*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53818 *** POEMS POEMS BY GEOFFREY DEARMER [Illustration: colophon] NEW YORK Robert M. McBride & Company 1918 Dedication TO CHRISTOPHER KILLED, SUVLA BAY, OCTOBER 6TH, 1915. _At Suvla when a sickening curse of sound_ _Came hurtling from the shrapnel-shaken skies,_ _Without a word you shuddered to the ground_ _And with a gesture hid your darkening eyes._ _You are not blind to-day--_ _But were we blind before you went away?_ _Forgive us then, if, faltering, we fail_ _To speak in terms articulate of you;_ _Now Death’s celestial journeymen unveil_ _Your naked soul--the soul we hardly knew._ _O beauty scarce unfurled,_ _Your blood shall help to purify the world._ _Awakened now, no longer we believe_ _Knight-errantry a myth of long ago._ _Let us not shame your happiness and grieve;_ _All close we feel you live and move, we know_ _Your life shall ever be_ _Close to our lives enshrined eternally._ CONTENTS I _The Dardanelles_ PAGE From “W” Beach 3 A Prayer 5 Fallen 6 The Turkish Trench Dog 7 The Sentinel 9 Mudros after the Evacuation 12 The Dead Turk 18 II _B.E.F._ Missing 17 Two Trench Poems 22 Gommecourt 24 A Vision 31 Revelation 33 Tell me, Stranger 34 Spring in the Trenches 36 On the Road 38 Keats, before Action 41 The Somme 42 Somme Flower Talk 46 To the Uttermost Farthing 48 In the Mess 53 A Trench Incident 54 Reality 55 “We Poets of the Proud Old Lineage” 56 III _Miscellaneous Poems_ Song 59 The Shadow 60 Everychild 62 Child of the Flowing Tide 64 Eight Sonnets 66 Keats 74 Meeting Her in the Street 75 Her Homage 76 Reaction 77 April 78 May-June 79 The Strolling Singer 80 The French Mother to Her Unborn Child 87 My thanks are due to the editors of the _Nineteenth Century_, _Cornhill Magazine_, _Observer_, _New Statesman_, and _Westminster Gazette_, for permission to reprint certain of these poems. I THE DARDANELLES FROM “W” BEACH The Isle of Imbros, set in turquoise blue, Lies to the westward; on the eastern side The purple hills of Asia fade from view, And rolling battleships at anchor ride. White flocks of cloud float by, the sunset glows, And dipping gulls fleck a slow-waking sea, Where dim steel-shadowed forms with foaming bows Wind up the Narrows towards Gallipoli. No colour breaks this tongue of barren land Save where a group of huddled tents gleams white; Before me ugly shapes like spectres stand, And wooden crosses cleave the waning light. Celestial gardeners speed the hurrying day And sow the plains of night with silver grain; So shall this transient havoc fade away And the proud cape be beautiful again. Laden with figs and olives, or a freight Of purple grapes, tanned singing men shall row, Chanting wild songs of how Eternal Fate Withstood that fierce invasion long ago. A PRAYER Lord, keep him near to me: Revive his image, let my darkening sight Renew his life by death intensified (His beating life so pitifully tried) That we may face the night And shade the agony. We pray in barren stress Where stricken men await the shrill alarm And nightly watch, in silent order set, The beckoning stars enshrine the parapet. Lord, keep his soul from harm And grant him happiness. When all the world is free, And, cleansed and purified by floods of pain We turn, and see the light in human eyes; When the last echo of War’s thunder dies; Lord, let us pause again In silent memory. Gallipoli, _October, 1915_. FALLEN The days shall darken and sink down to Night, And Night shall break in the bleak dawn of Day: The years shall dim his face, our fleeting sight Shall see his splendid image fade away Beyond the knowledge of our drifting thought Which moves in circles to the source again, Beyond dark seas with shivering stars inwrought Beyond war-burdened men in stricken pain. I searched in rage and passionate despair Down winding paths of thought, and comradeless In the full surge and tumult where he died I turned; and saw my Brother standing there. His face was like a dawning happiness-- I saw wounds in his hands, his feet, his side. Gallipoli, _October, 1915_. THE TURKISH TRENCH DOG Night held me as I crawled and scrambled near The Turkish lines. Above, the mocking stars Silvered the curving parapet, and clear Cloud-latticed beams o’erflecked the land with bars I, crouching, lay between Tense-listening armies peering through the night, Twin giants bound by tentacles unseen. Here in dim-shadowed light I saw him, as a sudden movement turned His eyes towards me, glowing eyes that burned A moment ere his snuffling muzzle found My trail; and then as serpents mesmerise He chained me with those unrelenting eyes, That muscle-sliding rhythm, knit and bound In spare-limbed symmetry, those perfect jaws And soft-approaching pitter-patter paws. Nearer and nearer like a wolf he crept-- That moment had my swift revolver leapt-- But terror seized me, terror born of shame Brought flooding revelation. For he came As one who offers comradeship deserved, An open ally of the human race, And sniffing at my prostrate form unnerved He licked my face! THE SENTINEL _An Episode at the Evacuation of Gallipoli._ He stood enveloped in the darkening mist High on the cape that proudly kept her tryst Above the narrow portal. All the day White shell-flung water-spouts had scattered spray Round Helles, warden of the Eastern seas; And still the boom of Asian batteries Rumbled around the cape. The sentinel Spied from his high cliff-towered citadel The leaping flash of guns; but ere the roar Sprang from its den on the dim Asian shore, He blew a trumpet. Then, like burrowing moles, Dim forms below dashed headlong to their holes, The while that hurtling iron crossed the sea, And fifteen seconds seemed eternity. Below we lay Crushed in a lighter; and the towering spray That lately blurred the clear star-laden sea Subsided in the vast tranquillity. Now, chafing like taut-muscled charioteers With every sense on tiptoe, we strained ears For whispers, or the catch of indrawn breath. Still not the word to cut adrift the rope That moored us to a wharf of floating piers: And thus alternately in fear and hope Swung the grim pendulum of life and death. Then suddenly the sound Of that loud warning rang the cape around. We knew a gun had flashed, we knew the roar That instant rumbled from the Asian shore; And we lie fettered to a raft!... The shell Climbs its high trajectory ... Well, What of it? Fifteen seconds less or more One--two--three--four--five--six--seven (Steady, man, It’s only Asiatic Ann) ... How slow the moments trickle--eight--nine--ten (They’re wonderful, these men). Am I a coward? I can count no more; Hold Thou my hands, O God. The sea, upheaved in anger, rocked and swirled; Niagara seemed pelting from the stars In tumult that epitomised a world Roused by the battling impotence of wars. We heard a whispered order to escape, And casting loose, incredulously free, Unscathed, exulting in the amber light We left behind the immemorial cape. But still above the indomitable sea From his high cliff a sentry watched the night MUDROS AFTER THE EVACUATION I laughed to see the gulls that dipped to cling To the torn edge of surf and blowing spray, Where some gaunt battleship, a rolling king, Still dreams of phantom battles in the bay. I saw a cloud, a full-blown cotton flower Drift vaguely like a wandering butterfly, I laughed to think it bore no pregnant shower Of blinding shrapnel scattered from the sky. Life bore new hope. An army’s great release From a closed cage walled in by fire and sea, From the hushed pause and swooping plunge of shells, Sped in a night. Here children in strange peace, Seek solitude to dull the tragedy, And needless horror of the Dardanelles. Mudros, _January, 1916_. THE DEAD TURK Dead, dead, and dumbly chill. He seemed to lie Carved from the earth, in beauty without stain And suddenly Day turned to night, and I beheld again A still Centurion with eyes ablaze: And Calvary re-echoed with his cry-- His cry of stark amaze. II B. E. F. MISSING They told me nothing more: I bow my head And squander life, between the quick and dead Irresolute. Yet I again could be Mistress of life, Queen of my destiny, If I but knew--But now Remembrance plays My being back through spring and summer days We passed together; and I see him still Swinging to meet me down the tardy hill. That day the birds were new-inspired; a breeze Bestirred, as it in wonderment, the trees; The very clouds paused in their breathless race, And shadows played upon his open face; And I remember how his laughing eyes Shone deep as pools in sea-blue ecstasies. The meadow grasses rustled in the heat; I even heard the silence of his feet Down the slow hill--And now the dawning birth Of beauty woke my senses to the earth Unveiled in radiance. The sweeping skies-- Unseen unless reflected in his eyes-- Marshalled cloud companies with new delight; Just for us two the spangled dome of night Swung out the journeying moon. But still I hold Burnt in my memory in beaten gold Days when the Spring stirred in each waking bush A blue-flecked jay or tawny-feathered thrush, And drowsy Winter, startled unawares By arc-winged partridges or listening hares, Fled guiltily. We heard the magpies call-- Those dominoes at Nature’s carnival-- And once a kingfisher, a lovely gleam Snatched from a rainbow, darted to a stream. The snowdrops bowed their heads for us to see Shy peeping buds of hooded chastity; And stalwart cowslips raised sun-glinted eyes To those who stooped to pluck their sanctities. Grass-nestled crocuses that scorn the wind Speared upward proudly and besought mankind To step with care. Near by, we searched a glade Where violets brood in sweetness, half afraid To wake their petals. On we roamed, and soon The flower that shares her secret with the moon In pale gold fellowship peeped out, among A host of truculent daffodils that flung Their trumpets down the wind. Each breathless day Broke to fulfil its promise, till the May Had fledged her clustered blooms and swung her pride In bowing sweetness to the country side. Beauty was born again. But now the sound Of heavy Autumn patters to the ground, And loud discordant booms of thunder roll Where that enchanted owner of my soul Lies dead, or dying, or is living still: At last the fibres of my struggling will Falter exhausted, and my cowering brain Cries out in anguish like a child in pain. If he is dead, then I abide to prove That brief fulfilment may be perfect love. How should I grieve? His life inspired in me A joy that shall outlive eternity, Wrought out, complete, unsnared by time and age My jewelled past my priceless heritage. Shall misery usurp my realm of years And leave me drowning in self-pitying tears, A derelict in my own whirlpool swirled-- Me--whom Love crowned an empress of the world? But sometimes ’ere the light Glimmers dawn-pearled to splash the feet of night, Ere red, sun-gilded riot floods the sky, A whisper, swelling to a ringing cry, Tells me he’s living still. No lash could sting Like this persistent voice re-echoing That mocks me as I stumble to my feet. O, shall I find him wandering in the street? But every beckoning corner drags me past Strangers, new faces, each one like the last Dull, cold, inscrutable. At times I caught The look--the walk--the gesture that I sought; And once with throbbing veins I found those eyes That shone like pools in sea-blue ecstasies, But looked beyond me--cold expressionless In vacant wonder at my helplessness, Then, haunted by that stare, Beaten, I knew the bedrock of despair. O, Thou who poised the world, are all my tears Too light, too pitiful to reach Thine ears? Locksmith of happiness, aloof, apart, Am I too impotent to touch Thine heart? Tell me he’s dead or dying; say he stands Seeking for guidance the warm touch of hands, Doomed in an instant to eternal night, With only mind and memory for sight-- For I could cheer him. But Lord quench this drought, The unfathomable immensity of doubt, Tell me he’s maimed or crippled, torn or blind, Staring through eyes that show his wandering mind-- Tell me he’s rotting in a place abhorred,-- Not this, not this, O Lord! TWO TRENCH POEMS I THE STORM NIGHT Peal after peal of splitting thunder rolls (Still roar the howling guns, and star-shells rise) We perish, drowned in anger-blasted holes, Give ear, O Lord! Our very manhood cries, Shell-fodder yea--but spare our human souls From fury-shaken skies! II RESURRECTION Five million men are dead. How can the worth Of all the world redeem such waste as this? And yet the spring is clamorous of birth, And whispering in winter’s chrysalis Glad tidings to each clod, each particle of earth. So the year’s Easter triumphs. Shall we then Mourn for the dead unduly, and forget The resurrection in the hearts of men? Even the poppy on the parapet Shall blossom as before when Summer blows again. GOMMECOURT I The wind, which heralded the blackening night, Swirled in grey mists the sulphur-laden smoke. From sleep, in sparkling instancy of light, Crouched batteries like grumbling tigers woke And stretched their iron symmetry; they hurled Skyward with roar and boom each pregnant shell Rumbling on tracks unseen. Such tyrants reign The sullen masters of a mangled world, Grim-mothered in a womb of furnaced hell, Wrought, forged, and hammered for the work of pain. For six long days the common slayers played, Till, fitfully, there boomed a heavier king, Who, couched in leaves and branches deftly laid, And hid in dappled colour of the spring, Vaunted tornadoes. Far from that covered lair, Like hidden snares the sinuous trenches lay Mid fields where nodding poppies show their pride. The tall star-pointed streamers leap and flare, And turn the night’s immensity to day; Or rockets whistle in their upward ride. II The moment comes when thrice-embittered fire Proclaims the prelude to the great attack. In ruined heaps, torn saps and tangled wire And battered parapets loom gaunt and black: The flashes fade, the steady rattle dies, A breathless hush brings forth a troubled day, And men of sinew, knit to charge and stand, Rise up. But he of words and blinded eyes Applauds the puppets of his ghastly play, With easy rhetoric and ready hand. Unlike those men who waited for the word, Clean soldiers from a country of the sea; These were no thong-lashed band or goaded herd Tricked by the easy speech of tyranny. All the long week they fought encircling Fate, While chaos clutched the throat and shuddered past As phantoms haunt a child, and softly creep Round cots, so Death stood sentry at the Gate And beckoned waiting terror, till at last He vanished at the hurrying touch of sleep. The beauty of the Earth seemed doubly sweet With the stored sacraments the Summer yields-- Grass-sunken kine, and softly-hissing wheat, Blue-misted flax, and drowsy poppy fields. But with the vanished day Remembrance came Vivid with dreams, and sweet with magic song, Soft haunting echoes of a distant sea As from another world. A belt of flame Held the swift past, and made each moment long With the tense horror of mortality. That easy lordling of the Universe Who plotted days that stain the path of time, For him was happy memory a curse, And Man a scapegoat for a royal crime. In lagging moments dearly sacrificed Men sweated blood before eternity: In cheerful agony, with jest and mirth, They shared the bitter solitude of Christ In a new Garden of Gethsemane, Gethsemane walled in by crested earth. They won the greater battle, when each soul Lay naked to the needless wreck of Mars; Yet, splendid in perfection, faced the goal Beyond the sweeping army of the stars. Necessity foretold that they must die Mangled and helpless, crippled, maimed and blind, And cursed with all the sacrilege of war-- To force a nation to retract a lie, To prove the unchartered honour of Mankind, To show how strong the silent passions are. III The daylight broke and brought the awaited cheer, And suddenly the land is live with men. In steady waves the infantry surge near; The fire, a sweeping curtain, lifts again. A battle-plane with humming engines swerves, Gleams like a whirring dragon-fly, and dips, Plunging cloud-shadowed in a breathless fall To climb undaunted in far-reaching curves. And, swaying in the clouds like anchored ships, Swing grim balloons with eyes that fathom all. But as the broad-winged battle-planes outsoared The shell-rocked skies, blue fields of cotton flowers, When bombs like bolts of thunder leapt and roared, And mighty moments faded into hours, The curtain fire redoubled yet again: The grey defence reversed their swift defeat And rallied strongly; whilst the attacking waves, Snared in a trench and severed from the main, Were driven fighting in a forced retreat Across the land that gaped with shell-turned graves. IV The troubled day sped on in weariness Till Night drugged Carnage in a drunken swoon. Jet-black, with spangling stars athwart her dress And pale in the shafted amber of the moon, She moved triumphant as a young-eyed queen In silent dignity: her shadowed face Scarce veiled by gossamer clouds, that scurrying ran Breathless in speed the high star-lanes between. She passed unheeding ’neath the dome of space, And scorned the petty tragedy of Man. And one looked upward, and in wonder saw The vast star-soldiered army of the sky. Unheard, the needless blasphemy of War Shrank at that primal splendour sweeping by. The moon’s gold-shadowed craters bathed the ground-- (Pale queen, she hunted in her pathless rise Lithe blackened raiders that bomb-laden creep) But now the earth-walled comfort wrapped him round, And soon in lulled forgetfulness he lies Where soldiers clasping arms like children sleep. Sleep held him as a mother holds her child: Sleep the soft calm that levels hopes and fears, Now stilled his brain and scarfed his eyelids wild, And sped the transient misery of tears, Until the dawn’s sure prophets cleft the night With opal shafts, and streamers tinged with flame, Swift merging riot of the turbaned East. Through rustling gesture loomed the advancing light; Through fitful eddying winds, grey vanguards came Rising in billowy mountains silver-fleeced. And with the dawn came action, and again The spiteful interplay of static war: Dogged, with grim persistence Blood and Pain Rose venomous to greet the Morning Star. But others watched that lonely sentinel Chase fleeting fellow-stars before the day; Fresh men heard tides of thunder ebb and flow. --Stumbling in sleep, scarce heeding shot or shell, The men who fought at Gommecourt filed away: The poppies nodded as they passed below. They left the barren wilderness behind, And Gommecourt gnarled and dauntless, till they came To fields where trees unshattered took the wind, Which tossed the crimson poppy heads to flame. But one stood musing at a waking thought That spurred his blood and dimmed his searching eyes-- The primal thought that stirs the seed to birth. Here where the battling nations clashed and fought The common grass still breathed of Paradise And Love with silent lips was Lord of Earth. B. E. F. 1916. A VISION Before the dawn wind swept the troubled sky And stirred the stricken trenches far and wide, I saw the Lord of Holiness pass by, With Mary at His side. With Mary Michael passed, for I could hear His clashing arms, and see his spangled sword. Loudly I cried out, “Mother!” then in fear, “O Mother of our Lord.” For in her eyes all human sorrow burned, All tenderness lay naked when she smiled; And once she stooped to kiss, and once she turned And shuddered like a child. He moved through all the surge and clash of war, The King of Kings since Brotherhood began; But in His still and shadowed face I saw The agony of Man. And as I gazed, the ruined fields of France Loomed to the dawn in shades of shifting grey; Dumbly I stood to arms, as in a trance I watched the climbing day. Was this a dream? Yet Mary saw the sky, Lit by a vision from the darkness hurled; A little dream which made a baby cry-- A dream which saved the world. REVELATION Can death give you such dignity, and pride So beautiful it puts our grief to shame? For now we stumble as we speak your name, Yet you were just a boy before you died. We question blankly, pondering heavy-eyed, Can this be he we used to praise or blame In careless moments, ere the trial came When all the bravest hearts in anguish cried? Then, humbled, we beheld our poor disguise, False moods and manners clothed in empty speech Which drowned the silence--till there came a day That smote our vision to awakened eyes: For God bent down to bring you to our reach, But ere we touched you, you had gone away. TELL ME, STRANGER Tell me, Stranger, is it true There is magic happening, Are _all_ the dappled fields of Kew Bowing to their Lord the Spring? Are the bluebells chaste and mute Dancing in each dale and hollow Dew-sprinkled, with a glad salute To omnipotent Apollo? Tell me, do the feathered creatures Flutter as in days of yore, What are the “distinctive features” Of the Swallow’s Flying Corps? Here there is no magic, Stranger. Save within our merry souls-- For some wanton god in anger Punches earth with gaping holes. Yet the stifled land is showing Here and there a touch of grace, And the marshalled clouds are blowing Through the aerodromes of space. Hate is strong, but Love is stronger, And the world shall wake to birth When the touch of man no longer Stays the touch of God from Earth. Tell me, Stranger, is it true There is magic happening, Are _all_ the dappled fields of Kew Bowing to their Lord the Spring? B. E. F., _April, 1917_. SPRING IN THE TRENCHES The racing clouds have borne her message down And blown a thrilling rumour, from the far Heart-centres of each crowded port and town, And up the flowing arteries of War. Life, life, green tales of corn in sprouting blades, Of swallows crowding with sea-sprinkled wings And ash-buds amber-gummed round close-furled green. High blossom mantling murmurous orchard glades In air a-tingle April-sweet and keen-- Ah, we have heard of wondrous happenings. For now the magic carnivals begin The lilac broods in honeyed secrecy, And dappled lawns are changed: a Harlequin Has brushed the tangled carpet silently. We know how white narcissus fills the lake With dancing shadows; how in open blue A chestnut builds her clustered pyramids, And down below anemones awake; Long-hushed the violets open wide their lids And all the dreamed-of fantasy comes true. Glad tidings thrill the re-awakened earth By daffodils and blue-bells heralded; Spring with her van imperial comes forth To herald Summer proudly canopied Beneath the bowing leaves. Persistent Spring Bestirs the seed enshrined in Winter’s store; And even round the parapet a breath Of far-flung prophecy is clamouring: “Behold new life within the tomb of death “Importunate and vivid as before.” ON THE ROAD We halted, with the urgent Spring behind Our straining teams, where all the land was black, And huddled woods lay beaten, starkly blind: Their mangled branches loomed athwart the track Grotesque and terrible. Yet near the way, A river, scatheless as the open sea, Flowed like a breathing hope that cannot die In desolation. Now, at setting day, Moored water lilies, pale as argent sky, Cling to the twilight fading silently. Such is the tale of memory, ere night Had deepened, and our weary convoy slept Beside the way. Slow-rising points of light Twinkled amid the spangled netting swept Across the ebon desert; and a gleam Pierced the cloud-woven pillows of the moon. Now slumber freed me from the iron cage That bound the snarling war; and, in a dream, The panorama of a dawning age Unrolled, a world slow-waking from a swoon. Before my gaze a teeming city loomed Gay with the bustling clamour of the street-- The very town an easy word had doomed And cast in ashes at the trampling feet Of mortal gods. Street, corner, square and place, Seemed woken from a long and squalid trance-- I saw a nation growing like a flower; A nation true and loyal to a race That forged an army of clean-soldiered power Wrought by the common chivalry of France. Here was no arrogance of martial pride, The fireside boast that sows the fatal seed, For happiness had come from those who died Stark of delusion and the deadly creed Of false romance. I saw a world reborn-- The very battlefield was robed again In lines of chequered land, and bordered round With stretching roads and rills. The poppied corn Held rubies set in gold, and far beyond Lay a surf-ravelled sea and swarded plain. I marvelled, till oblivion shadowed all, Blurred in the dawning light of every day. It was so true, I scarcely heard the call To feed and water and to move away. We stretched our limbs, and packed each heavy load; Moved on, and left the weary night behind, Through torn and withered trees that stared aghast; Yet, through the veil that shrouded all the road I saw new radiance in the land we passed, And heard a sudden murmur in the wind. B. E. F., 1917. KEATS, BEFORE ACTION A little moment more--O, let me hear (The thunder rolls above, and star-shells fall) Those melodies unheard re-echo clear Before the shuddering moment closes all. They come--they come--they answer to my call, That Grecian throng of graven ecstasies, Hyperion aglow in blazing skies, And Cortez with the wonder in his eyes. In battle-wreaths of smoke they rise, and fall Beyond--beyond recall. Now all is silent, still, and magic-keen (Yet thunder rolls above and star-shells fall) And slowly pacing, rides a faery queen Wild eyed and singing to a knight in thrall. Enough--enough--let lightning whip me bare And leave me naked in the howling air My body broken here, and here, and here. Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all, The very all in all. THE SOMME _From Amiens to Abbeville_ _My swollen waters race,_ _And silver-veined by many a rill_ _Green hamlets thrive apace._ _From Amiens to Abbeville_ _I labour at the listless mill,_ _And tempt the nodding daffodil_ _To blur my open face._ _But south of Amiens I flow_ _Past dumb Peronne and Brie,_ _The peopled land I used to know_ _Now all belongs to me._ _Yet phantom armies come and go,_ _And shadows hurry to and fro;_ _Again my seething battles grow_ _In murdered Picardy._ Behold the mother of a soil forlorn; I suckled towns, and fed the forest land, Behold my shattered villages and mourn How should I understand? Why are those huts o’erpatched like dappled kine, What are those weary men in blue and brown, And humming craft that search my sinuous line; Why should my name re-echo with renown Past every phantom town? But still my lily-breasted waters shine, And still I chant my shadowy ripples down. From peace through war my waters flow, To peace again at sea, The peopled land I used to know Now all belongs to me. Though battling armies come and go, I toil and spin, I reap and sow, And poppy-mantled meadows blow In murdered Picardy. My eddies bear the clinging scent of lime To sweeten clouds of plume-tossed meadowsweet; My meadow grasses nestle with the thyme And flowering rushes tower in the heat. Low-brushing swifts and swallows splashed with white O’er flash my laden mirrors slow and deep That bear swift-merging canopies of sleep. Until the growing light Has chased marauding owls, and butterflies, Born of blue-woven skies, Flutter away like hare-bells spurred to flight. But who are these? The powdered butterfly Outshines that air leviathan that swings In rigid curves adown the barren sky, With cloudy satellites about her wings. And I have seen Dark horsemen ride with spears of tapered steel; And bellowing guns beneath the far balloons. And once a ponderous slug bedecked in green Crept, in the waning moon’s Still-darkening gloom, and at her giant heel White-gleaming, ran a train of hooded cars.... I triumph, triumph, search my sinuous line Amid the snarling impotence of wars. Turn where you will. Look, there a signboard shows The lair of guns; already round the sign White trumpeting convolvuli entwine Their clinging arms, across the placard blows A quiet-breathing rose. And still my lily-breasted waters shine And loud my chanting grows: From peace through war my waters flow To peace again at sea, The peopled land I used to know Now all belongs to me. Though battling armies come and go I toil and spin, I reap and sow, And poppy-mantled meadows blow In murdered Picardy. SOMME FLOWER TALK Said the Cornflower to the Pimpernel, “O sudden scarlet eyes, You never bloomed till ploughing shell Laid bare earth’s sanctities!” Then upward cried the Pimpernel: “Blue head in deeper blue, ’Tis strange this former waste of Hell Is Paradise anew. “But who is Lord of Paradise And Commandant; and who Commands sky-faring butterflies All camouflaged in blue? “Are dandelion parachutes His messages, and do Those armoured beetles clamber roots With news from Army Q? “Above each water-lily ship The feathered red caps pipe. Because the pear has earned a pip, The tiger-moth a stripe. “The gorse artillery has eyes We never knew before. And lady bees can organise The Honey Service Corps. “Field-marshals rule the war behind The guns, but Summer shields Here in the clash of human kind Her marshal of the fields.” TO THE UTTERMOST FARTHING. “He too! He too!” The veteran paused, the sound Of a light paper fluttering to the ground Rustled the twilight peace. “He--too--is--dead--” His wife, scarce faltering from the words she read, Stared at the glowing sun, the while her eyes Shone mistily in nameless agonies. Five sons, and four were dead! The clock ticked desolation to their ears And silence gripped the moments as they passed Too terrible, too passionless for tears. At last, Stronger than he, she curbed herself and smiled And held him weeping like a weary child Before the first immensity of pain. Yet once again She conjured scenes beyond the darkened cloud That blurred the soul’s horizon, as aloud She spoke his name, and whispered little things More pregnant than the utterance of kings. That night she moved, Spurred by devotion for the man she loved, Without a pause for sorrow, or a breath To murmur at the closing walls of death; Love-steeled and queenly every step she trod; She climbed unfaltering, serenely browed, Until she touched the very feet of God Undaunted and unbowed. And there in mystic awe Slow-turning wheels of evolution spun The poised and pulsing universe. She saw All life and death synonymous, and birth The dawn of human wonderment begun (Birth of all birth) in other realms afar. Below, ice pivoted revolved the earth, A traveller’s joy it seemed, a mile-stone star, Half-glowing, bathed in sun.... At dawn they met and found each other’s eyes, Asked the same questions, sought the same replies: Their last and youngest fought where harsh commands Still goaded forward lashed and driven bands, Where Vaux and Thiaumont twin sentinels Loomed stalwartly. And still a howl of shells Shattered the Verdun battlements in vain; Still domineered that keen death-tutored brain Behind an army deaf to angry scorn, The boast forgotten and the mask outworn. At length she spoke: “Go quickly now,” she said, “Quick, the next hurrying hour may see him dead. Find the Great Overlord and tell him all Quick, for our boy may pass beyond recall Meanwhile. He shall know happiness to come, He, the last scion of our stricken home, Shall blossom like a flower in early Spring I say it, I who bore him. Time shall bring The old primeval happiness to birth If there be any justice upon earth.” She ceased; it seemed her voice re-echoed still As strung with hope he hurried on until He reached the palace and besought for grace To see his royal master face to face. That night in sudden joy he urged away Across Lorraine, for in his wallet lay An order blazoned with the royal seals. Hour after hour the car’s revolving wheels Rushed dizzily towards the high command That held his son in fee. Around, the land Awoke in changeless Spring. Four steady hours They travelled, till the bloom of passing flowers Brought tidings of the dawn. Then to his ears Rumbled a distant thunder, sudden fears Urged onward faster. Now the country showed First signs of war-flung tentacles, the road Lay pitted here and there, a wounded tree No longer framed its lordly symmetry. And soon the land whereon all life was stilled Became as Man had willed. At last his journey ended. Long delayed He sought his goal, now pressing on, now stayed, Until outside the place of high command The royal warrant burning in his hand He knocked--was bidden enter--tense and mute He faced the marshal with a grave salute And showed the royal word. The crowded room was silent, no man stirred-- A pause as long as death, then, dragged and slow, A voice--“Your son was killed an hour ago.” A clock importunately unconcerned Repeated tick--tick--tick. His eyes discerned A pen vague-sprawling, madly spiderwise. Not a man glanced--Yet all the room had eyes: Not a man spoke--Yet clamorous voices cried: Stumbling, he walked outside. IN THE MESS I sat alone although the mess Was full, when--quick as tears A song of naked happiness Came singing in my ears. I summoned strength to kill a cry And mad desire to weep; Then, glancing round me guiltily, Found everyone asleep! A TRENCH INCIDENT We waited, as the thundering curtain swept Our sector, and torn shards of iron fell; Dust from the parapet in showers leapt Swirled up by bursting shell. We waited, like a storm-bespattered ship That flutters sail to free her grounded keel; The tingling moments tightened every grip On rifles lanced with steel. We knew the man who led us. All could hear His ringing voice re-echo loud and strong, Born of that higher bravery when fear. Is battled into song. Then sudden fury lulled and far behind Like angered beasts our batteries replied-- And suddenly he stumbled, dazed and blind. He lay, but ere he died He struggled for a while, then dimly smiled, Wrapped in the comradeship of happy things, Before he entered like a wondering child The heritage of kings. REALITY Below my room the noise and measured beat Of marching men re-echoed loud and clear; Now bobbing cavalry swung down the street; Now mules and rumbling batteries drew near. But all is dim--The rolling wagon-stream To Amiens between the aspen trees, The stables, billets, men and horses, seem Dead mummers of forgotten fantasies. Only my dreams are still aglow, a throng Of scenes that crowded through a waiting mind A myriad scenes: For I have swept along To foam ashriek with gulls, and rowed behind Brown oarsmen swinging to an ocean song Where stately galleons bowed before the wind. “WE POETS OF THE PROUD OLD LINEAGE” Apart we labour, and alone we climb The barren heights; for we the singing throng Whose lives were hallowed by impassioned song Must die or prove unworthy of our rhyme. Man after man--we know the price of wars Who watched the mask of Night whilst others slept, And spread our laughter far and wide, but kept Our tears and terror privy to the stars. 0 magic gift omnipotent, to sing And conjure Heaven from surrounding Hell. Our lips and eyes are touched (for we have seen Celestial weavers at the loom of Spring). But O the iron bitterness and keen Of voices ever clamouring farewell! III MISCELLANEOUS POEMS SONG Would I could commandeer the bees To hum you droning symphonies. I love the climbing thoughts that rise To the sheer heaven of your eyes, Wide laughter-dromes of wondering blue, Yes, yes, I do! But when I sing of bubbling seas, The zephyr-clapping hands of trees Applauding in tumultuous skies, Or window-winged dragonflies, Or anything that’s good and true I sing of you-- Yes, yes, I do! THE SHADOW I stood one night where rivers pause to meet And mingle in the traffic-rumbling sea: The surge and clamour of a London street, In tides alternate, rolled, impassively. Before my feet Ran shouting boys, and through the pallid glare Loomed gaunt leviathans that swayed and roared Past glittering shops, and stations which outpoured Load after weary load; and everywhere Strange sounds, a snatch of laughter, shout or word, Sleek-coated motor-cars that softly purred Round corners sounding with the rustling beat Of hurried swarms of feet. And yet I seemed alone, and dumb-amazed Before a towering building, wherein blazed One staring patch of light, one amber square That shone enshrouded by the dome of night High in the naked air. And still I gazed Until a shadow passed across the blind: A shadow-woman pacing time away Beside a bed, wherein a poet lay Dying, dying. One whose mind (A womb of beauty whereof love was lord) Had fashioned symphonies of thought and word Impassionately sweet. And suddenly She paused--I saw the shadow of her hand Stretch out and shudder back. I saw her stand All sorrow-bound in graven dignity. She bowed her head, her shoulders taut with pain, Her figure burdened with the weight of tears. Then all grew dark. And in my waking ears The traffic surged again. EVERYCHILD We take you through Pacific seas To islands strange and new, Where howling monkeys scale the trees Alive with humming-birds and bees, Where shiny seals and porpoises Snort in the rolling blue. Then quicker than a shaft of light We shear the arctic foam, And lounging bears of polar white Roar loudly through the dancing night, And drive the killer-whales to flight-- Upon the floor at home. O hear the chant of Eastern song Beneath Arabian stars, Where camels slowly stalk along And gleaming Arabs, tall and strong, Buy gold and merchandise among The riot of bazaars! The glow-worms crawl excitedly And trim their lamps o’ night; For often, ere the moon is high, Bat-harnessed walnut-shells flit by To bear them to the waiting sky And set the stars alight. The nodding poplars understand And birds and beasts and flowers: And we shall wander hand in hand With better things than Peter Panned-- O what is footlight fairyland Beside this world of ours? What matter if the clouds are grey Or winter-keen and wild, When you and I have found a way To turn November into May; For Everyjoy is Everyday And Everyman a child. CHILD OF THE FLOWING TIDE Away to the call of the racing sea-- (Child of the flowing tide) A hundred chargers of ivory, And two of them saddled for you and for me, Are pawing and stamping the surf to be free Where the wild sea-horses ride. The deep water shall roar as we race from the shore On the back of the flowing tide. O hurry, the moon is away in the sky (Child of the flowing tide) With your heels well down, and your heart set high You’re saddled and bridled, and so am I; So gather your reins, for the foam will fly Where the wild sea-horses ride. Grip tight with your knees as you gallop the seas On the back of the flowing tide. On the wide lagoon I’ll meet you to-night (Child of the flowing tide) When the moon swings high and the stars are alight And the roaring sea-chargers are ready to fight: Their manes are all foam and their coats are all white Where the wild sea-horses ride. The deep waters shall roar as we race from the shore On the back of the flowing tide. EIGHT SONNETS I I Tremble at the outset, for I know How rhythm halts and rhyme rings falsely true. Yet courage, your disciple, bids me show That speech may offer sacrifice to you. Vain boast! For if success in splendour came Poised faultlessly in lines of perfect stress, I must fall short of it in very shame Unworthy of my sonnet’s worthiness. But should I fail, and feel the words I sought Elusive, or bedecked with frail disguise Of tattered sentiment, that risk I dare Not hazard in the winding maze of thought, Lest I should stir the wonder in your eyes Or wind a little tangle in your hair. II So let me fail: what matter if the wise And worldly whisper, who so poor as they? For everywhere alike the common way Has now become an earthly paradise. And where you walk the very pavement cries Of blue-bells, April-chimed, and fawns at play; And London seems a sylvan holiday Of flower-hunting bees and butterflies. So let me fail, for where I could succeed How mean the quest, a climber gazing down From the low vantage of some petty hill. But chance success would be the gambler’s thrill Who plays with God for worlds, and wins indeed The whole of Paradise for half-a-crown! III I Have no room for jealous gods, and find No ring of joy or laughter in the Creed, Nor shall my great possession be resigned In fear or favour of my spirit’s need. For joy is mine, and mine the teeming years Unfettered in a world impassionate; Not mine a sorrowed Calvary of tears Where love was vassal to the lords of hate. Let others bow before a God unknown Enshrined in words they dimly understand. Let every man make Paradise his own-- My Goddess breathes and leads me by the hand O hush! I dare not speak of it alone, ’Tis all too wonderful and strangely planned! IV Day after day my growing pinions beat Impatiently. Yet, in a place unclean I sought the dwarfed, the petty and obscene, And aped the clownish mummers of the street; Till suddenly the world grew strangely sweet, All eager at a touch, and thrilling-keen; With half-forgotten hands I strove unseen To mould a little planet at your feet. You spoke and there was light, and slowly grew My teeming world of verse, a brotherhood Of music, thought, and wonder, born anew, Alive, aglow, in every varied mood. And when the waking truth is bursting through I feel you bend to see that all is good. V If I had seen what hourly happiness In this my world your being could ordain, How then should I have trysted with distress And misery the cringing friend of pain? If I had seen beyond the looming years Your shadow, grief had haunted me in vain, For what are cataracts of human tears Beside the boundless laughter of the main? O barren days bygone! Now every field Wakes clamorous with dawning life conceived, So has the magic universe revealed Whole happiness to one who half believed-- Whole happiness, and in my heart concealed Wide wonder at the sacrament received. VI “Great men and happy years,” you say from these Your knowledge came, and your diviner powers More thrilling than the honey-womb of flowers Or the bright star-foam of the Pleiades. So, did you learn the droning lore of bees From some be-medalled soldier? Did you meet Madonna-hearted statesmen in the street, Or bishops, babbling of the opal seas? O poor deceiver, conscript joys belong To you as homage. For the happy years Bear fruit to-day, and blossom like the flowers That breathe of summertime in after hours. For you were loyal to a creed of Song Nor ever stooped to misery and tears. VII Would I could throw my stuttering self away And shrine the soul wherein all wonders beat, Would I were you, for one brief holiday The whole shy universe before my feet. O happiness, to know joy’s secret mine, To hold adoring ministers in fee, Narcissus-like to bless the Serpentine And with the stars outdance Terpsichore. For once a poet sang of happiness, But now, like running flame, glad voices say-- “Joy is the sheer antithesis of wrong.” Enough,--and I, no longer comradeless, Behold exultant on the world’s highway Your being, and the proof of Pippa’s song. VIII When you are old and dancing shadows play Around the sky-blown laughter in your eyes Shall I, unworthy of your new disguise, Forget the sacrament and go away? Shall I adore, like sorrowed men to-day, The child who gurgled in first ecstasies At oxen (Mary said) that mooed surprise And snuffed with wondering muzzles in the hay? O leave the past--the living world is mine Warm, passionate, and breathing. Even so Shall Life in after years make Earth divine And fire shall burn as long as embers glow. But he who babbled to the wondering kine Is dead, long dead, two thousand years ago. KEATS Touch me, O Lord, and let my sonnet ring With echoes. Now his words of crowned belief In raging hours of pain and suffering Too high for praise, too terrible for grief, Ring loud and clear. Last night his chariot rolled And I beheld him urge amid the stars Cloud-fashioned steeds of snow moon-aureoled, Himself a charioteer equipped for wars. Faster and faster--men of Blood and Pain Opposed in vast battalions, but he Rolled back their army to the dark again And triumphed while he sang exultingly As now he sings. Boy of the glowing brain, Dear Keats your name is Paradise to me! MEETING HER IN THE STREET She’s coming down the road! You know Those laughter-woken eyes? I beckon at the stars--But O If she should recognise: Nearer and nearer yet she trod Till (mad blood-dancing joy) Down from the planet-fields of God She nodded, “Hullo, Boy.” HER HOMAGE Silence outlives the argument of kings And best is dumb applause. Behold, she moves: No soft-winged owlets blink, no cricket sings, Before she greets the murmuring world she loves. Now twirling parachutes of sycamore Hang waiting, and the rippled trout-rings die, The murmur round a jasmine honey store Is still--a linnet falters suddenly. From out the reeds an awe-struck otter peers As eerie quiet speeds from bush to bush: High Summer stands on tip-toe as She nears The woods, and magic numbs the missel-thrush: Above still grasses prick the listening ears Of rabbits, and a squirrel whispers “Hush!” REACTION Afraid, afraid, I sought the kindly night In fear that mocking fools should scrutinise The beauty I discovered in men’s eyes, And mock me as a dreaming anchorite. For long in fear I sinned against the light And shrouded Poetry with vain disguise; Before I sang, unconscious as the skies, Self-chanting songs to me supreme delight. But now, O littlest of all little minds, High-browed, alone, aloof, you little know How like you are to Brown, who lifts the blinds Of his suburban villa, just to show That he alone is up, but always finds The neighbourhood awoke an hour ago! APRIL How much are you achieving O April day, By orchard looms a-weaving All apple-gay? Tie on your cherry blossom, clothe your squills Madonna-blue, and give your daffodils Their collars of pale straw, and come away, Your rain-awoken hills Shall welcome May. What is behind your weeping O April tears? Your lilac plumes are sweeping, Your silken spears Of chestnut bristle in the changing sky Whilst herded clouds foregather, ’neath the high Storm-loud arena’s thundering charioteers: And beckoned silently The swallow nears. MAY-JUNE Now is the swaddling husk of Winter shed, And waking Summer, robed in windy showers, Is heralded from silvered aspen towers And orchards in high blossom garlanded. Now sunlight, in the plumed laburnum flowers And purple lilac, trembles overhead; And bees a-drone in field and flower bed Make clamorous the trade of teeming hours. Now the sweet-pea, all honey-laden, shows Full-swollen sails, her mooring ropes of green Encircle twigs. And soon the primrose queen Lights her pale lamps of Evening ’mid the glows Of brazen flower-suns, that burn between The yawning honeysuckle and the rose. THE STROLLING SINGER Sun-bathed in Summer peace the village lay That afternoon. Along the happy street Milk-fragrant kine, and wagons high with hay Came lumbering. The fields were loud with bees And drowsy with the wind-stirred meadowsweet. From bowing trees Fell chatter, and above the garden wall Wide sunflowers beamed at spearing hollyhocks That dared the wind, and scorned the clustered stocks, And bore their laddered blooms high over all. Here amid Summer murmur and delight The strolling singer came. The people heard Stray snatches of a song--a laugh--a word, And gossiping in groups of two or three Stood all amazed. For no one came in sight, Only the wind was laden drowsily With mellow sounds that slowly growing strong At last became a song:-- “Bend down, the marsh and meadow holds Pale yellow pimpernels, And sun-begotten marigolds, Thyme, orchis, asphodels, And borage born of ocean blue, Plumed armoured thistles, fever-few, Sea-campion globed, and clinging dew In giant flower-bells. “Bend down--an ebon beetle prowls, And there a swinging bee Drinks honey from the laden cowls That clothe the foxglove tree. And giant peacock butterflies Light meadowsweet with sudden eyes, And through the tangled grasses rise Lucerne and timothy.” Louder and louder grew the voice, until A figure specked the heaven-touching hill, And nearer, nearer, still ... The villagers in mingled fear and awe Stood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they saw A little sylvan man with beckoning eyes And limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowers And grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers, And jewelled with alluring butterflies, Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gay As pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hair Sun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare, And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplay Of flower-woven garb. Around his waist Twined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweet And freshly dewed, and on his lissom feet Were pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced. The village gazed in silence, till a child Began:--“Who are you, funny man? Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyes Are just the colour of blue butterflies, O tell us who you are?” The stranger smiled, And turned his face that bore the wistful, far, Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true, Who delves in darkened quarries of his brain Unhoped-for gold, and changes old to new As Spring rejuvenates the earth again. Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s pool And sees an image strangely beautiful ... Then suddenly they heard him cry:-- “Come buy, I own the laughing earth. And all my chanted words are deeds; I follow where my fancy leads, And sell my songs for mirth. What will you buy? “Speak hurriedly, and choose your song, The poplar’s shadow creeps along, Search hurriedly the Earth and Sky, What will you buy?” Meanwhile a crowd had gathered, in a ring; The butcher, grocer, postman, parson, clerk, And all the village, open-mouthed and stark, Stood mutely marvelling; And children clamoured round him with large eyes And pelted him for songs, like countless hail, With pleadings, shouts and cries:-- Sing us a song of Paradise, Of railway engines, fawns, Of stolen queens in guarded towers, Of sprites and leprechauns”-- O HUSH! All were dumb-- “Boy in blue smock, sucking your thumb, With hair like a tangled chrysanthemum, What would you like me to sing, Ocean-eyed?” Loud the boy’s answer rang, “_I_ want a song of flowers!” And this is the song he sang: “Sisters of mercy are Cyclamen, Snowdrops and Arums too, But Primulus, Violets, Stocks, Mignonette, Crocus aflame, and the Never Forget, Are chaster than chastity too. Now sulphur Laburnum and Lilac, adieu, Good-bye April children to you! For who Will climb up the flowers of my Hollyhock towers With butterfly steeple-jacks blue? But, climber, beware! Of Love-in-a-mist in a tangle of hair, Of thistly Teazles, and winged Sweet-Peas With tentacle tendrils that strangle with ease, Of butterfly Orchis a-clamour for bees. For Dragon may Snap you, and Sundew may trap you, Before you have started, before you have parted The grass at the foot of my Hollyhock trees. But think of the view Of the whole garden side! We’ll charter a dragon-fly homeward, and ride Down to our Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue, Lavender, London Pride.” All watched him, held, bewitched, and with him clung To the green tops of slowly swaying towers, Where bees had scattered pollen-dust, that hung Above the teeming nectaries of flowers, And all again were young. But now the poplars cast their phantom bars In latticed shadows; now a scarf unfurled, Like parrot-tulip petals hued and torn, Across the West was flung. And now, before the twilight bares the stars, Ere jewelled night is born, All silently the Singer left the world. Beyond the hill he passed, But singing all the while; first loud and strong. Then fainter, till at last Came only jumbled echoes of a song:-- “Bend down--the marsh and meadow holds Pale yellow Pimpernels, And sun-begotten Marigolds Thyme, Orchis, Asphodels” ... (Fainter and fainter it grew Gentle as ebbing tide) “Butterfly steeple-jacks blue” ... (Fainter it grew And died) Echoing “Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue, Lavender, London Pride” THE FRENCH MOTHER TO HER UNBORN CHILD Beat quietly, hid heart. Build, little limbs, and brain divinely wrought, Grow, grow in peace. Around, the pangs of war Are powerless to cripple thee or mar Thy sure perfection. But, if Death besought For thee, our tethered souls could never part: Beat quietly, hid heart. Form, primal thought, Close-furled and sheltered as the budding Spring Unknown, unknowing, yet divinely planned. But stay awhile, for sounds of battle ring. Stir, little hand Unrealized--I count the dragging hours And yearn to see it clutch at yonder flowers; To see thy lucent feet and dimpled frame And gaze at heav’n-snatched eyes and know thy name, But stay awhile. For thou art best alone away from Man: Wait longer, tears unshed and lurking smile Of joy enshrined where every joy began. Time hurries as the moments thump along (Hark, little ears, my heart is beating strong) Life is aglow, alive, a perfect song. Around the land is ugly, but apart I fashion thee in thought. Now hush, for sleep Is here. Close, eyes unopened, voice unheard, Be still. Grow on in beauty till day creep ... Hark to my whispered word-- Beat quietly, hid heart. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Geoffrey Dearmer *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53818 ***