Part 7

Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers.

And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears nor feels

The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.

MEETING AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

The little pansies by the road have turned Away their purple faces and their gold, And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme, And all the scent is shed away by the cold.

Against the hard and pale blue evening sky The mountain's new-dropped summer snow is clear Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent Clean pain sending on us a chill down here.

Christ on the Cross!--his beautiful young man's body Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs White and loose at last, with all the pain Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs.

And slowly down the mountain road, belated, A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows Whitely confront; I wait on the grass, am lamed.

The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air, The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems To draw the load, so still and slow it moves, While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.

Surely about his sunburnt face is something That vexes me with wonder. He sits so still Here among all this silence, crouching forward, Dreaming and letting the bullock take its will.

I stand aside on the grass to let them go; --And Christ, I have met his accusing eyes again, The brown eyes black with misery and hate, that look Full in my own, and the torment starts again.

One moment the hate leaps at me standing there, One moment I see the stillness of agony, Something frozen in the silence that dare not be Loosed, one moment the darkness frightens me.

Then among the averted pansies, beneath the high White peaks of snow, at the foot of the sunken Christ I stand in a chill of anguish, trying to say The joy I bought was not too highly priced.

But he has gone, motionless, hating me, Living as the mountains do, because they are strong, With a pale, dead Christ on the crucifix of his heart, And breathing the frozen memory of his wrong.

Still in his nostrils the frozen breath of despair, And heart like a cross that bears dead agony Of naked love, clenched in his fists the shame, And in his belly the smouldering hate of me.

And I, as I stand in the cold, averted flowers, Feel the shame-wounds in his hands pierce through my own, And breathe despair that turns my lungs to stone And know the dead Christ weighing on my bone.

CRUELTY AND LOVE

What large, dark hands are those at the window Lifted, grasping in the yellow light Which makes its way through the curtain web At my heart to-night?

Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest, In the west I see a redness come Over the evening's burning breast-- For now the pain is numb.

The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover: The sunlit flirt who all the day Has poised above her lips in play And stolen kisses, shallow and gay Of dalliance, now has gone away --She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, And when above her his broad wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below, Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed. The bird lies warm against the wall. She glances quick her startled eyes Towards him, then she turns away Her small head, making warm display Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,

Whose plaintive cries start up as she flies In one blue stoop from out the sties Into the evening's empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, Till the distance covers his dangerous tread.

The rabbit presses back her ears, Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes And crouches low: then with wild spring Spurts from the terror of the oncoming To be choked back, the wire ring Her frantic effort throttling: Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, And swings all loose to the swing of his walk. Yet calm and kindly are his eyes And ready to open in brown surprise Should I not answer to his talk Or should he my tears surmise.

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair Watching the door open: he flashes bare His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise He flings the rabbit soft on the table board And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud His coming: he raises up my face to him And caresses my mouth with his fingers, smelling grim Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare I know not what fine wire is round my throat, I only know I let him finger there My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Within him, die, and find death good.

* * * * *

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

THE WIFE OF LLEW

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew." And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.

A RAINY DAY IN APRIL

When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain Like holy water falls upon the plain, 'Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain And see your harvest born.

And sweet the little breeze of melody The blackbird puffs upon the budding tree, While the wild poppy lights upon the lea And blazes 'mid the corn.

The skylark soars the freshening shower to hail, And the meek daisy holds aloft her pail, And Spring all radiant by the wayside pale Sets up her rock and reel.

See how she weaves her mantle fold on fold, Hemming the woods and carpeting the wold. Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold, The spinning world her wheel.

THE LOST ONES

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills, And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone, And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers, And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago? O little twilight ship blown up the tide, Where are the faces laughing in the glow Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide. Give me your hand, O brother, let us go Crying about the dark for those who died.

* * * * *

JOHN MASEFIELD

THE 'WANDERER'

All day they loitered by the resting ships, Telling their beauties over, taking stock; At night the verdict left my messmates' lips, 'The 'Wanderer' is the finest ship in dock.'

I had not seen her, but a friend, since drowned, Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean, Saying, ''The Wanderer', clipper, outward bound, The loveliest ship my eyes have ever seen--

'Perhaps to-morrow you will see her sail. She sails at sunrise': but the morrow showed No 'Wanderer' setting forth for me to hail; Far down the stream men pointed where she rode,

Rode the great trackway to the sea, dim, dim, Already gone before the stars were gone. I saw her at the sea-line's smoky rim Grow swiftly vaguer as they towed her on.

Soon even her masts were hidden in the haze Beyond the city; she was on her course To trample billows for a hundred days; That afternoon the norther gathered force,

Blowing a small snow from a point of east. 'Oh, fair for her,' we said, 'to take her south.' And in our spirits, as the wind increased, We saw her there, beyond the river mouth,

Setting her side-lights in the wildering dark, To glint upon mad water, while the gale Roared like a battle, snapping like a shark, And drunken seamen struggled with the sail;

While with sick hearts her mates put out of mind Their little children left astern, ashore, And the gale's gathering made the darkness blind, Water and air one intermingled roar.

Then we forgot her, for the fiddlers played, Dancing and singing held our merry crew; The old ship moaned a little as she swayed. It blew all night, oh, bitter hard it blew!

So that at midnight I was called on deck To keep an anchor-watch: I heard the sea Roar past in white procession filled with wreck; Intense bright frosty stars burned over me,

And the Greek brig beside us dipped and dipped White to the muzzle like a half-tide rock, Drowned to the mainmast with the seas she shipped; Her cable-swivels clanged at every shock.

And like a never-dying force, the wind Roared till we shouted with it, roared until Its vast vitality of wrath was thinned, Had beat its fury breathless and was still.

By dawn the gale had dwindled into flaw, A glorious morning followed: with my friend I climbed the fo'c's'le-head to see; we saw The waters hurrying shorewards without end.

Haze blotted out the river's lowest reach; Out of the gloom the steamers, passing by, Called with their sirens, hooting their sea-speech; Out of the dimness others made reply.

And as we watched there came a rush of feet Charging the fo'c's'le till the hatchway shook. Men all about us thrust their way, or beat, Crying, 'The 'Wanderer'! Down the river! Look!'

I looked with them towards the dimness; there Gleamed like a spirit striding out of night A full-rigged ship unutterably fair, Her masts like trees in winter, frosty-bright.

Foam trembled at her bows like wisps of wool; She trembled as she towed. I had not dreamed That work of man could be so beautiful, In its own presence and in what it seemed.

'So she is putting back again,' I said. 'How white with frost her yards are on the fore!' One of the men about me answer made, 'That is not frost, but all her sails are tore,

'Torn into tatters, youngster, in the gale; Her best foul-weather suit gone.' It was true, Her masts were white with rags of tattered sail Many as gannets when the fish are due.

Beauty in desolation was her pride, Her crowned array a glory that had been; She faltered tow'rds us like a swan that died, But although ruined she was still a queen.

'Put back with all her sails gone,' went the word; Then, from her signals flying, rumour ran, 'The sea that stove her boats in killed her third; She has been gutted and has lost a man.'

So, as though stepping to a funeral march, She passed defeated homewards whence she came Ragged with tattered canvas white as starch, A wild bird that misfortune had made tame.

She was refitted soon: another took The dead man's office; then the singers hove Her capstan till the snapping hawsers shook; Out, with a bubble at her bows, she drove.

Again they towed her seawards, and again We, watching, praised her beauty, praised her trim, Saw her fair house-flag flutter at the main, And slowly saunter seawards, dwindling dim;

And wished her well, and wondered, as she died, How, when her canvas had been sheeted home, Her quivering length would sweep into her stride, Making the greenness milky with her foam.

But when we rose next morning, we discerned Her beauty once again a shattered thing; Towing to dock the 'Wanderer' returned, A wounded sea-bird with a broken wing.

A spar was gone, her rigging's disarray Told of a worse disaster than the last; Like draggled hair dishevelled hung the stay, Drooping and beating on the broken mast.

Half-mast upon her flagstaff hung her flag; Word went among us how the broken spar Had gored her captain like an angry stag, And killed her mate a half-day from the bar.

She passed to dock upon the top of flood. An old man near me shook his head and swore: 'Like a bad woman, she has tasted blood-- There'll be no trusting in her any more.'

We thought it truth, and when we saw her there Lying in dock, beyond, across the stream, We would forget that we had called her fair, We thought her murderess and the past a dream.

And when she sailed again we watched in awe, Wondering what bloody act her beauty planned, What evil lurked behind the thing we saw, What strength was there that thus annulled man's hand,

How next its triumph would compel man's will Into compliance with external Fate, How next the powers would use her to work ill On suffering men; we had not long to wait.

For soon the outcry of derision rose, 'Here comes the 'Wanderer'!' the expected cry. Guessing the cause, our mockings joined with those Yelled from the shipping as they towed her by.

She passed us close, her seamen paid no heed To what was called: they stood, a sullen group, Smoking and spitting, careless of her need, Mocking the orders given from the poop.

Her mates and boys were working her; we stared. What was the reason of this strange return, This third annulling of the thing prepared? No outward evil could our eyes discern.

Only like someone who has formed a plan Beyond the pitch of common minds, she sailed, Mocked and deserted by the common man, Made half divine to me for having failed.

We learned the reason soon; below the town A stay had parted like a snapping reed, 'Warning,' the men thought, 'not to take her down.' They took the omen, they would not proceed.

Days passed before another crew would sign. The 'Wanderer' lay in dock alone, unmanned, Feared as a thing possessed by powers malign, Bound under curses not to leave the land.

But under passing Time fear passes too; That terror passed, the sailors' hearts grew bold. We learned in time that she had found a crew And was bound out and southwards as of old.

And in contempt we thought, 'A little while Will bring her back again, dismantled, spoiled. It is herself; she cannot change her style; She has the habit now of being foiled.'

So when a ship appeared among the haze We thought, 'The 'Wanderer' back again'; but no, No 'Wanderer' showed for many, many days, Her passing lights made other waters glow.

But we would often think and talk of her, Tell newer hands her story, wondering, then, Upon what ocean she was 'Wanderer', Bound to the cities built by foreign men.

And one by one our little conclave thinned, Passed into ships, and sailed, and so away, To drown in some great roaring of the wind, Wanderers themselves, unhappy fortune's prey.

And Time went by me making memory dim. Yet still I wondered if the 'Wanderer' fared Still pointing to the unreached ocean's rim, Brightening the water where her breast was bared.

And much in ports abroad I eyed the ships, Hoping to see her well-remembered form Come with a curl of bubbles at her lips Bright to her berth, the sovereign of the storm.

I never did, and many years went by; Then, near a Southern port, one Christmas Eve, I watched a gale go roaring through the sky, Making the cauldrons of the clouds upheave.

Then the wrack tattered and the stars appeared, Millions of stars that seemed to speak in fire; A byre-cock cried aloud that morning neared, The swinging wind-vane flashed upon the spire.

And soon men looked upon a glittering earth, Intensely sparkling like a world new-born; Only to look was spiritual birth, So bright the raindrops ran along the thorn.

So bright they were, that one could almost pass Beyond their twinkling to the source, and know The glory pushing in the blade of grass, That hidden soul which makes the flowers grow.

That soul was there apparent, not revealed; Unearthly meanings covered every tree; That wet grass grew in an immortal field; Those waters fed some never-wrinkled sea.

The scarlet berries in the hedge stood out Like revelations, but the tongue unknown; Even in the brooks a joy was quick; the trout Rushed in a dumbness dumb to me alone.

All of the valley was aloud with brooks; I walked the morning, breasting up the fells, Taking again lost childhood from the rooks, Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells.

I had not walked that glittering world before, But up the hill a prompting came to me, 'This line of upland runs along the shore: Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea.'

And on the instant from beyond away That long familiar sound, a ship's bell, broke The hush below me in the unseen bay. Old memories came: that inner prompting spoke.

And bright above the hedge a seagull's wings Flashed and were steady upon empty air. 'A Power unseen,' I cried, 'prepares these things; 'Those are her bells, the 'Wanderer' is there.'

So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down, I saw a mighty bay's wind-crinkled blue Ruffling the image of a tranquil town, With lapsing waters glittering as they grew.

And near me in the road the shipping swung, So stately and so still in such great peace That like to drooping crests their colours hung, Only their shadows trembled without cease.

I did but glance upon those anchored ships. Even as my thought had told, I saw her plain; Tense, like a supple athlete with lean hips, Swiftness at pause, the 'Wanderer' come again--

Come as of old a queen, untouched by Time, Resting the beauty that no seas could tire, Sparkling, as though the midnight's rain were rime, Like a man's thought transfigured into fire.

And as I looked, one of her men began To sing some simple tune of Christmas Day; Among her crew the song spread, man to man, Until the singing rang across the bay;

And soon in other anchored ships the men Joined in the singing with clear throats, until The farm-boy heard it up the windy glen, Above the noise of sheep-bells on the hill.

Over the water came the lifted song-- Blind pieces in a mighty game we swing; Life's battle is a conquest for the strong; The meaning shows in the defeated thing.

* * * * *

HAROLD MONRO

MILK FOR THE CAT

When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do, She has come in merely to blink by the grate, But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour, She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes Take a soft large milky haze, And her independent casual glance Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears, Or twists her tail and begins to stir, Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes One breathing, trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh, The two old ladies stroke their silk: But the cat is grown small and thin with desire, Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.

The white saucer like some full moon descends At last from the clouds of the table above; She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim, Buries her chin in the creamy sea; Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long, dim ecstasy holds her life; Her world is an infinite shapeless white, Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop, Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair, Lies defeated and buried deep Three or four hours unconscious there.

OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

Give them me.

No.

Give them me. Give them me.

No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them.

No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them.

No.

CHILDREN OF LOVE

The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.

There was no sound, No smallest voice of any shivering stream. Poor sinless little boy, He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream.

Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.

The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know. Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.

(Will you not play? Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy. Is he not holy, like you? Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)

And now they stand Watching one another with timid gaze; Youth has met youth in the wood, But holiness will not change its melancholy ways.

Cupid at last Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart. Smile for a moment, sad world!-- It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart.

Now, for delight, Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near; But the child that was born to the cross Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear.

Marvellous dream! Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try; He has offered his bow for the game. But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.