Part 12

Harvey was a lance-corporal in the English army and was in the German prison camp at Guetersloh when he wrote _The Bugler_, one of the isolated great poems written during the war. Much of his other verse is haphazard and journalistic, although _Gloucestershire Friends_ contains several lines that glow with the colors of poetry.

THE BUGLER

God dreamed a man; Then, having firmly shut Life like a precious metal in his fist Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin Our various divinity and sin. For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, And others--dreaming empires--straightway cut Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most Did with it--simply nothing. (Here again Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.

For me, I do but bear within my hand (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken) A simple bugle such as may awaken With one high morning note a drowsing man: That wheresoe'er within my motherland That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.

_T. P. Cameron Wilson_

"Tony" P. Cameron Wilson was born in South Devon in 1889 and was educated at Exeter and Oxford. He wrote one novel besides several articles under the pseudonym _Tipuca_, a euphonic combination of the first three initials of his name.

When the war broke out he was a teacher in a school at Hindhead, Surrey; and, after many months of gruelling conflict, he was given a captaincy. He was killed in action by a machine-gun bullet March 23, 1918, at the age of 29.

SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE

They left the fury of the fight, And they were very tired. The gates of Heaven were open quite, Unguarded and unwired. There was no sound of any gun, The land was still and green; Wide hills lay silent in the sun, Blue valleys slept between.

They saw far-off a little wood Stand up against the sky. Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood; Some lazy cows went by ... There were some rooks sailed overhead, And once a church-bell pealed. "_God! but it's England_," someone said, "_And there's a cricket-field!_"

_W. J. Turner_

W. J. Turner was born in 1889 and, although little known until his appearance in _Georgian Poetry 1916-17_, has written no few delicate and fanciful poems. _The Hunter_ (1916) and _The Dark Wind_ (1918) both contain many verses as moving and musical as his splendid lines on "Death," a poem which is unfortunately too long to quote.

ROMANCE

When I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too, They passed like fleeting dreams, I stood where Popocatapetl In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voice And boys far-off at play,-- Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream To and fro from school-- Shining Popocatapetl The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy And never a word I'd say, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had taken my speech away.

I gazed entranced upon his face Fairer than any flower-- O shining Popocatapetl It was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed Thin fading dreams by day; Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, They had stolen my soul away!

_Patrick MacGill_

Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the son of poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12 and 19, he worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and navvy, becoming one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers" who cross each summer from Ireland to Scotland to help gather in the crops. Out of his bitter experiences and the evils of modern industrial life, he wrote several vivid novels (_The Rat Pit_ is an unforgettable document) and the tragedy-crammed _Songs of the Dead End_. He joined the editorial staff of _The Daily Express_ in 1911; was in the British army during the war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote his _Soldier Songs_ during the conflict.

BY-THE-WAY

These be the little verses, rough and uncultured, which I've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch, On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.

Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go, Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts 'tis so, For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!

Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies, Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies, Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.

Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged rhymes, Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times, Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.

These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute, Unasked, uncouth, unworthy out to the world I put, Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's boot.

DEATH AND THE FAIRIES

Before I joined the Army I lived in Donegal, Where every night the Fairies Would hold their carnival.

But now I'm out in Flanders, Where men like wheat-ears fall, And it's Death and not the Fairies Who is holding carnival.

_Francis Ledwidge_

Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, Ireland, in 1891. His brief life was fitful and romantic. He was, at various times, a miner, a grocer's clerk, a farmer, a scavenger, an experimenter in hypnotism, and, at the end, a soldier. He served as a lance-corporal on the Flanders front and was killed in July, 1917, at the age of 26 years.

Ledwidge's poetry is rich in nature imagery; his lines are full of color, in the manner of Keats, and unaffectedly melodious.

AN EVENING IN ENGLAND

From its blue vase the rose of evening drops; Upon the streams its petals float away. The hills all blue with distance hide their tops In the dim silence falling on the grey. A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom; A silent bat went dipping in the gloom.

Night tells her rosary of stars full soon, They drop from out her dark hand to her knees. Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease From all her changes which have stirred the seas. Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil. I and a marsh bird only make a wail.

EVENING CLOUDS

A little flock of clouds go down to rest In some blue corner off the moon's highway, With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array, Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made A little England full of lovely noons, Or dot it with his country's mountain shade.

Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22] Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed, What he loved most; for late I roamed a while Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed; And they remember him with beauty caught From old desires of Oriental Spring Heard in his heart with singing overwrought; And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page 194.)

_Irene Rutherford McLeod_

Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918). The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Selincourt, to whom she was married in 1919.

"IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE"

Is love, then, so simple my dear? The opening of a door, And seeing all things clear? I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desire Soaring only to fall, Annihilation and fire: It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will, But I think I understand Many things, as I sit quite still, With Eternity in my hand.

LONE DOG

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

_Richard Aldington_

Richard Aldington was born in England in 1892, and educated at Dover College and London University. His first poems were published in England in 1909; _Images Old and New_ appeared in 1915. Aldington and "H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, his American wife) are conceded to be two of the foremost imagist poets; their sensitive, firm and clean-cut lines put to shame their scores of imitators. Aldington's _War and Love_ (1918), from which "Prelude" is taken, is somewhat more regular in pattern; the poems in this latter volume are less consciously artistic but warmer and more humanly searching.

PRELUDE

How could I love you more? I would give up Even that beauty I have loved too well That I might love you better.

Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give-- I can but give you of my flesh and strength, I can but give you these few passing days And passionate words that, since our speech began, All lovers whisper in all ladies' ears.

I try to think of some one lovely gift No lover yet in all the world has found; I think: If the cold sombre gods Were hot with love as I am Could they not endow you with a star And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs? Could they not give you all things that I lack?

You should have loved a god; I am but dust. Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.

IMAGES

I

Like a gondola of green scented fruits Drifting along the dank canals of Venice, You, O exquisite one, Have entered into my desolate city.

II

The blue smoke leaps Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing. So my love leaps forth toward you, Vanishes and is renewed.

III

A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky When the sunset is faint vermilion In the mist among the tree-boughs Art thou to me, my beloved.

IV

A young beech tree on the edge of the forest Stands still in the evening, Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air And seems to fear the stars-- So are you still and so tremble.

V

The red deer are high on the mountain, They are beyond the last pine trees. And my desires have run with them.

VI

The flower which the wind has shaken Is soon filled again with rain; So does my heart fill slowly with tears, O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards, Until you return.

AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM

I turn the page and read: "I dream of silent verses where the rhyme Glides noiseless as an oar." The heavy musty air, the black desks, The bent heads and the rustling noises In the great dome Vanish ... And The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky, The boat drifts over the lake shallows, The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds, The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns, And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....

_Edward Shanks_

Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse and _belles lettres_ for several years for various English publications, and is at present assistant editor of _The London Mercury_. His _The Queen of China and Other Poems_ appeared late in 1919.

COMPLAINT

When in the mines of dark and silent thought Sometimes I delve and find strange fancies there, With heavy labour to the surface brought That lie and mock me in the brighter air, Poor ores from starved lodes of poverty, Unfit for working or to be refined, That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye, I turn away from that base cave, the mind. Yet had I but the power to crush the stone There are strange metals hid in flakes therein, Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone, That only cunning, toilsome chemists win. All this I know, and yet my chemistry Fails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.

_Osbert Sitwell_

Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of Sir George Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated at Eton and became an officer in the Grenadier Guards, with whom he served in France for various periods from 1914 to 1917.

His first contributions appeared in _Wheels_ (an annual anthology of a few of the younger radical writers, edited by his sister) and disclosed an ironic and strongly individual touch. That impression is strengthened by a reading of _Argonaut and Juggernaut_ (1920), where Sitwell's cleverness and satire are fused. His most remarkable though his least brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional poetry has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.

THE BLIND PEDLAR

I stand alone through each long day Upon these pavers; cannot see The wares spread out upon this tray --For God has taken sight from me!

Many a time I've cursed the night When I was born. My peering eyes Have sought for but one ray of light To pierce the darkness. When the skies

Rain down their first sweet April showers On budding branches; when the morn Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers, I've cursed the night when I was born.

But now I thank God, and am glad For what I cannot see this day --The young men cripples, old, and sad, With faces burnt and torn away;

Or those who, growing rich and old, Have battened on the slaughter, Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold, Are creased in purple laughter!

PROGRESS

The city's heat is like a leaden pall-- Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, Of silver bodies bathing in a pool; Or trees that whisper in some far, small town Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold Was merely metal, not a grave of mould In which men bury all that's fine and fair. When they could chase the jewelled butterfly Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh For all the future held so rich and rare; When, though they knew it not, their baby cries Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.

_Robert Nichols_

Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His first volume, _Invocations_ (1915), was published while he was at the front, Nichols having joined the army while he was still an undergraduate at Trinity College, Oxford. After serving one year as second lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery, he was incapacitated by shell shock, visiting America in 1918-19 as a lecturer. His _Ardours and Endurances_ (1917) is the most representative work of this poet, although his new volume, _The Flower of Flame_ (1920), shows a steady advance in power.

NEARER

Nearer and ever nearer ... My body, tired but tense, Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure And tremulous confidence.

Arms to have and to use them And a soul to be made Worthy, if not worthy; If afraid, unafraid.

To endure for a little, To endure and have done: Men I love about me, Over me the sun!

And should at last suddenly Fly the speeding death, The four great quarters of heaven Receive this little breath.

_Charles Hamilton Sorley_

Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than any of the younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May, 1895. He studied at Marlborough College and University College, Oxford. He was finishing his studies abroad and was on a walking-tour along the banks of the Moselle when the war came. Sorley returned home to receive an immediate commission in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In August, 1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October 13, 1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.

Sorley left but one book, _Marlborough and Other Poems_. The verse contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although he admired Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness was his aim. Restraint, tolerance, and a dignity unusual for a boy of 20, distinguish his poetry.

TWO SONNETS

I

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you. Poets have whitened at your high renown. We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down.

You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware. But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.

I think it like that signpost in my land Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know.

II

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete. And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

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.

_Robert Graves_

Robert Graves was born July 26, 1895. One of "the three rhyming musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Nichols), he was one of several writers who, roused by the war and giving himself to his country, refused to glorify warfare or chant new hymns of hate. Like Sassoon, Graves also reacts against the storm of fury and blood-lust (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but, fortified by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sassoon is violent, Graves is volatile; where Sassoon is bitter, Graves is almost blithe.

An unconquerable gayety rises from his _Fairies and Fusiliers_ (1917), a surprising and healing humor that is warmly individual. In _Country Sentiment_ (1919) Graves turns to a fresh and more serious simplicity. But a buoyant fancy ripples beneath the most archaic of his ballads and a quaintly original turn of mind saves them from their own echoes.

IT'S A QUEER TIME

It'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! 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.

A PINCH OF SALT

When a dream is born in you With a sudden clamorous pain, When you know the dream is true And lovely, with no flaw nor stain, O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.

Dreams are like a bird that mocks, Flirting the feathers of his tail. When you seize at the salt-box, Over the hedge you'll see him sail. Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.

Poet, never chase the dream. Laugh yourself, and turn away. Mask your hunger; let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?

Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas! The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands Are boats and barges anchored to the sands, With mighty cliffs all round; They're full of wine and riches from far lands.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound. The seas run high and the boats split asunder.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

The thin soap slips And slithers like a shark under the ships. My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked. The soap slides round and round; He's biting the old sailors, I expect.... _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

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