service, Sago, tapioca, rice An economic trinity, Bacon, friend ham's affinity. Bananas, which the People please, Proletarian oranges. While of fruits in syrup a Frequent cornucopia. Eggs fresh within and white without, Cocoa of origin devout, Nuts and string and brooms and mops, Saveloys and lollipops — God, be good to grocers' shops ! Sherard Vines no MODERN BRITISH VERSE 70 " Psittachus Eois Imitatrix ales ab Indis." — Ovid THE parrot's voice snaps out — No good to contradict — What he says he'll say again : Dry facts, like biscuits. His voice and vivid colours Of his breast and wings Are immemorably old; Old dowagers dressed in crimped satin Boxed in their rooms Like specimens beneath a glass Inviolate — and never changing, Their memory of emotions dead; The ardour of their summers Sprayed like camphor On their silken parasols Intissued in a cupboard. " Psittachus eois imitatrix ales ab indis." Reflective, but with never a new thought The parrot sways upon his ivory perch — Then gravely turns a somersault Through rings nailed in the roof — Much as the sun performs his antics As he climbs the aerial bridge in THE BOOK OF We only see Through crystal prisms in a falling rain. Sdchevercll Sitwell 71 Fables WHO taught the centaur first to drink Ladling his huge hands from the brink When other monsters lie and lap The waters like a fruitful pap? The same who by ingenious ways Taught the chameleon his rays To take from leaves of tow'ring trees Strung thick with dew-bells that the bees Set ringing, till they bring the honey, Thrilled with music, gold with money Back to their castles in the clouds — And the chameleon, his crowds Of foes to fight with, has two eyes That travel sideways, no surprise On any side. He swiftly sees All — flowers, slow floating birds and bees. The gentle, loving unicorn Will never eat the grass — All bushes have too many thorns Their leaves are made of brass, His horn is given him to take The soft fruit from the trees, " Please grasp my horn and roughly shake, 112 MODERN BRITISH VERSE nymph, among those leaves ; This pear transfixed upon my horn ; 1 cannot reach" — beyond the brim; Clutched at; she misses; it has gone — " Alas ! You've got it ! I can't swim." To comb a satyr's silken beard Arabian travellers aspire, They beg, they bribe ; more loved than feared The satyr trots to take his hire — Fawning, he takes from outstretched hand Such fruit his eyes have sometimes seen On swaying branches where the land Sighs in a soft wind and the green Leaves shake beneath the nightingale. Thus cajoled, they can reach his beard Where gums lie, gathered from the frail Flowers he feeds on, where no voice is heard. Sacheverell Sitwell 72 Check THE night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and stole again Along the grass beside the wall. I heard the rustle of her shawl As she threw blackness everywhere Upon the sky and ground and air, IX 3 THE BOOK OF And in the room where I was hid : But no matter what she did To everything that was without, She could not put my candle out. So I stared at the night, and she Stared back solemnly at me. James Stephens 73 Myself on the Merry-Go-Round To Robert Nichols THE giddy sun's kaleidoscope — The pivot of a switchback world Is tied to it by many a rope : The people (flaunting streamers), furled Metallic banners of the seas, The giddy sun's kaleidoscope Casts colours on the face of these: Cosmetics of Eternity, And powders faces blue as death; Beneath the parasols we see Gilt faces tarnished by sea-breath, And crawling like the foam, each horse Beside the silken tents of sea In whirlpool circles takes his course. Huge houses, humped like camels, chase The wooden horses' ceaseless bound; The throbbing whirring sun that drags The streets upon its noisy round With tramways chasing them in vain, 114 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Projects in coloured cubes each face — Then shatters them upon our brain. The house-fronts hurl them back, they jar Upon cross-currents of the noise: Like atoms of my soul they are, They shake my body's equipoise, — A clothes line" for the Muse to fly (So thin and jarred and angular) Her rags of tattered finery. Beneath the heat of trees' sharp hue — A ceaseless whirr, metallic-green, Sounds like a gimlet shrilling through The mind, to reach the dazzling sheen Of meanings life can not decide: Then words set all awry, and you Are left upon the other side. Our senses, each a wooden horse, We paint till they appear to us Like life, and then queer strangers course In our place on each Pegasus. The very heat seems but to be The product of some man-made force — Steam from the band's machinery. The heat is in a thousand rags Reverberant with sound, whose dry Frayed ends we never catch, seem tags Of our unfinished entity; And like a stretched accordion The houses throb with heat, and flags Of smoke are tunes light plays upon. The band's kaleidoscopic whirr Tears up those jarring threads of heat "5 THE BOOK OF The crowds; plush mantles seem to purr — Crustacean silk gowns take the beat From houses ; each reverberates With this vitality and stir; The giddy heat acerberates. And in the swirling restaurant Where liqueurs at perpetual feud Dispute for sequinel lights and taunt Hot leaves, our dusty souls exude Their sentiments, while scraps of sense Float inward from the band and flaunt — Disturb the general somnolence. Edith Sit well 74 Philosophy **T AST night in the Baltic Tavern tap J J I met/' Mike said, " a longshore chap Who said, ' Don't sailorin' look queer With all them mines an' suchlike gear? If I was you,' 'e says, says 'e, ' I'd take a shore job same as me, An*' leave this trouble that's around For them that's fond o' gettin' drowned/ " ' No, no,' I says, ' I ain't a-givin' It up for any square'ead livin', The ways I put it in my 'ead Is — no man's done until 'e's dead, An' if it comes to dyin', sure, A man dies once, an' then no more, 116 MODERN BRITISH VERSE "I says, ' When ships 'as left off goin', An' grass on London docks is growin', (The same's it is, so I've 'eard say, On all them 'Amburg wharves this day), When Lloyd's is broke an' on their uppers, An' all the owners in the scuppers, Why, then,' I says, ' I might be lookin' For a job o' cartitr coals or cookin', Or washin' pots, or sellin' tapes, Or leadin' bears, or learnin' apes, But since, as I 'ear tell, so far There's ships still passin' Mersey Bar, An' one or two comes in each day To London Docks, so I've 'eard say, An' ships can't sail without no crew, — So long as they sail, I sail too. " ' If you, young man, 'ad follered the sea Your 'ole life long, the same as me, 'Ad knowed it wakin' an' asleep. An' seen God's wonders in the deep, I guess you'd not be rattled much By mines or submarines or such, Or care a bloomin' finger snap For no fool Kaiser or such chap . . . ' Besides,' I says, ' when all is said, Just think o' them poor chaps that's dead — Poor pals o' mine as 'ad to die — They took their chances ... so do I ! ' Cicely Fox Smith 117 THE BOOK OF 75 Billy's Yarn i(t (~\0 seen her off?" . . . V>/ "Me," says the tide, " I 'ad to, for why, there was no one beside ; For sailor-folks' women, they're busy enough, Thout 'angin' round pier-'eds to see their chaps off. The gulls all about 'er they wrangled an' cried, An' I seen 'er off," says the Liverpool tide. " Oo waved 'er good-bye ? " . . . " Me," says old Tuskar, " When the sun it went down an' the light is got dusker, (With a sea gettin' up an' the wind blowin' keen) An' the smoke of 'er funnels could 'ardly be seen, An* the last of the sunset was red in the sky . . . With the first of my flashes I waved 'er good-bye." " Oo seen 'er sink ? " . . . " Me," says the sun, " At the top o' my climbin' I seen the thing done . . . I seen 'er 'eave to, an' I seen 'er 'ull shiver, Settle, an' stumble, an' tremble, an' quiver, An' 'er stern it went up, an' 'er bow it went down, An' the most of 'er people they just 'ad to drown, An' I'd never a cloud for to shut out the sight, So I seen 'er sink," says the sun in 'is might. " Oo seen the last of 'er?" . . . " Us," says the crew, All that was left out o' twenty-and-two, 118 MODERN BRITISH VERSE " We seen the last of 'er — floathr round On a bottom-up boat among dead uns and drowned — We seen 'er waterways runnin' with blood — We seen poor mates of ours shot where they stood — But them chaps as done it, I tell you now true, They ain't seen the last of us yet," says the crew, " Xo, you bet your sweet life/' says what's left o' the crew. Cicely Fox Smith 76 " Ships That Pass " An Episode of the Cruiser Patrol THERE are ships that pass in the night-time, some poet has told us how, But a ship that passed in the day-time is the one I'm thinking of now, Where the seas roll green from the Arctic and the wind comes keen from the Pole. Tween Rockall Bank and the Shetlands. up North on the long patrol We sighted her one day early; the forenoon watch was begun, There was mist like wool on the water, and a glimpse of a pale cold sun, And she came through the dim grey weather — a thing of wonder and gleam, From the port o' the Past on a bowline, close-hauled on a wind of dream. 119 THE BOOK OF The rust of years was upon her — she was weathered by many a gale — The flag of a Dago republic went up to her peak at our hail; But I knew her — Lord God! I knew her, as how could I help but know The ship that I served my time in, no matter how long ago ! I'd have climbed to her royals blindfold, I'd have known her spars in a crowd ; Aloft and alow, I knew her, brace and halliard and shroud — From the scroll-work under her stern-ports to the paint on her figure-head — And the shout, " All hands/' on her main deck would have tumbled me up from the dead. She moved like a queen on the water, with the grace that was hers of yore, The sun on her shining canvas — what had she to do with war, With a world that is full of trouble and seas that are stained with crime ? She came like a dream remembered, dreamt once in a happier time. She was youth, and its sorrow that passes — the light, the laughter, the joy, The South, and the small white cities, and the care- free heart of a boy, 120 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The farewell flash of the Fastnet to light you the whole world round, And the hoot of the tug at parting — and the song of the homeward bound. The sun, and the flying-fish weather — night, and a fiddle's tune — And palms, and the warm maize-yellow of a low West Indian moon — Storm in the high South latitudes — and the boom of a Trade-filled sail — And the anchor watch in the tropics, and the old Sou' Spainer's tale. Was it the lap of the wave I heard or the chill wind's cry, Or a snatch of a deep-sea chantey I knew in the years gone by? Was it the whine of the gear in the sheaves, or the sea-gulls' call, Or the ghost of my shipmates' voices, tallying on to the fall?"' I went through her papers duly — and no one, I hope could see A freight of the years departed was the cargo she bore for me ! I talked with her Dago captain while we searched her for contraband, And ... I longed for one grip of her wheel-spokes like a grip of a friend's right hand. 121 THE BOOK OF And I watched while her helm went over, and the sails were sheeted home, And under her moving forefoot the bubbles broke into foam, Till she faded from sight in the greyness — a thing of wonder and gleam, For the port of the Past on a bowline — closehauled on a wind of dream ! Cicely Fox Smith 77 " In Prize " A SHIP was built in Glasgow, and oh, she looked • a daisy — (Just the way that some ships do!) An' the only thing against 'er w r as she alius steered so crazy (An' it's true, my Johnnie Bowline, true!) They sent 'er out in ballast to Oregon for lumber, An' before she dropped her pilot she all but lost 'er number. They sold 'er into Norway because she steered so funny, An' she nearly went to glory before they drawed the money. They sold 'er out o' Norway — they sold 'er into Chile, An' Chile got a bargain because she steered so silly. 122 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They chartered 'er to Germans with a bunch o' greasers f orrard ; Old shellbacks wouldn't touch 'er because she steered so 'orrid. She set a course for Bremen with contraband inside 'er, An' she might 'ave got there sometime if a cruiser 'adn't spied 'er.' She nearly drowned the boarders because she cut such capers, But they found she was a German through inspectin' of her papers. So they put a crew on board 'er, which was both right and lawful, An' the prize crew 'ad a picnic because she steered so awful. But they brought 'er into Kirkwall, an' then they said, " Lord lumme If I ever see an 'ooker as steered so kind o' rummy! " But she'll fetch her price at auction, for oh, she looks a daisy. (Just the way that some ships do!) An' the chap as tops the biddin' w r on't know she steers so crazy (But it's true, my Johnnie Bowline, true!) Cicely Fox Smith 123 THE BOOK OF 78 The Little Waves of Breffny THE grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it, and many a horse and cart ; But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, And there is glory in it, and terror on the wind; But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal ; But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. Eva Gore-Booth 124 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 79 Cargoes OUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster w T ith a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays, John Mase field 80 Deep Water Jack OH, it's " ah, fare you well," for the deep sea's crying, You thought you could forget it, but it's no use trying, Trying to forget it when it calls you so ! . . . Hey, Deep Water Johnnie, kiss your girl and go ! 125 THE BOOK OF Here's warmth, and soft living, and an easy bed ! It's toil, and much peril, that you're going to instead. Hard life, and bitter faring, and a poor man's fee Are all of a man's portion that follows the sea. But it's " ah, fare you well," the deep sea's calling Back to cold and hunger and heaving and hauling, To decks awash and frozen yards, as very well you know: But ah, Deep Water Johnnie, kiss your girl and go ! How can a man help it, when the God that made him Set his feet to follow where the four w T inds bade him ? How should a man help it, when his heart goes jigging To the sea's song and the sail's song and wind through the rigging? And it's " ah, fare you well," for the deep sea's crying ! You thought you could forget it, but it's no use trying, Trying to forget it when it calls you so ! . . . Hey, Deep Water Johnnie, kiss your girl and go ! Cicelx Fox Smith 81 Uxbridge Road THE Western Road goes streaming out to seek the cleanly wild, It pours the city's dim desires towards the undehled, It sweeps betwixt the huddled homes about its eddies grown 126 MODERN BRITISH VERSE To smear the little space between the city and the sown: The torments of that seething tide who is there that can see ? There's one who walked with starry feet the western road by me ! He is the Drover of the soul ; he leads the flock of men All wistful on that weary track, and brings them back again. The dreaming few, the slaving crew, the motley caste of life — The wastrel and artificer, the harlot and the wife — They may not rest, for ever pressed by one they can- not see : The one who walked with starry feet the western road bv me. He drives them east, he drives them west, between the dark and light ; He pastures them in city pens, he leads them home at night. The towery trams, the threaded trains, like shuttles to and fro To weave the web of working days in ceaseless travel go. How harsh the warp, how long the weft ! who shall the fabric see? The one who walked with starry feet the western road by me ! 127 THE BOOK OF Throughout the living joyful year at lifeless tasks to strive, And scarcely at the end to save gentility alive; The villa plot to sow and reap, to act the villa lie, Beset by villa fears to live, midst villa dreams to die; Ah, who can know the dreary woe? and who the splendour see? The one who walked with starry feet the western road by me. Behold! he lent me as we went the vision of the seer; Behold! I saw the life of men, the life of God shine clear. I saw the hidden Spirit's thrust ; I saw the race fulfil The spiral of its steep ascent, predestined of the Will. Yet not unled, but shepherded by one they may not see — The one who walked with starry feet the western road by me! Evelyn Underhill 82 Sorley's Weather WHEN outside the icy rain Comes leaping helter-skelter, Shall I tie my restive brain Snugly under shelter? Shall I make a gentle song Here in my firelit study, 128 MODERN BRITISH VERSE When outside the winds blow strong And the lanes are muddy? With old wine and drowsy meats Am I to fill my belly? Shall I glutton here with Keats? Shall I drink with Shelley? Tobacco's pleasant, firelight's good: Poetry makes both better, e Clay is wet and so is mud, Winter rains are wetter. Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill, For though the winds come frorely, I'm away to the rain-blown hill And the ghost of Sorley. Robert Graves 83 A Drover TO Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing — I name them the bye-ways They're to pass without heeding; 129 THE BOOK OF Then the wet, winding roads, Brown bogs with black water; And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter. O ! farmer, strong farmer ! You can spend at the fair; But your face you must turn To your crops and your care. And soldiers — red soldiers ! You've seen many lands; But you walk two by two, And by captain's commands. ! the smell of the beasts, The wet wind in the morn ; And the proud and hard earth Never broken for corn ; And the crowds at the fair, The herds loosened and blind, Loud words and dark faces And the wild blood behind. (O ! strong men, with your best 1 would strive breast to breast, I could quiet your herds With my words, with my words.) I will bring you, my kine, Where there's grass to the knee; J 3° MODERN BRITISH VERSE But you'll think of scant croppings Harsh with salt of the sea. Padraic Col urn 84 Haymaking AFTER night's thunder far away had rolled The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold, And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled, Like the first gods before they made the world And misery, swimming the stormless sea In beauty and in divine gaiety. The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn With leaves — the holly's Autumn falls in June — And fir cones standing stiff up in the heat. The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd Of children pouring out of school aloud. And in the little thickets where a sleeper For ever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper And garden warbler sang unceasingly ; While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow As if the bow had flown off with the arrow. Only the scent of woodbine and hay new-mown Travelled 'the road. In the field sloping down Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook, Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook Out in the sun ; and the long wagon stood Without its team, it seemed it never would Move from the shadow of that single yew. 13^ THE BOOK OF The team, as still, until their task was due, Beside the labourers enjoyed the shade That three squat oaks mid-field together made Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut, And on the hollow, once a chalk-pit, but Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean. The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin, But still. And all were silent. All was old, This morning time, with a great age untold, Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome, Than, at the field's far edge, the farmer's home, A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree. Under the heavens that know not what years be The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements Uttered even what they will in times far hence — All of us gone out of the reach of change — Immortal in a picture of an old grange. Edward Thomas 85 There are Songs Enough THERE are songs enough of love, of joy, of grief; Roads to the sunset, alleys to the moon; Poems of the red rose and the golden leaf, Fantastic faery and gay ballad tune. The long road unto nothing I will sing, Sing on one note, monotonous and dry, Of sameness, calmness and the years that bring No more emotion than the fear to die. 132 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Grey house, grey house and after that grey house, Another house as grey and steep and still ; An old cat tired of playing with a mouse, A sick child tired of chasing down the hill. Shuffle and hurry, idle feet, and slow, Grim face and merry face, so ugly all ! Why do you hurry ? Where is there to go ? Why are you shouting? Who is there to call? Lovers still kissing, feverish to drain Stale juices from the shrivelled fruit of lust: A black umbrella held up in the rain, The raindrops making patterns in the dust. If this distaste I hold for fools is such, Shall I not spit upon myself as well? Do I not eat and drink and smile as much? Do I not fatten also in this hell? Sadness and joy — if they were melted up, Things that were great — upon the fires of time Drop but as soup in the accustomed cup, Settle in stagnance, trickle into grime. Faith, freedom, art that fire a man or two And set him like a pilgrim on his way With Beauty's face before him — what of you, Priest, Butcher, Scholar, King, upon that day? The dullard-masses that no god can save ! If I were God, to rise and strike you down i-33 THE BOOK OF And break your churches in an angry wave And make a furious bonfire of your town ! God in a coloured globe, alone and still, Embroidering wonders with a fearless brain, On loom of spaces measureless, to fill The empty air with passion and with pain. Emblazon all the heavens with desire And Wisdom delved for in the depths of time — Thoughts sculptured mountainous, and fancy's fire Caught in the running swiftness of a rhyme. Passion high-pedestalled, pangs turned to treasure, Perfected and undone and built afresh With concentrated agony and Pleasure . . . If I were God, and not a weight of flesh ! Iris Tree 86 Happy Is England Now THERE is not anything more wonderful Than a great people moving towards the deep Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor Is aught so dear of all held dear before As the new passion stirring in their veins When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep. Happy is England now, as never yet ! And though the sorrows of the slow days fret Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud. 134 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summer That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness Since for this England the beloved ones died. Happy is England in the brave that die For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers; Happy in those that give, give, and endure The pain that never the new years may cure ; Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns, Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea. What'er was dear before is dearer now. There's not a bird singing upon his bough But sings the sweeter in our English ears: There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brain But shines the purer; happiest is England now In those that fight, and watch with pride and tears. John Freeman 87 August, Ip 1 4 HOW still this quiet cornfield is to-night ! By an intenser glow the evening falls. Bringing, not darkness, but a deeper light; Among the stooks a partridge covey calls. The windows glitter on the distant hill ; Beyond the hedge the sheep-bells in the fold Stumble on sudden music and are still ; The forlorn pinewoods droop above the wold. 135 THE BOOK OF An endless quiet valley reaches out Past the blue hills into the evening sky; Over the stubble, cawing goes a rout Of rooks from harvest, flagging as they fly. So beautiful it is, I never saw So great a beauty on these English fields, Touched by the twilight's coming into awe, Ripe to the soul and rich with summer's yields. These homes, this valley spread below me here, The rooks, the tilted stacks, the beasts in pen, Have been the heartfelt things past-speaking dear To unknown generations of dead men, Who, century after century, held these farms, And, looking out to watch the changing sky, Heard, as we hear, the rumours and alarms Of war at hand and danger pressing nigh. And knew, as we know, that the message meant The breaking off of ties, the loss of friends, Death, like a miser getting in his rent, And no new stones laid where the trackway ends. The harvest not yet won, the empty bin, The friendly horses taken from the stalls, The fallow on the hill not yet brought in, The cracks unplastered in the leaking walls. Yet heard the news, and went discouraged home, And brooded by the fire with heavy mind, 136 MODERN BRITISH VERSE With such dumb loving of the Berkshire loam As breaks the dumb hearts of the English kind, Then sadly rose and left the well-loved Downs, And so by ship to sea, and knew no more The fields of home, the byres, the market towns, Nor the dear outline of the English shore, But knew the misery of the soaking trench, The freezing in the rigging, the despair In the revolting second of the wrench When the blind soul is flung upon the air, And died (uncouthly, most) in foreign lands For some idea but dimly understood Of an English city never built by hands Which love of England prompted and made good. If there be any life beyond the grave, It must be near the men and things we love, Some power of quick suggestion how to save, Touching the living soul as from above. An influence from the Earth from those dead hearts So passionate once, so deep, so truly kind, That in the living child the spirit starts, Feeling companioned still, not left behind. Surely above these fields a spirit broods, A sense of many watchers, muttering near, Of the lone Downland with the forlorn woods Loved to the death, inestimably dear. 137 THE BOOK OF A muttering from beyond the veils of Death From long-dead men, to whom this quiet scene Came among blinding tears with the last breath, The dying soldier's vision of his queen. All the unspoken worship of those lives Spent in forgotten wars at other calls Glimmers upon these fields where evening drives Beauty like breath, so gently darkness falls. Darkness that makes the meadows holier still ; The elm-trees sadden in the hedge, a sigh Moves in the beech-clump on the haunted hill, The rising planets deepen in the sky, And silence broods like spirit on the brae; A glimmering moon begins, the moonlight runs Over the grasses of the ancient way Rutted this morning by the passing guns. John Mase field 88 ipi 4 i PEACE OW, God be thanked who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, 138 N MODERN BRITISH VERSE Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move, And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, And all the little emptiness of love ! Oh ! we, who have known shame, we have found re- lease there, Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, Naught broken save this body, lost but breath; Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there But only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. ii SAFETY Dear ! of all happy in the hour, most blest He who has found our hid security, Assured in the dark tides of the w r orld that rest, And heard our word, " Who is so safe as we? " We have found safety with all things undying, The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth, The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying, And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth. We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing. We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever. War knows no power. Safe shall be my going. Secretly armed against all death's endeavor; Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall; And if these poor limbs die, safest of all. 139 THE BOOK OF in THE DEAD Blow out, you bugles, over the rich-Dead ! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away ; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth ; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene. That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow ! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honor has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again ; And we have come into our heritage. IV THE DEAD These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colors of the earth. These had seen movement, and heard music ; known Slumber and waking ; loved ; gone proudly friended ; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended. There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, 140 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance In wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night. THE SOLDIER If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. .There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam; A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke 8q The Kiss TO these I turn, in these I trust ; Brother Lead and Sister Steel. To his blind power I make appeal; I guard her beauty clean from rust. t 4 i THE BOOK OF He spins and burns and loves the air, And splits a skull to win my praise; But up the nobly marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair. Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward darting kiss. Siegfried Sassoon go The Spires of Oxford (as seen from the train) 1SAW the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against a pearl-gray sky. My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary Colleges look down On careless boys at play, But when the bugles sounded war ! They put their games away. • They left the peaceful river, The cricket-field, the squad, 142 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod, — They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. God rest yon, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. Winifred M. Letts pi Conscripts 4 4T^ ALL in, that awkward squad, and strike no more X? Attractive attitudes ! Dress by the right ! The luminous rich colours that you wore Have changed to hueless khaki in the night. Magic? What's magic got to do with you? There's no such thing ! Blood's red and skies are blue." They gasped and sweated, marching up and down. I drilled them till they cursed my raucous shout. Love chucked his lute away and dropped his crown. Rhyme got sore heels and wanted to fall out. " Left, right ! Press on your butts ! " They looked at me Reproachful; how I longed to set them free! 143 THE BOOK OF I gave them lectures on Defence, Attack; They fidgeted and shuffled, yawned and sighed, And boggled at my questions. Joy was slack, And Wisdom gnawed his ringers, gloomy-eyed. Young Fancy — how I loved him all the while — Stared at his note-book with a rueful smile. Their training done, I shipped them all to France. Where most of those Pd loved too well got killed. Rapture and pale Enchantment and Romance, And many a sickly, slender lord who'd filled My soul long since with litanies of sin, Went home, because they couldn't stand the din. But the kind, common ones that I despised, (Hardly a man of them I'd count as friend), What stubborn-hearted virtues they disguised ! They stood and played the hero to the end, Won gold and silver medals bright with bars, And marched resplendent home with crowns and stars. Siegfried Sassoon 92 Youth and Age YOUTH OUTSIDE the church the mourning children cried For some old man who died of ripe old age, Mourning his short appearance on this stage. They said : " He was but seventy, and then he died." 144 MODERN BRITISH VERSE ii THE OLD Throughout this dreadful war we sit and sigh, For all the youthful millions that must die. Yet still we see God's mercy, and we say ' They knew not sorrow, cast their lives away In all their powerful promise of the spring. They saw not autumn, thus were doubly blest ; They never lost their faculties," we sing, Warming our withered hands ; " Perhaps it's for the best. Their loss was cruel, or shall we say their gain, Yet it's the country's glory, and its pain." And thus eternally old age shall sit Mouthing youth's sorrows for its benefit. Why can't the old keep quiet, and sit and sigh ? Or, failing that, why can't they fail and die? Osbert Sitwell 9 J Before Action 1SIT beside the brazier's glow, And, drowsing in the heat, I dream of daffodils that blow And lambs that frisk and bleat — Black lambs that frolic in the snow Among the daffodils, In a far orchard that I know Beneath the Malvern hills. 145 THE BOOK OF Next year the daffodils will blow, And lambs will frisk and bleat; But I'll not feel the brazier's glow, Nor any cold or heat . . . Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 94 ^ The Iron Music THE French guns roll continuously And our guns, heavy, slow; Along the Ancre, sinuously, The transport wagons go, And the dust is on the thistles And the larks sing up on high . . . But I see the Golden Valley Down by Tintern on the Wye. For it's just nine weeks last Sunday Since we took the Chepstow train, And I'm wondering if one day We shall do the like again; For the four-point-two's come screaming Thro' the sausages on high; So there's little use in dreaming How we walked above the Wye. Dust and corpses in the thistles Where the gas shells burst like snow, And the shrapnel screams and whistles On the Becourt road below, And the High W'ood bursts and bristles 146 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Where the mine-clouds foul the sky . . . But I'm with you up at Wyndcroft, Over Tintern on the Wye. Ford Madox Hueffer 95 To the Poet Before Battle NOW, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes, Thy lovely things must all be laid away; And thou, as others, must face the riven day Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway, Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs Of praise the little versemen joyed to take Shall be forgotten ; then they must know we are For all our skill in words, equal in might And strong of mettle as those we honoured. Make The name of poet terrible in just war, And like a crown of honour upon the fight. Ivor Gamey. 96 The Fear I DO not fear to die 'Xeath the open sky, To meet death in the fight Face to face, upright. H7 THE BOOK OF But when at last we creep Into a hole to sleep, I tremble, cold with dread, Lest I wake up dead. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 97 The Question 1 WONDER if the old cow died or not, Gey bad she was the night I left, and sick. Dick reckoned she would mend. He knows a lot — At least he fancies so himself, does Dick. Dick knows a lot. But maybe I did wrong To leave the cow to him, and come away. Over and over like a silly song These words keep humming in my head all day. And all I think of, as I face the foe And take my lucky chance of being shot, Is this — that if I'm hit, I'll never know Till Doomsday if the old cow died or not. - Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 98 In the Trenches NOT that we are weary, Not that we fear, Not that we are lonely Though never alone — 148 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Not these, not these destroy us; But that each rush and crash Of mortar and shell, Each cruel bitter shriek of bullet That tears the wind like a blade, Each wound on the breast of earth, Of Demeter, our Mother, Wounds us also, Severs and rends the fine fabric Of the wings of our frail souls, Scatters into dust the bright wings Of Psyche! ii Impotent, How impotent is all this clamour, This destruction and contest . . . Night after night comes the moon Haughty and perfect; Night after night the Pleiades sing And Orion swings his belt across the sky. Night after night the frost Crumbles the hard earth. Soon the spring will drop flowers And patient, creeping stalk and leaf Along these barren lines Where the huge rats scuttle And the hawk shrieks to the carrion crow. Can you stay them with your noise ? Then kill winter with your cannon, 149 THE BOOK OF Hold back Orion with your bayonets And crush the spring leaf with your armies ! Richard Aldington 99 Dreamers SOLDIERS are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action ; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers ; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture-shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train. Siegfried S as so on ioo Dusk To /. C. THERE where the brown leaves fall from elm and chestnut and plane-tree ; here where the brown leaves drift along the paths to the lake ISO MODERN BRITISH VERSE where the waterfowl breast the waves that are ridged by the wind, — you spoke of your art and life, of men you had known who betrayed you, men who fell short of friendship and women who fell short of love; but abiding beyond them, your art held you to life, transformed it, became it, and so you were free. And I told you of all my weakness, — my growing strength to resist the appeal to my heart and eyes of sorrowful, beautiful things; and the strength of this outer husk I had permitted to grow and protect me was its pitiful measure. You said : There are cracks in the husk. It grew to your measure perhaps once; but you are now breaking through it, and soon it will fall apart and away from you. Like a tree content with its fate, you would not have known it was there if it had grown to remain. The cold wind blew the brown leaves on to the. lovers beneath, who crept closer together for warmth and closer still for love. I5i THE BOOK OF The peacocks perched in the branches hawked their harsh cry at the golden round moon that loomed over the tree-tops. And the sound of our feet on the gravel for a time was answer enough to the broken mesh of our thoughts. I said: T have wife and children, a girl and a boy : I love them ; the gold of their hair is all the gold of my thoughts; the blue of their eyes is all the purity of my vision; the rhythm of their life is more to be watched than the cadences of my poems. And you asked me: Have you taken refuge behind them? Do you not fear to lose your life in saving it for them? Be brave ! Be brave ! The waters are deep, the waves run high ; but you are a swimmer : strike out ! The cold wind blew the brown leaves deeper and deeper into the dusk ; the peacocks had hushed their cries; the moon had turned her gold into silver, and between the black lace of two trees one star shone clearly. 152 MODERN BRITISH VERSE O night! have I deserved your beauty? F. S. Flint iai The Birds Flit Unafraid From " Battle of the Marne " "'TT V HE birds flit unafraid A Through the great cannonade; And, O Cannoniers, though ill The forests take your skill And as by winter nipp'd Scatter leaves bullet-stript Down the shell-ravaged road — Still, in its dark abode, In the branches of God, The Soul sings on alone ; You may blow the dead from their crypt — Not the dream from.its throne! " Herbert Trench 102 A Mystic as Soldier I LIVED my days apart, Dreaming fair songs for God, By the glory in my heart Covered and crowned and shod. Now God is in the strife, And I must seek Him there, 153 THE BOOK OF Where death outnumbers life, And fury smites the air. I walk the secret way With anger in my brain. O music through my clay, When will you sound again ? Siegfried Sassoon 103 Terror 1 THOSE of the earth envy us, Envy our beauty and frail strength; Those of the wind and the moon Envy our pain. 11 For as a doe that has never borne child W r e were swift to fly from terror; And as fragile edged steel We turned, we pierced, we endured. in We have known terror: The terror of the wind and silent shadows, The terror of great heights, The terror of the worm, The terror of thunder and fire, The terror of water and slime, The terror of horror and fear, 154 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The terror of desire and pain — The terror of apathy. IV As a beast, as an arrow of pine, Terror cleft us, Tore us in envy away, So that for month upon month Pain wore us, hope left us, despair clutched us. For they of the earth envied us, Envied our beauty and strength. v Yet because, though we faltered and wept, We held fast, clung close to our love, Scorned hate even as they scorned us, Some god has lightened our lives. Given back the cool mouth of song And the hands that blossom of fire, Given, too, the mouth crushed like a flower Which unpetals in marvellous ways, The limbs that are hard and straight With maidenly thews and blood, Given these so that day is aflame And night shot golden with shafts. VI We have suffered, we have bled, And those of the wind and the moon Envy our pain, the pain of the terror, The delight no terror could slay. Richard Aldington 155 THE BOOK OF 104 Into Battle THE naked earth is warm with spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze ; And life is colour and warmth and light, And a striving evermore for these ; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth ; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth ; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip. The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend ; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridge's end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. 156 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The blackbird sings to him, " Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing." In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers O patient eyes, courageous hearts ! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know Not caring much to know, that still Xor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings. Julian Gr en fell io 5 The Assault Heroic DOWN in the mud I lay, Tired out _by my long day Of five damned days and nights. 157 158 THE BOOK OF Five sleepless days and nights . . Dream-snatched, and set me where The dungeon of Despair Looms over Desolate Sea, Frowning and threatening me With aspect high and steep — A most malignant keep. My foes that lay within Shouted and made a din, Hooted and grinned and cried: " To-day we've killed your pride : To-day your ardour ends. We've murdered all your friends: We've undermined by stealth Your happiness and your health. We've taken away your hope ; Now you may droop and mope To misery and to Death." But with my spear of Faith, Stout as an oaken rafter, With my round shield of laughter, With my sharp, tongue-like sword That speaks a bitter word, I stood beneath the wall And there defied them all. The stones they cast I caught And alchemized with thought Into such lumps of gold As dreaming misers hold. The boiling oil they threw Fell in a shower of dew, Refreshing me; the spears MODERN BRITISH VERSE Flew harmless by my ears, Struck quivering in the sod; There, like the prophet's rod, Put leaves out, took firm root, And bore me instant fruit. My foes were all astounded, Dumbstricken and confounded, Gaping in a long row ; They dared not thrust nor throw. Thus, then, I climbed a steep Buttress and won the keep, And laughed and proudly blew My horn, "Stand to! Stand to! Wake up, sir! Here's a new Attack ! Stand to ! Stand to ! " Robert Graves 1 06 The Assault THE beating of the guns grows louder. " Not long, boys, now." My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder. Hurricanes grow As guns redouble their fire. Through the shaken periscope peeping, I glimpse their wire : Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, Spouting like shocks of meeting waves. Death's fountains are playing. Shells like shrieking birds rush over; 159 THE BOOK OF Crash and din rises higher. A stream of lead raves Over us from the left . . . (we safe under cover!) Crash ! Reverberation ! Crash ! Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash. Black smoke drifting. The German line Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry Of our men, " GaJi, yer swine! Ye're for it " die In a hurricane of shell. One cry : " We're comin soon! look out!" There is opened hell Over there; fragments fly. Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: Dust, smoke, thunder ! A sudden bout Of machine guns chattering . . . And redoubled battering. As if in fury at their daring! . . . Xo good staring. Time soon now . . . home . . . house on a sunny hill . . . Gone like a flickered page : Time soon now . . . zero . . . will engage . . . A sudden thrill — " Fix bayonets ! " Gods ! we have our fill Of fear, hysteria, exultation, rage, 1 60 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Rage to kill. My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter, Contracts tighter and tighter, Until I stifle with the will Long forged, now used (Though utterly strained) — pounding heart, Baffled, confused, Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained — To do my part. Blindness a moment. Sick. There the men are ! Bayonets ready: click! Time goes quick ; A stumbled prayer . . . somehow a blazing star In a blue night . . . where? Again prayer. The tongue trips. Start : How's time ? Soon now. Two minutes or less. The gun's fury mounting higher . . . Their utmost. I lift a silent hand. Unseen I bless Those hearts will follow me. And beautifully, Now beautifully my will grips. Soul calm and round and filmed and white ! A shout : " Men, no such order as retire ! " 1 nod. The whistle's 'twixt my lips . . . I catch A wan, worn smile at me. 161 THE BOOK OF Dear men ! The pale wrist-watch . . . The quiet hand ticks on amid the din. The guns again Rise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust : Kill! Pound! Kill! Pound! Pound! Now comes the thrust ! My part . . . dizziness . . . will . . . but trust These men. The great guns rise ; Their fury seems to burst the earth and skies ! They lift. Gather, heart, all thoughts that drift; Be steel, soul, Compress thyself Into a round, bright whole. I cannot speak. Time. Time ! I hear my whistle shriek, Between teeth set ; I fling an arm up, Scramble up the grime Over the parapet ! I'm up. Go on. Something meets us. Head down into the storm that greets us. A wail. Lights. Blurr. Gone. 162 MODERN BRITISH VERSE On, on. Lead. Lead. Hail. Spatter. Whirr ! Whirr ! "Toward that patch of brozvn; Direction left." Bullets a stream. Devouring thought crying in a dream. Men, crumpled, going down . . . Go on. Go. Deafness Numbness The loudening tornado Bullets Mud. Stumbling and skating. My voice's strangled shout: *' Steady pace, boys!" The still light : gladness. " Look, sir. Look out!" Ha ! ha ! Bunched figures waiting. Revolver levelled quick ! Flick ! Flick ! Red as blood. Germans. Germans. Good ! O good ! Cool madness. Robert Nichols 10/ To Any Dead Officer WELL, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say, Because I'd like to know that you're all right. Tell me, have you found everlasting day, Or been sucked in by everlasting night? For when I shut my eyes your face shows pain ; I hear you make some cheery old remark — 163 THE BOOK OF I can rebuild you in my brain, Though you've gone out patrolling in the dark. You hated tours of trenches; you were proud Of nothing more than having good years to spend; Longed to get home and join the careless crowd Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend. That's all washed out now. You're beyond the wire: No earthly chance can send you crawling back : You've finished with machine-gun fire — Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack. Somehow I always thought you'd get done in, Because you were so desperate keen to live ; You were all out to try and save your skin. Well knowing how much the w r orld had got to give. You joked at shells and talked the usual " shop," Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: With "Jesus Christ! when will it stop?" Three years . . . It's Hell unless w r e break their line. So when they told me you'd been left for dead I wouldn't believe them, feeling it must be true. Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said "Wounded and missing" — (That's the thing to do When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, Moaning for water till they know It's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!) Good-bye, old lad ! Remember me to God, And tell Him that our Politicians swear 164 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They won't give in till Prussian Rule's been trod Under the Heel of England . . . Are you there? . . . Yes . . . and the War won't end for at least two years ; But we've got stacks of men ... I'm blind with tears, Staring into the dark. Cheero ! I wish they'd killed you in a decent show. Siegfried Sassooii 1 08 By the Wood HOW still the day is, and the air how bright ! A thrush sings and is silent in the w r ood ; The hillside sleeps dizzy with heat and light ; A rhythmic murmur fills the quietude ; A woodpecker prolongs his leisured flight, Rising and falling on the solitude. But there are those who far from yon wood lie, Buried within the trench where all were found, A weight of mould oppresses every eye, Within that cabin close their limbs are bound, And there they rot amid the long, profound, Disastrous silence of grey earth and sky. These once, too, rested where now rests but one, Who scarce can lift his panged and heavy head, W r ho drinks in grief the hot light of the sun, Whose eyes watch dully the green branches spread, Who feels his currents ever slowlier run, Whose lips repeat a silent "'. . . Dead ! all dead ! " 165 THE BOOK OF youths to come shall drink air warm and bright. Shall hear the bird cry in the sunny wood, All my Young England fell to-day in fight : That bird, that wood, was ransomed by our blood ! 1 pray you when the drum rolls let your mood Be worthy of our deaths and your delight. Robert Nichols i op Songs from an Evil Wood i THERE is no wrath in the stars, They do not rage in the sky ; I look from the evil wood And find myself wondering why. Why do they not scream out And grapple star against star, Seeking for blood in the wood As all things round me are? They do not glare like the sky Or flash like the deeps of the wood; But they shine softly on In their sacred solitude. To their high, happy haunts Silence from us has flown, She whom we loved of old And know it now she is gone. 1 66 MODERN BRITISH VERSE When will she come again, Though for one second only? She whom we loved is gone And the whole world is lonely. ii Somewhere lost in the haze The sun goes down in the cold, And birds in this evil wood Chirrup home as of old ; Chirrup, stir, and are still On the high twigs frozen and thin. There is no more noise of them now, And the long night sets in. Of all the wonderful things That I have seen in the wood, I marvel most at the birds And their wonderful quietude. For a giant smites with his club All day the tops of the hill, . Sometimes he rests at night, Oftener he beats them still. And a dwarf with a grim black mane Raps with repeated rage All night in the valley below On the wooden walls of his cage. 167 THE BOOK OF And the elder giants come Sometimes, tramping from far Through the weird and flickering light Made by an earthly star. And the giant with his club, And the dwarf with rage in his breath, And the elder giants from far, They are all the children of Death. They are all abroad to-night And are breaking the hills with their brood, And the birds are all asleep Even in Plug Street Wood ! in The great guns of England, they listen mile on mile To the boasts of a broken War-Lord; they lift their throats and smile ; But the old woods are fallen For a while. The old woods are fallen; yet will they come again, They will come back some springtime with the warm winds and the rain For Xature guardeth her children Never in vain. 168 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They will come back some season ; it may be a hundred years ; It is all one to Nature with the centuries that are hers; She shall bring back her children And dry all their tears. But the tears of a would-be War-Lord shall never cease to flow, He shall weep for the poisoned armies whenever the gas-winds blow, He shall always weep for his widows, And all Hell shall know. The tears of a pitiless Kaiser shallow they'll flow and wide, Wide as the desolation made by his silly pride When he slaughtered a little people To stab France in her side. Over the ragged cinders they shall flow on and on With the listless falling of streams that find not ob- livion, For ages and ages of years Till the last star is gone. IV I met with Death in his country, With his scythe and his hollow eye, Walking the roads of Belgium. I looked and he passed me by. 169 THE BOOK OF Since he passed me by in Plug Street, In the wood of the evil name, I shall not now lie with the heroes, I shall not fare their fame, I shall never be as they are, A name in the lands of the Free, Since I looked on Death in Flanders And he did not look at me. Lord Dunsany no It's a Queer Time i T'S hard to know if you're alive or dead When steel and fire go roaring through your head. One moment you'll be crouching at your gun Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast — No time to think — leave all — and off you go . . . To Treasure Island where the spice winds blow, To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime? Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West ! It's a queer time. You're charging madly at them yelling " Fag ! " When somehow something gives and your feet drag. You fall" and strike your head; yet feel no pain And find . . . you're digging tunnels through the hay In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day. Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb ! 170 MODERN BRITISH VERSE You're back in the old sailor suit again. It's a queer time. Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out — A great roar — the trench shakes and falls about — You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo ! Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, Hanky to nose — that lyddite makes a stench — Getting her pinafore all over grime. Funny ! because she died ten years ago ! It's a queer time. The trouble is, things happen much too quick; Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click, You stagger, and the whole scene fades away : Even good Christians don't like passing straight From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps . . . and . . . I'm not well to-day . . . It's a queer time. Robert Graves III Back THEY ask me where I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn't I, But some one just like me, Who went across the sea And with my head and hands 171 THE BOOK OF Killed men in foreign lands . . . Though I must bear the blame Because he bore my name. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 112 The Return HE went, and he was gay to go : And I smiled on him as he went. My son — 'twas well he couldn't know My darkest dread, nor what it meant — Just what it meant to smile and smile And let my son go cheerily — My son . . . and wondering all the while What stranger would come back to me. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson ii 3 To an Officer in Regent Street LIKE some lean ghost who for a little space Looks on the world again, and the clear skies, Or mariner that from the sea doth rise In vain, to find another in his place, You walk with shades of death on your brown face And look upon the street with dead men's eyes. Fresh women throng beside you in the street And painted women; but they seek in vain 172 MODERN BRITISH VERSE To catch those haunted eyes, or turn again From their slow course toward waiting death your feet. You must pass lonely, on whose brow there meet Abel's sharp anguish, and the curse of Cain. Lucy Hawkins 114 To Germany YOU are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But, gropers both through fields of thought confined. We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form, And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm, We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But, until peace the storm, The darkness, and the thunder and the rain. Charles Hamilton Sorley 1 15 The Rainbow 1 WATCH the white dawn gleam, To the thunder of guns. I hear the hot shells scream 173 THE BOOK OF Through skies as sweet as a dream Where the silver dawn-break runs. And stabbing of light Scorches the virginal white. But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill, And I thank the gods that the dawn is beautiful still. From death that hurtles by I crouch in the trench day-long. But up to a cloudless sky From the ground where our dead men lie A brown lark soars in song. Through the tortured air, Rent by shrapnel's flare, Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill. And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still. Where the parapet is low And level with the eye Poppies and cornflowers grow And the corn sways to and fro In a pattern against the sky. The gold stalks hide Bodies of men who died Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill. I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still. When night falls dark we creep In silence to our dead. We dig a few feet deep And leave them there to sleep — 174 MODERN BRITISH VERSE But blood at night is red, Yea, even at night, And a dead man's face is white. And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill, And I look at the stars — for the stars are beautiful still. Leslie Coulson 1 16 Discharged — Totally Disabled SO death was cheated of you ! Here you lie In your own place beside me : you did not die ! I must repeat it, learn this truth by heart: You did not die ! You did not die ! No part Of you is dead! O, sleep, my darling, sleep; You are at home, you must not hear me weep. When I have learned my lesson I shall not cry — You did not die ! You did not, did not die ! I will not gull myself. I'll hold the light Closer, that I may see each ugly trace Death made in missing you : he clawed your face Most hideously of all, because he knew I, his foe, loved its beauty; blew Blood in your eyes, seared the lids black and bare, Branded your brows — my blessing rested there — Then as a treacherous coward, beaten, afraid, Lunges to mark his conqueror, he laid His twisted seal upon your lips and fled, Harried by love and me ! O piteous head ! O bloodshot, staring eyes ! O branded brow, 175 THE BOOK OF O tortured lips, how should I know you now? No feature is the same, no look, no sign Of what I knew is left to prove you mine. You cannot smile ! That was death's ugliest blow ! You cannot smile ! The lips I used to know Smiled in their sleep for me; they laughed all day For every changing thought a different w T ay Of smiling for my joy, but they smiled best In sleep, against my heart, kissed into rest. And now you cannot smile, all hacked awry, warm, gay lips — and yet you did not die ! Beaten, death ! You are beaten ! Though I see This mask of him you have returned to me, Though every wound gapes by this flickering light, 1 have another lamp ! Another sight ! His spirit lives, and all his beauty lives ! You cannot pilfer in my soul ! Love gives His gift immortally ! Not time's decay, Nor violence, nor thou can take away Beauty made mine by love ! Even now I find His living beauty flaming in my mind, Burning out all your scars, old foe, and here, Here on the pillow smiles serenely clear His own familiar face. The mask's a lie ! Nothing of him is dead ! He cannot die. Irene Rutherford McLeod 176 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 117 To a Bull-Dog (IV. H. SV, Capt. [Acting Major] R. F. A.; killed April 12, 1917) WE shan't see Willy any more, Mamie, He won't be coming any more: He came back once and again and again, But he won't get leave any more. We looked from the window and there was his cab, And we ran downstairs like a streak, And he said, " Hullo, you bad dog," and you crouched to the floor, Paralysed to hear him speak, And then let fly at his face and his chest Till I had to hold you down, While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat, And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne. We went upstairs to the studio, The three of us, just as of old, And you lay down and I sat and talked to him As round the room he strolled. Here in the room where, years ago Before the old life stopped, He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe, He would pick up the threads he'd dropped, 177 THE BOOK OF Fondling all the drawings he had left behind, Glad to find them all still the same, And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings . . . Every time he came. But now I know what a dog doesn't know, Though you'll thrust your head on my knee, And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness That you find so dull in me. And all your life you will never know What I wouldn't tell you even if I could, That the last time we waved him away Willy went for good. But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug Sleeping in the warmth of the stove, Even through your muddled old canine brain Shapes from the past may rove. You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream, How we brought home a silly little pup, With a big square head and little crooked legs That could scarcely bear him up, But your tail will tap at the memory Of a man whose friend you were, Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog When he found you on his chair ; i 7 8 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Who'd make you face a reproving finger And solemnly lecture you Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish And you'll dream of your triumphs too. Of summer evening chases in the garden When you dodged us all about with a bone : We were three boys, and you were the cleverest. But now we're two alone. When summer comes again. And the long sunsets fade. We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two That since the war we've played. And though you run expectant as you always do To the uniforms we meet, You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers In even the longest street, Nor in any crowd ; yet, strange and bitter thought. Even now were the old words said, If I tried the old trick and said ' Where's Willy? ' You would quiver and lift your head, And your brown eyes would look to ask if I was serious, And wait for the word to spring. Sleep undisturbed : I shan't say that again, You innocent old thing. l 79 THE BOOK OF I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa, While you lie asleep on the floor ; For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of. And he won't be coming here any more. /. C. Squire 118 When It's Over "V/'OUNG soldier, what will you be X When it's all over ? " " I shall get out and across the sea, Where land's cheap and a man can thrive. I shall make money. Perhaps I'll wive In a place where there's room for a family, I'm a bit of a rover." " Young soldier, what will you be At the last ' Dismiss'?" " Bucked to get back to old Leicester Square, Where there's good champagne and a glad winking And no more ' Veery Lights ' damnably blinking Their weary, dreary, white-eyed stare. I'll be out of this." " Young soldier, what will you be When they sign the peace?" " Blowed if I know ; perhaps I shall stick it. The job's all right if you take it steady. After all, somebody's got to be ready, And tons of the blighters '11 get their ticket. Wars don't cease." 1 80 MODERN BRITISH VERSE " Young soldier, what will you be At the day's end?" " Tired's what I'll be. I shall lie on the beach Of a shore where the rippling waves just sigh, And listen and dream and sleep and lie Forgetting what I've had to learn and teach And attack and defend. " " Young soldier, what will you be When you're next a-bed? " " God knows what ; but it doesn't matter, For whenever I think, I always remember The Belgians massacred that September, And England's pledge — and the rest seems chatter. What if I am dead?" " Young soldier, what will you be When it's all done?" " I shall come back and live alone On an English farm in the Sussex Weald, Where the wounds in my mind will be slowly sealed, And the graves in my heart will be overgrown; And I'll sit in the sun." " Young soldier, what will you be At the ' Last Post ' ? " " Cold, cold in the tender earth, A cold body in foreign soil ; But a happy spirit fate can't spoil, And an extra note in the blackbird's mirth From a khaki ghost." Max Plowman 181 THE BOOK OF up In Flanders Fields IN Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead; short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe ! To you from failing hands we throw The torch ; be yours to hold it high ! If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. John McCrac 120 The Old Houses of Flanders THE old houses of Flanders, They watch by the high cathedrals; They overtop the high town-halls; They have eyes, mournful, tolerant and sardonic, for the ways of men 182 MODERN BRITISH VERSE In the high, white tiled gables, The rain and the night have settled down on Flanders; It is all wet darkness; you can see nothing. Then those old eyes, mournful, tolerant and sardonic, Look at great, sudden, red lights, Look upon the shades of the cathedrals ; And the golden rods of the illuminated rain, For a second . . . And those old eyes. Very old eyes that have watched the ways of men for many generations, Close for ever. The high, white shoulders of the gables Slouch together for a consultation, Slant drunkenly over in the lea of the flaming cathe- drals. They are no more, the old houses of Flanders. Ford Madox Hueffer 121 Pic -nic WE lay and ate sweet hurt-berries In the bracken of Hurt Wood. Like a quire of singers singing low The dark pines stood. Behind us climbed the Surrey hills, Wild, wild in greenery: 183 THE BOOK OF At our feet the downs of Sussex broke To an unseen sea. And life was bound in a still ring Drowsy, and quiet and sweet . . . When heavily up the south-east wind The great guns beat. We did not wince, we did not weep, We did not curse or pray; W r e drowsily heard, and some one said " They sound clear to-day." We did not shake with pity and pain, Or sicken and blanch white. W T e said: "If the wind's from over there There'll be rain to-night." Once pity we knew, and rage we knew, And pain we knew, too well, As we stared and peered dizzily Through the gates of Hell. But now Hell's gates are an old tale; Remote the anguish seems; The guns are muffled and far away, Dreams within dreams. And far and far are Flanders mud, And the pain of Picardy; And the blood that runs there runs beyond The wide waste sea. 184? MODERN BRITISH VERSE We are shut about by guarding walls: (We have built them lest we run Mad from dreaming of naked fear And of black things done.) We are ringed all round by guarding walls, So high, they shut the view, Not all the guns that shatter the world Can quite break through. Oh guns of France, oh guns of France. Be still, you crash in vain . . . Heavily up the south wind throb Dull dreams of pain . . . Be still, be still, south wind, lest your Blowing should bring the rain . . . We'll lie very quiet on Hurt hill, And sleep once again. Oh, we'll lie quite still, nor listen nor look, While the earth's bounds reel and shake, Lest, battered too long, our walls and we Should break . . . should break . . . Rose Macaulay 122 The Dying Patriot DAY breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day ! 185 THE BOOK OF I saw them inarch from Dover, long ago, With a silver cross before them, singing low, Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam, Augustine with his feet of snow. Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, — Beauty she was statue cold — there's blood upon her gown : Noon of my dreams, O noon ! Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago, With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, And the streets where the great men go. Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, When the first star shivers and the last waves pales: O evening dreams ! There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead Sway when the long winds blow. Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: Fire in the night, O dreams ! Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go 186 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Where the fleet of stars is anchored, and the young Star-captains glow. James Elroy Flecker 123 Le panto WHITE founts falling in the Courts of the sun, And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run; There is laughter like the fountains in the face of all men feared, It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard. It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips. For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships. They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy, They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea, And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss, And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross. The cold queen of England is looking in the glass ; The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass; From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun, And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun. Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard, 187 THE BOOK OF Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred, Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall, The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall, The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung, That once went singing southward when all the world was young. In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid, Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade. Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far, Don John of Austria is going to the war, Stiff flags staining in the night-blasts cold In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old gold. Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums, Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes. Don John laughing in the brave beard curled, Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world, Holding his head up for a flag of all the free. Love-light of Spain — hurrah ! Death-light of Africa! Don John of Austria Is riding to the sea. Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star, {Don John of Austria is going to the war) 188 MODERN BRITISH VERSE He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees, - His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas. He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease, And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees, And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing. Giants and the Genii, Multiplex of wing and eye, Whose strong obedience broke the sky When Solomon was king. They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn, From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn They rise in green robes. roaring from the green hells of the sea Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be; On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea- forests curl, Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl; They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground, — They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound. 189 THE BOOK OF And he saith, " Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide. And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide, And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest, For that which was our trouble conies again out of the west. We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun, Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done, But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know The voice that shook our palaces — four hundred years ago: It is he that saith not ' Kismet ' ; it is he that knows not Fate ; It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate ! It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth. Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth." For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar, (Don John of Austria is going to the war.) Sudden and still — hurrah ! Bolt from Iberia ! Don John of Austria Is gone by Alcalar. St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north 190 MODERN BRITISH VERSE (Don John of Austria is girt and going forth,) Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift And the sea-folk labor and the red sails lift. He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone ; The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone ; The North is full of tangled things and texts and ach- ing eyes And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise, And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room. And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom. And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee, But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea. Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips, Trumpet that sayeth ha ! Domino gloria ! Don John of Austria Is shouting to the ships. King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.) The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin, And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in. He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon, He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon, 191 THE BOOK OF And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey Like plants iii the high houses that are shuttered from the day And death is in the phial and the end of noble work, But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk. Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed — Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid. Gun upon gun, ha ! ha ! Gun upon gun, hurrah ! Don John of Austria Has loosed the cannonade. The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke, (Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.) The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year, The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear. He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery ; They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark, They veil the plumped lions on the galleys of St. Mark ; And above the ships are palaces of brown, black- bearded chiefs, And below the ships are prisons where with multitudi- nous griefs, Christian captives sick and sunless, all a laboring race repines Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines. 192 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung The stairways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young. They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Baby- lon. And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in Hell Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell, And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign — (But Don John of Austria has burst the battle line!) Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop, Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop, Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds, Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds, Thronging of the thousands up that labor under sea White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty. Vivat Hispania ! Domino Gloria! Don John of Austria Has set his people free! Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath (Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.) And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain, 193 THE BOOK OF Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain, And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade. . . . (But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.) Gilbert K. Chesterton 124 I am the Gilly of Christ I AM the gilly of Christ. The mate of Mary's Son ; I run the roads at seeding time. And when the harvest's done. I sleep among the hills. The heather is my bed; I dip the termon-well for drink, And pull the sloe for bread. No eye has ever seen me. But shepherds hear me pass, Singing at fall of even Along the shadowed grass. The beetle is my bellman. The meadow-fire my guide, The bee and bat my ambling nags When I have need to ride. All know me only the Stranger, Who sits on the Saxon's height; 194 MODERN BRITISH VERSE He burned the bacach's little house On last Saint Brigid's Night. He sups oft' silver dishes, And drinks in a golden horn, But he will wake a wiser man Upon the Judgment Morn ! I am the Gilly of Christ, The mate of Mary's Son ; I run the roads at seeding time, And when the harvest's done. The seed I sow is lucky. The corn I reap is red, And whoso sings the Gill's Rami Will never cry for bread. Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) 1 2 5 Regnum Caelorum Vim Patitur WHEN our five-angled spears, that pierced the world And drew its life-blood, faint before the wall Which hems its secret splendour — when we fall, Lance broken, banner furled, Before that calm invincible defence Whereon our folly hurled The piteous armies of intelligence — Then, often-times, we know How conquering mercy to the battle field 195 THE BOOK OF Comes through the darkness, freely to bestow The prize for which we fought Not knowing what we sought, And salve the wounds of those who would not yield. He loves the valiant foe; he comes not out to meet The craven soul made captive of its fear: Not these the victories that to him are sweet ! But the impetuous soldiery of truth, And knighthood of the intellectual qu^st, Who ask not for his ruth Nor would desire his rest : These are to him most dear, And shall in their surrender yet prevail. Yea ! at the end of unrewarded days, By swift and secret ways As on a sudden moonbeam shining clear, Soft through the night shall slide upon their gaze The thrice-defended vision of the Grail : And when his peace hath triumphed, these shall be The flower of his celestial chivalry. And did you think, he saith As to and fro he goes the trenches through, My heart impregnable, that you must bring The. ballisters of faith Their burning bolts to fling, And all the cunning intricate device Of human wit, One little breach to make That so you might attain to enter it? Nay, on the other side 196 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Love's undefended postern is set wide: But thus it is I woo My dearest sons, that an ignoble ease Shall never please, Nor any smooth and open way entice. Armed would I have them come Against the mighty bastions of their home; Out of high failure win Their way within, And from my conquering hand their birthright take. Evelyn Underhill 126 Brother Fidelis P\SSING to Chapel thro' the high cloisterd way, Brother Fidelis loitered to survey Far, slumberous fields all wrapt in still moonlight Laid plain, thro' chiselled windows, to his sight. The Brother dropt his hands upon the stone Of one low window. Sepia shadows, thrown Across the pavement, made the light more clear Upon his thoughtful face; no shade was there, Tho' Suffering's heavy hand had drawn her lines About his mouth ; and near his eyes were signs Of long night watchings and of fastings long — Wherewith he trained his spirit to be strong. Unknown the thoughts, the labour and the pain . . . Before his eyes lay but the tender grain 197 THE BOOK OF Lovingly gathered in that quiet patch By one asleep beneath some cottage thatch. Beyond the fields lay London. He had been There once, toiling for life amid the mean Toil of the streets; and then had drawn aside From worldly lust, vainglorious days and pride. 'Twas better so; better to serve the Lord Continually, than share Him with a horde Of other gods. He had gained here, apart, With the new name, Fidelis, a new heart. He stood as still as the carved Virgin Maid Above the Chapel door, whose Child was laid Against her breast. So stood Fidelis there As tho' the world were not, nor care on care. The Chapel bell clanged from a turret high, The Brother's sober Brethren shuffled by, Casting strange shapes on the cold pavement's face. Fidelis, woken, turned with them for Grace Within the narrow door, passing below The Mother Maid who smiled to see them go. The praising voices died along the grey Moonlighted quiet of the cloistered way. Given Upcott 198 MODERN BRITISH VERSE I2f Two Carols Flores apparuerunt in terra nostre VERY still was all the land. Very secret was the hour; Darkness as a guard did stand When the Rose brought forth her flower — Rosa sine spina. Long the road and hard the pain, Chill and lowly was the shed : See, upon the straw she's lain — Straw, to make her childing-bed ! Virgo et re gin a. Cold the welcome, sharp the smart ; Godhead treads the bitter way. Only in the lowly heart Is her babe brought forth to-day — Genetrix divina. ii Omnis cr eat lira ingemiscit, et parturit usque adhac. SILENCE and darkness ! land and sea Await the ending of their pain. Qui est in eoelis now shall be One with the world he made again, Dominus tecum! 199 THE BOOK OF So the angels say, So may it be alway ! Poor Earth, that hast in exile long Borne alien gods, thy travail cease ! Lift up, lift up, the mother's song: Rex natus est, his name is Peace. Domimis tecum! So the angels says, So may it be alway ! Adveniat regnum! in the heart Love's childing-bed is made to-night. There is he born that heals thy smart, Emmanuel, the Light of Light ! Domimis tecum! So the angels say, So may it be alway ! Evelyn Under hill 128 Triptych I. — first panel: the hill ON a day in Maytime mild Mary sat on a hill-top with her child. (Overhead in the calm sky's arching The curled white clouds went slowly marching . , But underneath the blue abyss All was stiller than water is Leagues under the surface of the sea.) And all about her thick and free Blossomed the dear familiar flowers. 200 MODERN' BRITISH VERSE There, while her boy played through the hours, And the high sun shook gold upon her, Mary plaited a garland in his honour Who should be the King of Kings; And when 'tis done this song she sings. As Jesus, tired and 'happy, rests Curled in the hollow of her breasts 5. " In the shadow of my dress, Out of the run And his fierce caress, Sleep, my son. " Soft the air about the hill, Scented, sunny, clear, and still ; Below in the woods the daffodil Nods, and the shy anemone Creeps up from the thicket to look on thee, And ten thousand daisies meet In an ocean of stars about thy feet. " Daisies have I strung for thee, Darling boy, Wee white blossoms that shall be Dappled, ah ! rosily With thy blood, When they nail thee to the wood Cleft from out the crooked tree. Can it be, Daisies innocent and good, That ye star black calvary? 201 THE BOOK OF " Buttercups I make thy crown, Darling boy. (Lullaby, O lullaby!) Son of sorrow, son of joy, Pain and Paradise thou art, Thou that sighest nestling down • In my breast, over my heart That is a lake Where the hidden tear-drops ache To be free, Till mounting upward for thy sake Out they break. Down they plash on me and thee. " And Heaven in her charity Drops seven tears on me and thee. " This thy childhood's crown, Flower on flower, Wear thou in thy lullaby Till thou facest the soldiers' frown In thine iron hour, Till the thorn they crown thee by They press down: Ah, the sharp points in my heart ! Ah, the sword, the sudden smart Flaying me as 'twere a flame ! Crowned indeed, my son, thou art With red flowers of pain and shame ! " Birds and butterflies and trees, And the long hush of the breeze 202 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Shimmering over the silken grass. What wouldst thou have more than these? In the stall the ox and ass Gazed on thee with tender eyes; All things love thee; yet there lies Some hid thing in thee breeds fear — Brims not falls thy mother's tear. Wherefore, baby, must thou go? Rose, to be torn in sunder so? Little bonny limbs, little bonny face, My lamb, my torment, my disgrace ! " O baby, are thine eyelids closed Faster than my eyes supposed? With foxes must thy bed be maken, A beggar with beggars must thou go, To be at last forsworn, forsaken? And bear alone thy cross also Anigh to the foot of a bare hill? To hang gibbeted and abhorred, For passers-by to wish thee ill? And to thrust against thy will Through thy mother's bosom the sharpest sword? " O baby, breathing so quietly, Have thou mercy upon me ! That in thy madness On thy lonely journey farest, That understandest not nor carest For me and my sadness ! W r oe indeed ! thou dost not know Man cometh into this world in sorrow 203 THE BOOK OF To spend in grief to-night, to-morrow In sorrow the third day to go ! " O sleep, dear baby, and, heart, sleep ; Turn to thy slumber, golden, deep, Of present possible happiness. Let drop the daisies one by one Over his body and his dress; Afflicted eyes, see but thy son Who sleeps secure from hurt, from harm, Clasped to my breast, closed in my arm. Who murmurs as the flowers by the faint wind shaken, And, putting forth sweet, sleepy hands, Feels for the kisses he demands . . . Slowly, belov'd, dost thou awaken, And sure, in heaven there is no sign: It is not true that thou shalt be taken, Who for ever, for ever art mine, art mine ! " Into the west the calm white sun Floated and sank. The day was done. Mary returned, and as she went, Above her, in the firmament, The stars, that are the flowers of God, Mirrored the flowery earth she trod. Thus bore she on her destined child, And while she wept, behold ! he smiled, And stretched his arms seeking a kiss . Softly she kissed him, and a bliss, 204 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Deeper than all her human tears, Flooded her and put out her fears. Oxford, Early Spring, 191 1. II. — SECOND AND CENTRE PANEL: THE TOWER It was deep night, and over Jerusalem's low roofs The moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs. The moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet, Over dome and column, up empty, endless street ; In the closed, scented gardens the rose loosed from the stem Her white showery petals ; none regarded them ; The starry thicket breathed odours to the sentinel palm; Silence possessed the city like a soul possessed by calm. Not a spark in the warren under the giant night, Save where in a turret's lantern beamed a grave, still light: There in the topmost chamber a gold-eyed lamp was lit — Marvellous lamp in darkness, informing, redeeming it ! For, set in that tiny chamber, Jesus, the blessed and doomed, Spoke to the lone apostles as light to men entombed; And spreading his hands in blessing, as one soon to be dead, He put soft enchantment into spare wine and bread. 205 THE BOOK OF The hearts of the disciples were broken and full of tears, Because their lord, the spearless, was hedged about with spears ; And in his face the sickness of departure had spread a gloom, At leaving his young friends friendless. They could not forget the tomb. He smiled subduedly, telling, in tones soft as voice of the dove, The endlessness of sorrow, the eternal solace of love; And lifting the earthly tokens, wine and sorrowful bread, He bade them sup and remember one who lived and was dead. And they could not restrain their weeping. But one rose up to depart, Having weakness and hate of weakness raging within his heart, And bowed to the robed assembly whose eyes gleamed wet in the light. Judas arose and departed: night went out to the night. Then Jesus lifted his voice like a fountain in an ocean of tears, And comforted his disciples and calmed and allayed their fears. But Judas wound down the turret, creeping from floor to floor, And would fly^ but one leaning, weeping, barred him beside the door. 206 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And he knew her by her ruddy garment and two yet- watching men: Mary of Seven Evils, Mary Magdalen. And he was frighted at her. She sighed : " I dreamed him dead. We sell the body for silver . . " Then Judas cried out and fled Forth into the night ! . . . The moon had begun to set ; A drear, deft wind went sifting, setting the dust afret ; Into the heart of the city Judas ran on and prayed To stern Jehovah lest his deed make him afraid. But in the tiny lantern, hanging as if on air, The disciples sat unspeaking. Amaze and peace were there. For his voice, more lovely than song of all earthly birds, In accents humble and happy spoke slow, consoling words. Thus Jesus discoursed, and was silent, sitting upright, and soon Past the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon ; And, rising for Olivet, all stared, between love and dread, Seeing the torrid moon a ruddy halo behind his head. Grayshott, July, 19 14. III. THIRD PANEL: THE TREE The crooked tree creaked as its loaded bough dipped And suddenly jerked up. The rope had slipped, 207 THE BOOK OF And hideously Judas fell, and all the grass Was soused and reddened where he was, And the tree creaked its mirth . . . Mid the hot sky Appeared immediate dots tiny and high, Till downward wound in batlike herds Black, monstrous, gawky birds, And, narrowing their rustling rings, Alit, talons foremost. And with flat wings Flapped in the branches, and glared, and croaked and croaked, While no compassionate human came and cloaked The thing that stared up at the giddy day With pale blue eyeballs and wry-lipped display Of yellow teeth closed on the blue, bit tongue. Overhead the light in silence hung, And fiercely showed the sweaty, knotted hands Clutching the rope about the swollen glands . . . And the birds croaked and croaked, evilly eyeing The thing so lying, Which no commiserate pity came and cloaked, But which soaked The earth, so that the flies Sizzily swung over its winkless eyes, And in a crawling, shiny, busy brood Blackened the sticky blood, And tickled the tongue-choked mouth that sought to cry Bitterly and beseechingly Against the judgment of th' unflinching sky. 208 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The poor dead, lonely thing had not a shroud From that still, frightful glare until a cloud Of darkness, flowing like a dye Over the edges of the sky, Browned and put out the silent sun: A benison Of three hours' space. And it had power To put a shadow into that thing's face, And th' invisible birds fell silent by its grace. Thus Judas lay in shadow and all was still. Then faint light, like water, began again to fill The sky, and a whisper — came it from the grass, Whispering dry and sparse, Or from the air beyond the neighbouring hill ? — Ebbed, as a spirit on a sigh Passing beyond alarm : "It is finished!" And there was calm Under the empty tree and in the brightening sky. Robert Nichols Grayshott, July, 1914. 129 Simon the Cyrenean "And as they came out they found a man of Cyrcne, Simon by name; him they compelled to bear his cross" T HIS is the tale from first to last ; — Outside Jerusalem 209 THE BOOK OF I saw them lead a prisoner past With thorns for diadem. Broken and weak and driven fast He fell at my garment's hem. There stood no other stranger by On me they laid his load. The Cross whereon he was to die I bore along the road, I saw him nailed, I heard him cry Forsaken of his God. Now I am dead as well as he, And, marvel strange to tell, But him they nailed upon the tree Is Lord of Heaven and Hell, And judgeth who doth wickedly, Rewardeth who doth well. He has given to me the beacons four, A Cross in the southern sky, In token that his Cross I bore In his extremity; For one I never knew before The day he came to die. Lucy Lyttelton 210 MODERN BRITISH VERSE jjo Birthright LORD RAMESES of Egypt sighed Because a summer evening passed; And little Ariadne cried That summer fancy fell at last To dust; and young Verona died When beauty's hour was overcast. Theirs was the bitterness we know Because the clouds of hawthorn keep So short a state, and kisses go To tombs unfathomably deep, While Rameses and Romeo And little Ariadne sleep. John Drinkwater 131 Harvest THOUGH the long seasons seem to separate Sower and reaper or deeds dreamed and done, Yet when a man reaches the Ivory Gate Labour and life and seed and corn are one. Because thou art the doer and the deed Because thou art the thinker and the thought, Because thou art the helper and the need. And the cold doubt that brings all things to nought. 211 THE BOOK OF Therefore in every gracious form and shape The world's dear open secret shalt thou find, From the One Beauty there is no escape Xor from the sunshine of the Eternal mind. The patient labourer, with guesses dim, Follows this wisdom to its secret goal. He knows all deeds and dreams exist in him, And all men's God in every human soul. Eva Gore-Booth 132 The Dark W ay ROUGHER than death the road I choose Yet shall my feet not walk astray, Though dark, my way I shall not lose For this way is the darkest way. Set but a limit to the loss And something shall at last abide, The blood-stained beams that formed the cross, The thorns that crowned the crucified; But who shall lose all things in One, Shut out from Heaven and the Pit Shall lose the darkness and the sun, The finite and the infinite ; And who shall see in one small flower The chariots and the thrones of might 212 MODERN BRITISH VERSE' Shall be in peril from that hour Of blindness and the endless night; And who shall hear in one short name Apocalyptic thunders seven His heart shall flicker like a flame 'Twixt Hell's gates and the gates of Heaven. For I have seen your body's grace, The miracle of the flowering rod, And in the beauty of thy face The glory of the face of God. And I have heard the thunderous roll Clamoured from heights of prophecy, Your splendid name, and from my soul Uprose the clouds of minstrelsy. Now I have chosen in the dark The desolate way to walk alone, Yet strive to keep alive one spark Of your known grace and grace unknown; And when I leave you lest my love Should seal your spirit's ark with clay Spread your bright wings, O shining Dove — But my way is the darkest way. Joseph Mary Plunkett 213 THE BOOK OF J 33 The Backward Glance THEY set him on a sunny road, His face toward the world's expanse : "Yonder," they said, "the victor's crown; Beware of the backward glance." " Run swift, run true, the crown is thine ! " Unhindered through the crescent hours He ran a fair and level road That went between the flowers. But when he left the valley path And up the hill began to climb, He heard the sound of distant feet That with his own kept time. He closed his ears, he steeled his heart, Yet still that sound came down the wind ; He turned, and saw a dreadful form That followed far behind. Then forward on his way he sprang, Scaling the hill with shortening breath; But ever on his ears there rang The pattering feet of Death. At noon upon a lonely height He stood, and saw the road run down 214 MODERN BRITISH VERSE A shining ribbon of desire Straight to the promised crown. " Lord of my life am I ! '' he cried, " The crown is mine." But as the hope Flamed in his breast, he looked behind : Death's feet were on the slope. Then down the steep and sudden path Swift to the goal he took his flight. Far down the hill, he looked again — Death stood upon the height. On, on he sped, until the crown Against the glowing sunset shone: Yet ever at the backward glance The following form drew on. Fast through the gathering dusk he flew: He leapt, the guerdon to embrace. But as he leapt, he looked behind — Death looked him in the face. Evelyn Under hill 134 Gallows THERE was a weasel lived in the sun With all his family, Till a keeper shot him with his gun And hung him up on "a tree, Where he swings in the wind and rain 2I 5 THE BOOK OF In the sun and in the snow, Without pleasure, without pain On the dead oak tree bough. There was a crow who was no sleeper, But a thief and a murderer Till a very late hour ; and this keeper Made him one of the things that were, To hang and flap in rain and wind, In the sun and in the snow. There are no more sins to be sinned On the dead oak tree bough. There was a magpie, too. Had a long tongue and a long tail ; He could both talk and do — But what did that avail? He, too, flaps in the wind and rain Alongside weasel and crow, Without pleasure, without pain, On the dead oak tree bough. And many other beasts And birds, skin, bone and feather, Have been taken from their feasts And hung up there together, To swing and have endless leisure In the sun and in the snow, Without pain, without pleasure, On the dead oak tree bough. Edward Thomas 216 MODERN BRITISH VERSE /J5 Plaint of Friendship by Death Broken (R. P., Loos, 1915) GOD, if Thou livest, Thine eye on me bend, And stay my grief and bring my pain to end : Pain for my lost, the deepest, rarest friend Man ever had, whence groweth this despair. I had a friend; but, O ! he is now dead; I had a vision; for which he has bled; I had happiness; but it is fled. God help me now, for I must needs despair. His eyes were dark and sad, yet never sad; In them moved sombre figures sable-clad; They were the deepest eyes man ever had. They were my solemn joy — now my despair. In my perpetual night they on me look, Reading me slowly; and I cannot brook Their silent beauty, for nor crack nor nook Can cover me but they shall find me there. His face was straight, his mouth was wide yet trim; His hair was tangled black, and through its dim Softness his perplexed hand would writhe and swim — Hands that were small on arms strong-knit yet spare. He stood no taller than our common span, Swam but nor farther leaped nor faster ran ; 217 THE BOOK OF I know him spirit now, who seemed a man. God help me now, for I must needs despair. His voice was low and clear, yet it could rise And beat in indignation at the skies; Then no man dared to meet his fire-filled eyes, And even I, his own friend, did not dare. With humorous wistfulness he spoke to us, Yet there was something more mysterious, Beyond his words or silence, glorious : I know not what, but we could feel it there. I mind now how we sat one winter night While past his open window raced the bright Snow-torrent golden in the hot firelight . . . I see him smiling at the streamered air. I watched him to the open window go, And lean, long smiling, whispering to the snow, Play with his hands amid the fiery flow And when he turned it flamed amid his hair. Without arose a sudden bell's huge clang Until a thousand bells in answer rang And midnight Oxford hummed and reeled and sang Under the whitening fury of the air. His figure standing in the fiery room . . . Behind him the snow seething through the gloom . . The great bells shaking, thundering out their doom . . Soft Fiery Snow and Night his being were. 218 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Yet he could be simply glad and take his choice, Walking spring woods, mimicking each bird voice ; When he was glad we learned how to rejoice: If the birds sing, 'tis to my spite they dare. All women loved him, yet his mother won His tenderness alone, for Moon and Sun And rain were for him sister, brother, loved one, And in their life he took an equal share. Strength he had, too ; strength of unrusted will Buttressed his natural charity, and ill Fared it with him who sought his good to kill: He was its Prince and Champion anywhere. Yet he had weakness, for he burned too fast; And his unrecked-of body at the last He in impatience on the bayonets cast, Body whose spirit had outsoared them there. I had a friend, but, O ! he is now dead. Fate would not let me follow 7 where he led. In him I had happiness. But he is dead. God help me now, for I must needs despair. God, if Thou livest, and indeed didst send Thine only Son to be to all a Friend, Bid His dark, pitying eyes upon me bend, God help me now, for I must needs despair. Robert Nichols In Hospital, Autumn, 1915. 219 THE BOOK OF 136 An Epitaph HERE lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare — rare it be ; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country? Walter de la Mare 137 The Listeners ^TS there anybody there?" said the Traveller, J- Knocking on the moonlit door ; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor — And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head — And he smote upon the door again a second time ; " Is there anybody there," he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then 220 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men : Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head: — ' Tell them I came," and no one answered, " That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left aw T ake : Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. Walter de la Mare 138 The Whisperers AS beneath the moon I walked, Dog-at-heel my shadow stalked, Keeping ghostly company : And as we went gallantly Down the fell-road, dusty-white, 221 THE BOOK OF Round us in the windy night Bracken, rushes, bent and heather Whispered ceaselessly together : " Would he ever journey more, Ever stride so carelessly, If he knew what lies before, And could see what we can see ? " As I listened, cold with dread, Every hair upon my head Strained to hear them talk of me, Whispering, whispering ceaselessly " Folly's fool the man must be, Surely, since, though where he goes He knows not, his shadow knows : And his secret shadow never Utters warning words, or ever Seeks to save him from his fate, Reckless, blindfold, and unknown, Till death tells him all, too late, And his shadow walks alone." Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 139 The House of the Soul: Lay 1HAVE forgotten my name and the name of my nation . . . yes I know alone I have lost myself, and have wandered far astray From the land where the magical fir-trees grow, farther than far Cathay, 222 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Farther than fair Atlantis or the hills of Tir-fa-tonn, Or the isles of Bran and Mailduin, or the isle of Avalon ; From the city built on the rivers, where the willow- branches sway To a quiet tune all night to the moon, and dream in the sun all day, Where the gardens drink at the river's brink and the poppies dip to the water wan, And the roses fall from the hot red wall like showers of light on the water gray. Now and again by night, when the sun's last ray Has crawled under the sky-line, and I hear the waves' array March clip-clap after me, driving me up the bay That is ringed with cliffs and foam-girt, and the bats wheel out anon, Sometimes I half remember . . . and again the word is gone ; And I know that I am lonely, and the night and the sea and the spray, Unrestingly, unhastingly, march on with no delay, And the sheer height of the cliffs' white stands like the base of the great white throne, And I seem to be left with God, bereft of any wisdom to plead or pray. Some one has leased me a house that is huge and dark and old And filled with other men's dust ; 223 THE BOOK OF I do not remember bargaining, but I pay the price in gold, Year after year ... a heavy price . . . and pay it because I must. Its rafters are full of mould And its bars, of rust; The slates fly from the roof at every gust Of the wind over the wold. I should like to search my house, if only I were bold, And scrape the mildew T -crust From cobweb-curtained corners that are quaintly shaped and cold And heaped with curious hangings ; yet I have but little lust To find what may not be told Or ever discussed Hid in a closet, maybe, or carefully thrust Into a curtain's fold. I am afraid of my house, and I wish I knew Who Those other tenants w r ere That my landlord leased it to; I know that they have been there, For sometimes I find a shoe Or a ribbon for the hair . . . There's a grandfather clock on the stair, And an odd little bust on a bracket, for which I don't very much care. 224 MODERN BRITISH VERSE ' They have left long since; what matter to you? M . . . True. But I wish my house was bare And perfectly clean and new, For the hollowed seat of a chair Or a rod wrenched askew Gives me the creeps, and I dare Hardly breathe in an air So thick with the dust of those who once were here, and who now are . . . where ? One day the storm was loud, the clouds clung thick and red Close to the windows, the sky glowed like a copper pan, The thunder muttered and cracked, the lightning leapt from its bed Like a beast, the rain ripped down like a curtain of iron thread; And every nook of the house was dim and strange and dread, And odd things shuffled and squeaked in the corners, and queer feet ran Hither and thither . . . the light was split, furled and unfurled like a fan . . . That was a day of God's ban. And it suddenly came to my mind that the house was inhabited By people that hid themselves, and I swore to seek and scan 22* THE BOOK OF And find those flittering feet, and the voices, and what they said; But the lightning flashed and shook me, and dizzied all my head, And I searched each room and closet, and I sped and sped and sped Through turret and tower and corridor, till trembling I began To open the dungeon doors, and lo ! in the deepest, an old, old man That sat, and sang and span. And, do you know, I could not find him again ! Not once ! Though I sometimes fancied I heard a strain With a sort of humming refrain ; And I'd tip-toe down the staircase, close to the wall To deaden my footfall; And the singing would rise and wane. And the flame of my secret candle shrink, and shoot up smoky and tall. So, very quietly creeping, I'd suddenly gain A little, low, iron-bound door, and " Not in vain This time," I would whisper, " my pain ! " Then I'd fling the door back quick with a cheery call . . . Silence, nothing at all ! Now is it not wholly plain That here was something of wizardry, mystical, magical ? 226 MODERN BRITISH VERSE I hate the clock ; It first says Tick, It then says Tock ; I hear days flick I see years flock, The whole world rock ; Had I the trick Pd like to lock Time with a block To make it stick. Hie, haec and hoc, Hoc, haec and hie, Each, at each knock Drops like a brick Sticks like a stock Just at the shock Caught in the nick ; Therefore the mock Of that red cock Turned Peter sick. My house upon the landward side Looks out toward the town; Pleasant it is all day to bide High in the thin air rarefied, And gaze delighted down On busy folk that drive and ride And run and crawl and hop and stride Like beetles black and brown. 227 THE BOOK OF Stiff soldiers stalk, kings pace in pride, And statesmen stoop and frown, The women strut and mince and glide, Priests bustle round at Eastertide . . . All but their boots their broad hats hide, The wind blows out their gown, . . . Tramps slouch and spit, boys jump and slide, They look all head. How I deride King, lady, priest and clown ! My house is haunted and hell-enchanted by a conjuror vaunted . . . hear them tripping. Chattering, scattering, imps undaunted, here they come battering, pattering, skipping, Dancing and prancing, gloating and glancing, bawling, brawling, leering and lipping, Snarling and nipping Clinging and gripping Winding and whirling, twisting and twirling, sliding and sprawling askew and slipping . . . And they revel, vitriolic, Diabolic, Like a devil with the colic . . . Topping ! ripping ! O the smashing and O the crashing, O the hashing and slashing and snipping My goods! ... If I could give you a thrashing, send you home with a good sound whipping, Bestial brood of a brutal mood, when the devil and I lay kissing and clipping . . . Now curtseying, dipping, 228 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Sweating and dripping, Heel-and-toeing, to-and-froing, winking, blinking, bib- bing, and sipping . . . How you frolic alcoholic. How you rolick. Me, a wretched melancholic, Shaming, stripping ! This was the song that, like a distant bell Exceeding light and thin, Came at the dawning after nights of hell From far away within ; Maybe from that unsearchable dark cell It did begin Where that old man, whose name I cannot tell, Doth sit and spin. " Empty the winds that can the clouds dispel, And silence after din, Water has virtue heats of wine to quell, Fatigue gives pause to sin, And rest seemed good to Adam when he fell, As to his kin ; O well it is for me, O well, O well This way to win." Yesterday, looking through my window-bars, The whole sad sea was changed resplendently By one great ship that sailed with raking spars Into the sunshine; and her masts were three, Red, splendid banners in the wind flew free, Her blown white sails were thick with tempest-scars, 229 THE BOOK OF Twelve blazoned shields along her sides had she, And round about her prow, the name of the Trinity. By night she lit her lanterns from the stars And on her decks held mighty jubilee With wine poured out from strange Assyrian jars And wheaten bread for all her company. " O sirs," I cried, " whither with such good glee Sail ye for merchandise or mighty wars? " The Captain said : ki Come down, take ship with me"... Then with this song we weighed and sailed across the sea. "We that speed on the shifting floor Where the green waters vary With many a song and stroke of oar, Sail for the chase of the silver boar That's horned and hoofed and hairy ; His eyes are bright, his bristles hoar, And hung with golden bells galore ; O many a time he flees and flies across the uplands airy, And fierce he is, and fleet he is, and light and wight and wary, • And bravely famed in faery lore By many a hunter sought of yore. " The dark, salt sea is bitter and frore, The wind of comfort chary, But though the drenching sleet downpour And Manawyddan's green steed roar, We are not solitary, 230 MODERN BRITISH VERSE For Rhiannon's sweet song-birds soar About our heads for evermore. With the first stroke for Jesus King, the second stroke for Mary, The third stroke for the Trinity, the fourth for the land of faery, By one, by two, by three, by four, We reach the wonderful, weirded shore. " I am sailing to seek my name and the name of my nation . . . nay For I know the land that bore me, where the marvellous sea beasts play, Where are silver bells on the blackthorn boughs, and golden bells on the may, Where the magical Boar abideth, and the birds of Rhiannon, And Adam and Eve and Enoch, and Arthur and Prester John. I have learnt the name of my city, and learnt to ask my way. And the whole ship's crew are my fellows too, and a merry crew be they ; All day we sail with a favouring gale or gird ourselves as the storm draws on. And strive and cope with rudder and rope, and sing aloud in the loud affray. And other things I have learnt, and the first is still to say To myself, " O unlearned fool ! " and also, " Fool, be gay! 231 THE BOOK OF O well for the glorious chase of God, and well for the hot assay ! Well for the noise of water, for the hills where the sun has shone, For the trees on the far horizon and the chart we may not con ! Well for the terrible wer-wolf, and the caves where the witch-wife lay Till we touched her brows with the rowan boughs and left her harmless clay ! Well for the land where the fir-trees stand and all we witless wanderers w r onne ! God bless the fools and the wise in schools, et gloria tibe, Domine ! Dorothy L. Sayers 140 Divina Commedia " In la sua volontade e nostra pace." — Dante. THESE things have passed; no more through twi- light hours, In that dark Eden of the coloured May, On the brown river's bank among the flowers, Countess Mathilda takes her painted way. And little red anemones, and white Narcissus seem to dream in vain, Of the blue sky and the sun's gentle light And the lost streams of the far Tuscan plain. 232 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Now long forgotten is that wood serene Where Lethe's moonless waters onward glide, Bending the ragged blades of grass that lean Forth from the green bank underneath the tide. Noble Piccarda's pearly brows divine Holding the secret of the world-old rune, Like a fair jewel in a carven shrine Trouble no more the white ways of the moon. Long mute is Cavalcanti's broken prayer; The smile of Beatrice, to earth denied, Shines now no more on Saturn's golden stair; Through no sad town shall Virgil be our guide. Along the dark ravine, in single file, Monks of Bologna now no longer tread The weary mazes of the dismal aisle, Beneath the torment of the cowls of lead. No flaming tomb can smother down the chords Of the new music delicately harsh, Beyond the glint of crowns, the clash of swords, And the lost horror of the blood stained marsh. For we, men say, have lost our heaven and go Along dim valleys shadowed everywhere, Far from the hills where, glittering, the white snow Yet stabs with cruel knives the sunny air. As Dante's fierce God, throned in love and light Yet pierced the hearts cf gentle folk and kind, 233 THE BOOK OF And drove out gracious Virgil from his sight And turned to bitterness the sunny wind. We sigh where Dante sang, our hungry eyes Grown weary of the angels' flaming wings, Have made a rainbow heaven of tears and sighs And the sea's voice, and pale and sorrowful things. We sigh where Dante sang — thus have we found His poor lost people on that open road, That leads through marsh and fire and broken ground Unto the ultimate divine abode. Piccarda triumphs in that dream of hers That bitter grief and outrage had not slain, The secret that the world's soul shakes and stirs, That Dante sought through conquered stars in vain. And Beatrice, — vanished is the shining sphere And saints' high throne above the world apart, Yet with us dwells the dream divine and dear That folds in beauty every living heart. The heaven time brings us shall not be too strait For pale Francesca ; only broken bars Lie prone where once was hid, by the sad gate, ' The love that moved the sun and the other stars." A love grown wide enough for Plato's dream And Homer's story; not too cramped to hold Those pilgrim souls by Acheron's sad stream, For ever shut out of the barred fold. 234 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Death without glory, heaven without wings Or angels, bright hopes overthrown, We sigh where Dante sang, our wanderings Have brought us to the gate of life unknown. No heaven is ours of lights and whirling flame — For dying warriors a starlit goal — But a lost country called by a new name, Deep buried in dim valleys of the soul. A gentle land where the white singing waves Move softly under silver twilight skies, And life with her fierce wars and dreadful graves Seems but a little wind that falling sighs. No painful voice makes pitiful that wind, All bitter dreams sleep in the quiet vale Where, out of clashing darkness fierce and blind, A new dawn glimmers gently, olive-pale. The poet's laurel and the martyr's palm, Wither, the old enchantments fade and cease; Yet still the vision of the ancient calm Folds, round this weary world, wide wings of peace. And all men passing down beneath the boughs Of the dim forest to the magic sea Mysterious have felt against their brows The buffet of the ancient mystery. A drift of scattered spray, a fallen leaf, Bear witness to that strange and unseen wind 235 THE BOOK OF That drives the high tide over shoal and reef And lonely beaches of moon-haunted mind. The light that passes, with a sudden thrill, The moonlight's glamour and the twilight's gleam — Waking beyond our world of good and ill The sleeping purpose underneath the dream. The ray of cold reality austere, Shining beyond the gates of joy or dole, That to the eyes of sorrow shall make clear The hidden dweller in the darkened soul. For whose sake Dante by the convent door, Sure of his golden heaven at close of day, When the monk asked what he was seeking for, Answered but " Peace " and went upon his way. Shrinking from dreadful creeds of storm and stress And dreams of passionate wrath, bitter and blind, To seek in his own soul for gentleness And find the Divine in a comrade's mind. As one who knew the inner unseen tide Of beauty beating up against the walls At evening, breaking down their coloured pride When all things are as one, and twilight falls. This was his grief, shut behind iron bars, Roaming through darkened rooms in sunless towers — His soul yet caught a glamour from the stars And knew the dauntless will of the wild flowers. 236 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The captive soul of gentleness in him Looked out through narrowed windows, passion- blurred ; Yet through the darkness of his prison dim The far faint voices of the rain were heard. With them he trysted outside heaven's gate Who mould the gracious word and carve the stone, To thrust aside one moment love and hate And gaze into the eyes of the Unknown. For he was one of those sad souls who wrought Life into glory, marble into form, And carved across the brows of human thought The Eternal Beauty's pale and frozen storm. Now that the sunshine has quenched all his fire And time has swept his narrow gates apart, We lean across the sundering ages dire To greet the dreamer of the pitiless heart, . Knowing the Infinite Quiet, pale and vast, Floats round his dreams, as the dark tide floats round The loud green waves that rise and thunder past And sink to rest in silent seas profound. Eva Gore-Booth 237 THE BOOK OF 141 .Niccolo Machiavelli FROM thy serene abode thou lookest down With pitying eye upon a rabble rout Who strive and plot and fight and turn about, Endeavoring to seize some phantom crown, — Whether of kingdom or of some small town, Or village — or one single home — their own : They stumble, and with hurried steps awry Blindly they miss their opportunity ; Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there, Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse. Using thy name for " scoundrelly " or worse. Of all those who have striven to endow The world with garnered knowledge, only thou Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown ; Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown ; And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie ; So that, alone, the stooping passer-by Undaunted by an epithet, may find; And treasuring like gold seven times refined, Open the casket with exultant air To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there. Bernard Gilbert 238 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 142 Biography WHEN I am buried, all my thoughts and acts Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts, And long before this wandering flesh is rotten The dates which made me will be all forgotten ; And none will know the gleam there used to be About the feast days freshly kept by me, But men will call the golden hour of bliss " About this time," or " shortly after this." Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb Those glittering steps, those milestones upon Time, Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth, Those moments of the soul in years of earth ; They mark the height achieved, the main result, The power of freedom in the perished cult, The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds, Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds. By many waters and on many ways I have known golden instants and bright days; The day on which, beneath an arching sail, I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail ; The summer day on which in heart's delight I saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white, The glittering day when all the waves wore flags And the ship wanderer came with sails in rags; That curlew-calling time in Irish dusk When life became more splendid than its husk, 239 THE BOOK OF When the rent chapel on the brae at Slains Shone with a doorway opening beyond brains; The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry, Out of the mist a little barque slipped by, Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red, Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head ; The howling evening when the spindrift's mists Broke to display the four Evangelists, Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers, Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres ; The night alone near water when I heard All the sea's spirit spoken by a bird ; The English dusk when I beheld once more (With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore, The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod (In happier seasons) and gave thanks to God. All had their beauty, their bright moments' gift, Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift. All of those gleams were golden; but life's hands Have given more constant gifts in changing lands, And when I count those gifts, I think them such As no man's bounty could have bettered much : The gift of country life, near hills and woods Where happy waters sing in solitudes, The gift of being near ships, of seeing each day A city of ships with great ships under weigh, The great street paved with water, filled with shipping, And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping. Yet when I am dust my penman may not know Those water-trampling ships which made me glow, 240 MODERN BRITISH VERSE . But think my wonder mad and fail to find Their glory, even dimly, from my mind, And yet they made me : — not alone the ships But men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips, The two close friends of nearly twenty years, Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers, Whose feet with mine wore many a bolt-head bright Treading the decks beneath the riding light. Yet death will make that warmth of friendship cold And who'll know what one said and what one told Our hearts' communion and the broken spells When the loud call blew at the strike of bells? No one, I know, yet let me be believed A soul entirely known is life achieved. Years blank with hardship never speak a word Live in the soul to make the being stirred, Towns can be prisons where the spirit dulls Away from mates and ocean-wandering hulls, Away from all bright water and great hills And sheep-walks where the curlews cry their fills, Away in towns, where eyes have nought to see But dead museums and miles of misery And floating life unrooted from man's need And miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greed And life made wretched out of human ken And miles of shopping women served by men. So, if the penman sums my London days Let him but say that there were holy ways, Dull Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions old With stinking doors where women stood to scold 241 THE BOOK OF And drunken waits at Christmas with their horn Droning the news, in snow, that Christ was born ; And windy gas lamps and the wet roads shining And that old carol of the midnight whining, And that old room (above the noisy slum) Where there was wine and fire and talk with some Under strange pictures of the wakened soul To whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal. O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends, Those glittering moments that a spirit lends That all may be imagined from the flash The cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gash Those hours of stricken sparks from which men took Light to send out to men in song or book, Those friends who heard St. Pancras' bells strike two Yet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew. Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best, The thought beyond great poets not expressed, The glory of mood where human frailty failed, The forts of human light not yet assailed, Till the dim room had mind and seemed to brood Binding our wills to mental brotherhood. Till we became a college, and each night Was discipline and manhood and delight, Till our farewells and winding down the stairs At each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares, That we, so linked, should roam the whole world round Teaching the ways our brooding minds had found Making that room our Chapter, our one mind Where all that this world soiled should be refined. 242 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Often at night I tread those streets again And see the alley glimmering in the rain, Yet now I miss that sign of earlier tramps A house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps. The secret house where once a beggar stood Trembling and blind to show his woe for food. And now I miss that friend who used to walk Home to my lodgings with me, deep in talk, Wearing the last of night out in still streets Trodden by us and policemen on their beats And cats, but else deserted; now I miss That lively mind and guttural laugh of his And that strange way he had of making gleam, Like something real, the art we used to dream. London has been my prison, but my books Hills and great waters, labouring men and brooks, Ships and deep friendships and remembered days Which even now set all my mind ablaze As that June day when, in the red bricks' clinks I saw the old Roman ruins white with pinks And felt the hillside haunted even then By not dead memory of the Roman men. And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseen Who knew the interest in me and were keen That man alive should understand man dead So many centuries since the blood was shed. And quickened with strange hush because this comer Sensed a strange soul alive behind the summer. That other day on Ercal when the stones Were sunbleached white, like long unburied bones, While the bees droned and all the air was sweet From honey buried underneath my feet, ^43 THE BOOK OF Honey of purple heather and white clover Sealed in its gummy bags till summer's over. Then other days by water, by bright sea, Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me, The cove clean-bottomed where we saw the brown Red spotted plaice go skimming six feet down And saw the long fronds waving, white with shells, Waving, unfolding drooping, to the swells; That sadder day when we beheld the great And terrible beauty of a Lammas spate Roaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gaps Headlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse, While drenching clouds drove by and every sense Was water roaring or rushing or in offence, And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps gleamed Where torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed. That sadder day when we beheld again A spate going down in sunshine after rain, When the blue reach of water leaping bright Was one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white. And that far day, that never blotted page When youth was bright like flowers about old age Fair generations bringing thanks for life To that old kindly man and trembling wife After their sixty years: Time never made A better beauty since the Earth was laid Than that thanksgiving given to grey hair For the great gift of life which brought them there. Days of endeavour have been good : the days Racing in cutters for the comrade's praise, 244 MODERN BRITISH VERSE The day they led my cutter at the turn Yet could not keep the lead and dropped astern, The moment in the spurt when both boats' oars Dipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarse And teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickened Lashing the sea, and gasps came and hearts sickened And coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke. To put our weights on, though our hearts were broke And both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue, The tide a mill race we were struggling through And every quick recover gave us squints Of them still there, and oar tossed water-glints And cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering, A long wild, rallying murmur on the hearing — " Port Fore ! " and " Starboard Fore ! " " Port Fore ! " " Port Fore ! " " Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oar Lightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shut And the oak stretchers grunted in the strut And the curse quickened from the cox, our bows Crashed, and drove talking water, we made vows, Chastity vows and temperance ; in our pain We numbered things we'd never eat again If we could only win; then came the yell k ' Starboard," " Port Fore," and then a beaten bell Rung as for fire to cheer us. " Now." Oars bent, Soul took the looms now body's belt was spent. " Damn it, come on now," " On now," " On now," " Starboard." " Port Fore." " Up with her, Port ; " each cutter har- boured Ten eye-shut painsick strugglers, " Heave, oh, heave," 245 THE BOOK OF Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave. " Heave/' and I saw a back, then two. " Port Fore." " Starboard." " Come on." I saw the midship oar And knew we had done them. " Port Fore." " Star- board." " Now." I saw bright water spurting at their bow Their cox' full face an instant. They were done. The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun. We had hardly strength to toss our oars ; our cry Cheering the losing cutter was a sigh. Other bright days of action have seemed great : Wild days in a pampero off the Plate ; Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the Coves Which the young gannet and the corbie loves; Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breath Between the advancing grave and breaking death, Then shooting up into the sunbright smooth To watch the advancing roller bare her tooth, And days of labour also, loading, hauling; Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling; The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting, And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting. Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice, And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice ; Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanch With White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch. Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill, Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill. Delights of work most real, delights that change The headache life of towns to rapture strange Not known by townsmen, nor imagined; health That puts new glory upon mental wealth 246 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And makes the poor man rich. But that ends, too, Health with its thoughts of life; and that bright view That sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory. And all a glad man's comments on life's story And thoughts of marvellous towns and living men And what pens tell and all beyond the pen End, and are summed in words so truly dead They raise no image of the heart and head. The life, the man alive, the friend we knew, The mind ours argued with or listened to, None; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all, Is dead as print before the funeral, Even deader after, when the dates are sought. And cold minds disagree with what we thought. This many pictured world of many passions Wears out the nations as a woman fashions, And what life is is much to very few. Men being so strange, so mad, and what men do So good to watch or share; but when men count Those hours of life that were a bursting fount, Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs, There seems a world, beyond our earthly things, Gated by golden moments, each bright time Opening to show the city white like lime, High towered and many peopled. This made sure, Work that obscures those moments seems impure, Making our not-returning time of breath Dull with the ritual and records of death, That frost of fact by which our wisdom gives Correctly stated death to all that lives. 247 THE BOOK OF Best trust the happy moments. What they gave Makes man less fearful of the certain grave, And gives his work compassion and new eyes. The days that make us happy make us wise. John Mascfield 143 Nod SOFTLY along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold. The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep. His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon Misses not one of all. His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, — The waters of no-more-pain, 248 MODERN BRITISH VERSE His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, " Rest, rest, and rest again." Walter de la Mare 144 Sonnet SLEEP, get a dream out of your secret chest, From that long drawer where the great visions lie With folded wings. Sleep, pick me out the best; Then, as we see the moon bound in the sky By a great ring of cold on winter nights And seeming shut away, my frozen soul Shall open to the prick of northern lights, And by that guest that -flies from pole to pole Of human consciousness, but is not heard Except when a great stillness lies beneath Supernal calm, my spirit shall be stirred, Calling on what it once believed was death — As to its source — and entering, O Sleep, Into eternal peace, no more to weep. Fredegond Shove 145 Kisses in the Rain I SAW the midlands Revolve through her hair; The fields of autumn Stretching bare, And sheep on the pasture Tossed back in a scare. 249 THE BOOK OF And still as ever The world went round, My mouth on her pulsing Xeck was found, And my breast to her beating Breast was bound. But my heart at the centre Of all, in a s wound Was still as a pivot. As all the ground On its prowling orbit Shifted round. And still in my nostrils The scent of her flesh, And still my wet mouth Sought her afresh ; And still one pulse Through all the world did thresh. And the world all whirling Around in joy Like the dance of a dervish Did destroy My sense — and my reason Spun like a toy. But firm at the centre My heart was found; Her own to my perfect Heart-beat bound, 250 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Like a magnet's keeper Closing the round. D. H. Lawrence j 4 6 We Would See Love WE would see Love! Sweet, have we not de- sired, Sought, hungered thirsted, agonized, aspired, Met clasped, refused? and ever more required This answer at the end? We would see Love ! We would see Love ! Must his companions be The chief est sharers of felicity? Some follower hold our life in custody Some appetite or law? We would see Love! We would see Love ! Touch and the things of sense, Our spirits' pupilage, our minds' suspense Of expectation — what conjures him thence Who is so far within? We would see Love ! We would see Love ! His face if none draw nigh Except their whole lives shatter up thereby, Agree, sweet ! Let us look on God and die. Feel him, one shock, and end ! We would see Love ! Charles Williams 251 THE BOOK OF 147 Amourette The Woman and the Philosopher She: What shall I do, most pleasing man? I will delight you if I can. Shall I be silent? Shall I speak? Since I love quick I'll show that I am weak : I'll say the wisest strangest thing I know That you may smile at vanity, and love me so. He: How can her wisdom flourish and endure When her philosophy is but a lure, And to the arsenal of charm is brought The ammunition of her thought? I count her breathing as I sit ; I love her mouth, but disregard her wit. She : More than love, and more than other pleasure I desire thrilling combat of the wit. As far as I can measure This man is rare, and therefore fit To be a combatant, let me say one thing new That I may gage him so, to prove my judgment true. (Here follows an argument.) She: Sir, it is just I own That I am overthrown, And I take strange delight That I am beaten so to-night. 252 MODERN BRITISH VERSE He : Madam, you are a sensualist, And, being such, you shall be kissed. She: What husbandry is this? What thrift, that we should kiss On the first night we meet? What is your need to eat the seed, When growth might be so sweet ? From this first pleasure that you sow in me It is my power to raise a gracious tree. And maybe, I will give you a kind grove Where you may sit through sunny days, and love. He: This answer, which is rare, Is luring as your hair. I go from you this night in pain, But Madam, I will come again. She : Dreams, dreams, stay with me till I sleep, Then let oblivion steep My senses in forget fulness, That when I wake, I may forget my loneliness. Anna Wickham 148 The Faithful Amorist AM I not the lover of Beauty To follow her where I know she is hid By the aroma of her pleasure? Yesterday. I had pleasure of Helen, 253 THE BOOK OF Of white, of yellow hair, But to-day a negress is my delight, And Beauty is black. There are some that are as small tradesmen, To sell beauty in a shop, Noting what has been desired, and acclaiming it eternally good. So poets fill verses For ever with the owl, the oak, and the nightingale, I say the crow is a better bird than the nightingale. Since to-day Beauty is black. The lark sings flat Of wearisome trees and spiritless fields. But there is great music in the hyaena. For there is pleasure in deserts. Anna Wickham 149 The Mummer STRICT I walk my ordered way Through the strait and duteous day The hours are nuns that summon me To offices of huswifry. Cups and cupboards, flagons, food Are things of my solicitude- No elfin folly haply strays Down my precise and well-swept ways. 254 MODERN BRITISH VERSK When that compassionate lady Night Shuts out a prison from my sight, With other thrift I turn a key Of the old chest of Memory. And in my spacious dreams unfold A flimsy stuff of green and gold. And walk and wander in the dress Of old delights, and tenderness. Anna Wickham 150 The World's Miser A MISER with an eager face Sees that each roseleaf is in place. He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars The piercing beauty of the stars. The colours of the dying day He hoards as treasures — well He may ! And saves with care (lest they be lost) The dainty diagrams of frost. He counts the hairs of every head, And grieves to see a sparrow dead. 255 THE BOOK OF ii Among the yellow primroses He holds His summer palaces, And sets the grass about them all To guard them as His spearmen small. He fixes on each wayside stone A mark to shew it as His Own, And knows when raindrops fall through air Whether each single one be there, That gathered into ponds and brooks They may become His picture-books, To shew in every spot and place The living glory of His face. Theodore Maynard iji Apocalypse " And I saw a new heaven and a new earth : for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away." — Apoc. xxi, I. SHALL summer woods where we have laughed our fill: Shall all your grass so good to walk upon ; Each field which we have loved, each little hill Be burnt like paper — as hath said Saint John? 256 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Then not alone they die ! For God hath told How all His plains of mingled fire and glass, His walls of hyacinth, His streets of gold, His aureoles of jewelled light shall pass, That He may make us nobler things than these, And in her royal robes of blazing red Adorn His bride. Yea, with what mysteries And might and mirth shall she be diamonded ! And what new secrets shall our God disclose; Or set what sums of burnished brass to flare ; Or what empurpled blooms to oust the rose ; Or what strange grass to glow like angels' hair ! What pinnacles of silver tracery, What dizzy rampired towers shall God devise Of topaz, beryl and chalcedony To make Heaven pleasant to His children's eyes ! And in what cataclysms of flame and foam Shall the first Heaven sink — as red as sin — , When God hath cast aside His ancient home As far too mean to house His children in ! Theodore Maynard 257 INDEX OF POEMS After Two Years Richard Aldington .... 61 An Epitaph Walter de la Mare .... 220 An Old Woman of the Roads . . . Padraic Colum 69 And You, Helen Edward Thomas 46 Any Lover, Any Lass Richard Middleton .... 59 Arabia Walter de la Marc .... 104 Ascetics, The George Rostrcvor 38 Assault, The Robert Nichols 159 Assault Heroic, The . Robert Grazes 157 August, 1914 John Masefield 135 Amourette Anna Wick ham 252 Apocalypse Theodore Maynard . . . .256 Affinity, The Anna Wickham 82 Babylon Ralph Hodgson 105 Babylon Viola Taylor 107 Back Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 171 Backward Glance, The Evelyn Underhill 214 Balkis Lascelles Abercrombie ... 87 Ballad of Camden Town, The . . . James Elroy Flecker .... 83 Ballad of Doom, A Elisebeth Rentfall 90 Before Action Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 145 Behind the Closed Eye Francis Ledwidgc 33 Billy's Yarn Cicely Fox Smith 118 " Bid Adieu to Girlish Days '" . . James Joyce 60 Biography John Masefield 239 Bird at Dawn, The Harold Monro 28 Birds Flit Unafraid, The .... Herbert Trench 153 Birthright John Drinkwatcr 211 Bodily Beauty George Rostrevor 58 Bough of Nonsense, The Robert Graves 108 Brother Fidelis Gwen Upcott 197 Bull, The Ralph Hodgson 51 By the Wood Robert Nichols 165 Cargoes John Masefield 125 Carol of the Poor Children, The . Richard Middleton .... 15 259 INDEX OF POEMS Check James Stephens 113 Children's Song Ford Madox Hueffer ... 14 Clavichords Osbert Sitwell 5 C. L. M John Masefield 65 Conscripts Siegfried Sassoon 143 Dark Way, The Joseph Mary Plunk ett . . .212 Dead, The Rupert Brooke .140 Deep Water Jack Cicely Fox Smith 125 Discharged Totally Disabled . Irene Rutherford McLeod . 175 Discovery John Freeman 3 Divina Commedia Eva Gore-Booth 232 Dreamers Siegfried Sassoon . . . .150 Drover, A Padraic Colum 129 Dusk F. S. Flint 150 Dust Rupert Brooke 93 Dying Patriot, The James Elroy Flecker ... 185 Eager Spring Gordon Bottomlcy 21 Eve Ralph Hodgson 85 Epilogue Lascelles Abercrombie . . 96 Every Thing Harold Monro n Fables Sacheverell Sitwell . . . . 112 Fear, The Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 147 Fish, The Rupert Brooke 47 The Faithful Amorist Anna Wickham 253 Gallows Edward Thomas 215 Golden Journey to Samarkand, The James Elroy Flecker . . . 101 Happy Is England Now John Freeman 134 Harvest Eva Gore-Booth 211 Haymaking Edward Thomas 131 House of the Soul, The: Lay . . Dorothy L. Sayers .... 222 1914 Rupert Brooke 138 I am the Gilly of Christ Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) ... 194 I am the Mountainy Singer .... Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) ... 37 If I Should Ever by Chance . . . Edward Thomas ..... 43 If I were to Own Edward Thomas 45 260 INDEX OF POEMS "In Prize" Cicely Fox Smith 122 In Flanders Fields John McCrae 182 In the Country William H. Davies .... 32 In the Trenches Richard Aldington . . . . 14S Into Battle Julian Grcnfcll 156 Iron Music, The Ford Madox Huefier ... 146 It's a Queer Time Robert Graves 170 Kingfisher, The William H. Davie s .... 29 Kiss, The Siegfried Sassoon .... 141 Kisses in the Rain P. H. Lawrence 249 Lancelot and Guinevere Gerald Gould 89 Lepanto G. K. Chesterton 187 Listeners, The Walter de la Mare .... 220 Little Waves of Breffny, The . . . Eva Gore-Booth 124 Love Came to Us James Joyce 61 Magic W.J. Turner 40 Man William H. Davies .... 9 Mandrake's Horrid Scream, The . Bernard Gilbert 66 Marriage Song Lascelles Abercrombie . . 76 Mole UJous L. Huxley 49 Myself on the Merry-Go-Round . . Edith Sitwell 114 Mystic as Soldier, A Siegfried Sassoon 153 Music Comes John Freeman 4 Mummer, The Anna Wickham 254 Man Dreams That He Is the Crea- tor, A Frcdegond Shove 10 Netted Strawberries Gordon Bottomley 29 Niccolo Machiavelli Bernard Gilbert 238 Nod Walter de la Mare .... 248 No Wife Bernard Gilbert 70 Old Houses of Flanders, The . . . Ford Madox Hueffer ... 182 Old Woman Forever Sitting . . . Iris Tree 70 Peace Rupert Brooke 138 Philosophy Cicely Fox Smith 116 Picnic Rose Macaulay 183 Plaint of Friendship by Death Broken Robert Nichols 217 26l LVDEX OF POEMS " Psittachus Eois Imitatrix Ales Ab Indis " — Ovid Sacheverell Sitivell . . . . in Question, The Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 148 Quod Semper Lucy Lyttelton 18 Rainbow, The Leslie Coulson 173 Reciprocity John Drinkwater 39 Regnum Caelorum Vim Patitur . . Evelyn Underbill 195 Return, The Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 1 72 Safety Rupert Brooke 139 "Ships That Pass" Cicely Fox Smith 119 Simon the Cyrenean Lucy Lyttelton 209 Soldier, The Rupert Brooke 141 So Much Is Altered T. W. Earp 8 Song for Grocers, A Sherard Vines 109 Songs from an Evil Wood .... Lord Dunsany 166 Song of April, A Francis Ledwidgc 22 Song of Woman's Smiling. A . . . May Doney 62 Bonnet Fredegond Shove 249 Sorley's Weather Robert Graves 128 South Country, The Hilaire Belloc 35 Spires of Oxford. The ..... Winifred M. Letts .... 142 Spring Hester Sainsbury 21 Star, The Willoughby Weaving ... 2 Stone Trees John Freeman 42 Sunrise on Rydal Water John Drinkwater 26 Symbols John Drinkwater 8 Terror Richard Aldington .... 154 To My Wife James C. Welsh 64 There Are Songs Enough .... Iris Tree 132 To a Greek Marble Richard Aldington .... 95 To an Officer in Regent Street . . Lucy Hawkins 172 Time, ^'ou Old Gipsy Man .... Ralph Hodgson 1 To a Bull-Dog J. C. Squire 177 To any Dead Officer Siegfried Sassoon 163 To Germany Charles Hamilton Sorley .173 To the Poet Before Battle .... Ivor Gurney 147 Triptych Robert Nichols 200 Two Carols Evelyn Under hill 199 Two Children. The William H. Davies .... 18 262 INDEX OF POEMS Uxbridge Road Evelyn Underliill 126 Wanderlust Gerald Gould 34 What Shall I Give? Edward Thomas 44 When It's Over Max Plowman 180 Whisperers, The Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 221 Seosamh MacCathmhaoil Who Buys Land {Joseph Campbell) ... 7 Wind, The Elizebeth Rendall 31 Wishes for My Son Thomas MacDonagh ... 16 We W r ould See Love Charles Williams 251 World's Miser, The Theodore Maynard .... 255 Youth and Age Osbert Sitwell 144 263 INDEX OF FIRST LINES A man dreams that he is the Crea- tor Fredegond Shove 10 A ship was built in Gla c gow, and oh, she looked a daisy Cicely Fox Smith 122 After night's thunder far away had rolled Edward Thomas 131 "Ah, little boy! I see William H. Davies .... 18 Ages long the hills have stood . . George Rostrevor 38 And you, Helen, what should I give you? Edward Thomas 46 As beneath the moon 1 walked . . Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . .221 Away, for we are ready to a man! James Elroy Flecker . . . 101 Am I not the lover of Beauty . . Anna Wick ham 253 A miser with an eager face .... Theodore Maynard .... 255 Back from the Somme two Fusil- iers Robert Graves 108 Balkis was in her marble town . . Lascelles Abercrombie ... 87 Beauty had first my pride .... Willoughby Weaving ... 2 Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright John Freeman 3 Beyond the East the sunrise, be- yond the West the sea Gerald Gould 34 Bid adieu, adieu, adieu James Joyce 60 Blow out, you bugles, over the rich-Dead! Rupert Brooke 140 Come down at dawn from wind- less hills John Drinkwater 26 Come up, dear chosen morning, come Lascelles Abercrombie ... 76 Day breaks on P2ngland down the Kentish hills James Elroy Flecker . . . 185 Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest . Rupert Brooke 139 Down in the mud I lay Robert Graves 157 265 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Earth like a butterfly Hester Sainsbury 23 Eve, with her basket, was .... Ralph Hodgson 85 Fall in, that awkward squad, and strike no more Siegfried Sassoon 143 Far are the shades of Arabia . . . Walter de la Mare .... 104 From thy serene abode thou look- est down Bernard Gilbert 238 Flores apparuerunt in terra nos- tre — Evelyn Underliill 199 God, if Thou livest, Thine eye on me bend Robert Nichols 217 He went, and he was gay to go . . Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 172 Heaven bless grocers' shops wherein Sherard Vines 109 Her curving bosom images .... George Rostreror 58 Here lies a most beautiful lady . . Walter de la Marc .... 220 Here where the brown leaves fall . F. S. Flint 150 How still this quiet cornfield is to- night! Jo/in Maseficld 135 How still the day is, and the air how bright! Robert Nichols 165 I am the Gilly of Christ Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) ... 194 I am a willow-wren Gordon Bottomley 29 I am the mountainy singer .... Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) ... 37 I do not fear to die Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 147 I do not think that skies and meadows are John Drinkwater 39 I have forgotten my name and the name of my nation . . . yes . . Dorothy L. Savers .... 222 I have the freedom of my mouth . May Doney 62 I lived my days apart Siegfried Sassoon 153 I love a still conservatory ....W.J, Turner 40 I sat in heaven like the sun . . . Fredegond Shore 10 I saw history in a poet's song . . John Drinkwater 8 I sit beside the brazier's glow . . Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 145 I walk the old frequented ways . . Francis Ledzvidge 33 I walked with Maisie long years back James Elroy Flecker .... S3 266 INDEX OF FIRST LINES I watch the white dawn gleam . . Leslie Coulson 173 I wonder if the old cow died or not Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 148 If I should die, think only this of me Rupert Brooke 141 If you could bring her glories back! Ralph Hodgson 105 If I should ever by chance grow rich Edward Tlwmas 43 If I were to own this countryside Edward Thomas 45 I'm going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain — Viola Taylor 107 In a cool curving world he lies . . Rupert Brooke 47 In Flanders fields the poppies blow John McCrae 182 In the dark womb where I began . John Masefield 65 I saw the spires of Oxford .... Winifred M. Letts .... 142 I saw Time running by — . . . . William H. Davies .... 9 "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller Walter de la Mare .... 220 It's hard to know if you're alive or dead Robert Graves 170 It was the Rainbow gave thee birth William H. Davie s .... 29 Its pure and dulcet tone Osbert Sitwell 5 I have to thank God I'm a woman — Anna Wickham 82 I saw the midlands D. H. Lawrence 249 " Ladies, pretty ladies Elizebeth Rendall 90 Last night a sword-light in the sky John Freeman 42 " Last night in the Baltic Tavern Tap Cicely Fox Smith 116 Like some lean ghost who for a little space Lucy Hawkins 172 Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed . . John Drinkwater 211 Love came to us in time gone by . James Joyce 61 Music comes John Freeman Not that we are weary Richard Aldington .... 148 Now, God be thanked who has matched us with His hour . . . Rupert Brooke 138 Now, my son, is life for you . . . Tlwmas MacDonagh ... 16 267 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes Ivor Gurney 147 O, to have a little house! Padraic Colum 69 Oh, it's " ah, fare you well," for the deep sea's crying Cicely Fox Smith ..... 125 Old woman forever sitting .... Iris Tree 70 On a day in Maytime mild .... Robert Nichols 200 " 'Oo seen her off?" Cicely Fox Smith 118 Outside the church the mourning children cried Osbert Sitwell 144 Passing to Chapel thro' the high cloister'd way Given Upcott 197 Quinquireme of Nineveh from dis- tant Ophir John Mase field 125 Rougher than death the road I choose Joseph Mary Plunk ett . . . 212 Shall summer woods where we have laughed our fill Theodore Maynard .... 256 See an unhappy bull Ralph Hodgson 51 She is all so slight Richard Aldington 61 Since man has been articulate . . Harold Monro 11 Sir Lancelot beside the mere . . . Gerald Gould 89 Sleep, get a dream out of your secret chest Fredegond Shove 249 So death was cheated of you! Here you lie Irene Rutherford McLeod . 175 So much is altered; we no longer write T. IV. Earp 8 Softly along the road of evening . Walter de la Mare .... 248 Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land Siegfried Sassoon 150 Sometimes wind and sometimes rain Ford Madox Hueffer ... 14 She: What shall I do, most pleas- ing man? Anna Wickham 253 Strict I walk my ordered way . . Anna Wickham 254 The beating of the guns grows louder Robert Nichols 159 "The birds flit unafraid Herbert Trench 153 268 INDEX OF FIRST LINES The censer of the eglantine was moved Francis Ledwidge .... 22 The French guns roll continuously Ford Madox Hueffer . . . 146 The giddy sun's kaleidoscope — . . Edith Sitwcll 114 The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea Eva Gore-Booth 124 The naked earth is warm with spring . Julian Grenfell 156 The night was creeping on the ground James Stephens 113 The old houses of Flanders . . . For d Madox Hueffer ... 182 The parrot's voice snaps out — . . Sacheverell Sitwell . . . . n 1 The Western Road goes streaming out to see the cleanly wild . . . Evelyn Underbill 126 There are songs enough of love, of joy, of grief Iris Tree 132 There are ships that pass in the night-time, some poet has told us how Cicely Fox Smith 119 There is no wrath in the stars . . Lord Dunsany 166 There is not anything more won- derful John Freeman 134 There was a weasel lived in the sun Edward Thomas 215 These hearts were woven of human joys and cares Rupert Brooke 140 These things have passed; no more through twilight hours Eva Gore-Booth 232 They ask me where I've been . . . Wilfrid Wilson Gibson . . 171 They set him on a sunny road . . Evelyn Underbill 214 This is the tale from first to last . Lucy Lyttelton 209 To Meath of the pastures .... Padriac Colum 129 Those of the earth envy us ... . Richard Aldington .... 154 This life is sweetest; in this wood William H. Davies .... 32 Though the long seasons seem to separate Eva Gore-Booth 211 Time, you old gipsy man .... Ralph Hodgson 1 Tom! Tom! What you think? . Bernard Gilbert 71 To these I turn, in these I trust . Siegfried Sassoon 141 Tunnelled in solid blackness creeps Aldous L. Huxley 49 We are the poor children, come out to see the sights Richard Middleton .... 15 269 INDEX OF FIRST LINES We children every morn would wait . . William H. Davies .... 20 We lay and ate sweet hurt-berries Rose Macaulay 183 Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say Siegfried Sassoon .... 163 We shan't see Willy any more, Mamie J. C. Squire 177 What I saw was just one eye . . . Harold Monro 28 What shall I give my daughter the younger Edward Thomas 44 What shall we do for Love these days? Lascelles Abercrombie ... 96 What wind is this across the roofs so softly makes his way .... Lucy Lyttelton 18 When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts John Masefield 239 When I am living in the Midlands Hilaire Belloc 35 When the white flame in us is gone Rupert Brooke 93 Whirl, snow, on the blackbird's chatter Gordon BottomUy 21 When our five-angled spears, that pierced the world Evelyn Underhill 195 When outside the icy rain .... Robert Graves 128 When sere has touched the leaf with age James C. Welsh 64 White founts falling in the Courts of the sun G. K. Chesterton 187 White grave goddess Richard Aldington .... 95 Who buys land buys many stones Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell) .... 7 Who taught the centaur first to drink Sacheverell Sitwell .... 112 Why ain't the Mester back? . . . Bernard Gilbert 66 Why are her eyes so bright, so bright Richard Middle ton .... 59 Why does the wind so want to be . Elizebeth Rendall 31 We would see Love! Sweet, have we not desired Charles Williams 251 You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed Charles Hamilton Sorley . 173 Young soldier, what will you be . 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