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different content
 PORTRAIT OF A BARMAID

M ETALLIC waves of people jar

Through crackling green toward
the bar

Where on the tables, chattering-white,

The sharp drinks quarrel with the light.

Those coloured muslin blinds the smiles

Shroud wooden faces in their wiles—

Sometimes they splash like water (you

Yourself reflected in their hue).

The conversation, loud and bright,

Seems spinal bars of shunting light

In firework-spirting greenery,
O complicate machinery

For building Babel, iron crane

Beneath your hair, that blue-ribbed mane

In noise and murder like the sea

Without its mutability

Outside the bar, where jangling heat

Seems out of tune and off the beat,

A concertina’s glycerine
Exudes and mirrors in the green

Your soul, pure glucose edged with hints

Of tentative and half-soiled tints.
MATERIALISM; OR, PASTOR —— TAKES THE RESTAURANT CAR
FOR HEAVEN
U PON sharp floods of noise there glide
The red-brick houses, float, collide

With aspidestras, trains on steel

That lead us not to what we feel.

Hot glassy lights fill up the gloom

As water an aquarium,—

All mirror-bright; beneath these seen,

Our faces coloured by their sheen,

Seem objects under water, bent

By each bright-hued advertisement

Whose words are stamped upon our skin

As though the heat had burnt them in.

The jolting of the train that made

All objects coloured bars of shade,

Projects them sideways till they split

Splinters from eyeballs as they flit.

Down endless tubes of throats we squeeze

Our words, lymphatic paint to please

Our sense of neatness, neutralize

The overtint and oversize.

I think it true that Heaven should be

A narrow train for you and me,

Where we perpetually must haunt

The moving oblique restaurant

And feed on foods of other minds

Behind the hot and dusty blinds.
 THAÏS IN HEAVEN

W HEN you lay dying fast, you said—

And, weeping, were not comforted:
“Look through this paper world! I see

The lights of Heaven burn like gold

The other side; and Souls are sold
For these, yet only flesh, sold we!”

And then you died and went to bliss.—

I’m curious now to know if love
Is really Heaven—where you rove.—
Your kind of love ... or mine, Thaïs?

And is there still the clinging mud?

I think it drowned your soul like wine.
And do the stars like street-lamps shine,
Gilding the gutters where you stood,

And lighting up your small face where

Thin powder, like a trail of dust,
Shows the mortality of lust ...
Still black as hissing rain, your hair?

Your body had become your soul....

Thaïs,—do spirits crumble whole?
 FOUR NOCTURNES
I

PROCESSIONS

W ITHIN the long black avenues of Night

Go pageants of delight,

With masks of glass the night has stained with wine,

Hair lifted like a vine;—

And all the coloured curtains of the air

Were fluttered. Passing there,

The sounds seemed warring suns; and music flowed

As blood; the mask’d lamps showed

Tall houses light had gilded like despair:

Black windows, gaping there.

Through all the rainbow spaces of our laughter

Those pageants followed after;

The negress Night, within her house of glass

Watched the processions pass.

II

GAIETY
B LOW out the candles. Let the dance begin.
Already, pale as Sin,

The candles weep and pry like living things ...

They dance, who have no wings.

More vast and black than endless sleep, this room.

Time beats his empty drum

Whose hollow sound is echoed in our eyes—

Deep wells where no moon lies.

A crumpled paper mask hides every face—

Creased to a smile of grace,

With eyelids gilded, so the bitter tears

Make music for men’s ears.

These masks, some coloured like an August moon,

Or white, as sands that swoon

Within Time’s hour-glass, some as grey as rain,—

Still mimic joy and pain.

Thin pointed rags and tags edge our attire ...

Bright plumes?... or tongues of fire,

Whose painted laughter cracks the gilded sky

Of this flat empery

That has no soil where any flower may root,

Nor rest for weary foot,

But endless leagues of mirror: such the ground

That no horizons bound,—

Carved topaz water;—sound a mirror seems!

O! nakedness of dreams
Beneath the blinding radiance of hot skies
Where no sun lives or dies.
...
Now that the dusty, creaking curtain, Day,
Is folded, laid away,

Each masked dancer is both piercèd Heart

And Dream, its poiniard.

Small winds creep from Infinity.... A flame

Our blown hair, white as shame.

Those seeds of worlds, the stars, are nought but blown

Red tinsel from a Clown;

The candles, living things to dance and pry:

Out! hard Reality!

III

VACUUM
B LOWN through the leaden circles of our hell,
Each wisp of soul, tattered by winds of lust,
Clawed at the voices, like a beaten bell.
No movement ever raised the lifeless dust,

As, blown beneath the night’s enormous pall,

We call to you with goatish prance and paces:
Our lips are red as nights of festival
And hell has dyed its fires upon our faces.

These barren bodies may no children breed

To quench the sun with their corrupted breath
Save these our hearts, our breasts, our bodies feed—
The fruit of love like ours, the worms of death.

Within our brain the darkness slowly fell:

Our eyes’ dark vacuum reflects no days—
No voice, no sight, no thought within our hell—
But only flesh our loneliness allays.

IV

“ET L’ON ENTEND À PEINE LEURS PAROLES”

M ONOTONOUSLY fell the rain,
Like thoughts within an empty brain;

The lolling weeds that fattened there

Absorbed the broken lifeless air.

“Do those dim eyes still hold a flame

That leaps to Heaven at my name?”

“Mine eyes would hold God’s face in sight;

But your lips burned away the light.”

“Within your brain the blood runs high?”

“You came like thought; you licked it dry.”

“Oh, we have burnt our souls with lust

Till they are whiter than the dust ...

Now are they white as purity?”

“You blind mine eyes ... I cannot see.”

“I am so tired—I fain would creep

To hide within your heart and weep.”

“My heart is dust ... no tears to shed.”

“But carrion lives—it lives”—I said.
 TREATS
I

FUNERALS

B ENEATH umbrellas I can see

Pink faces sheened with stupidity,

With whiskers spirting from them, (days

Of boredom, black and sentient rays

From other personalities.)

And, mourners too, white-bearded seas

Walk slowly by them as they come,

Sing hymns to the wind’s harmonium.

Old men shake hands; their clawing grasp

Seems like a door without a clasp—

That gapes on slow black emptiness....

Now,—vanished is her cracked black dress,
The house grows tall from vacancy,
And in the kitchen I take tea

While the furry sun creeps out—that raw

Life,—sheathes its murderous claw

And lets its tongue slink out to lap

The silence—(a slow-leaking tap)....

II

THE COUNTY CALLS

T HEY came upon us like a train—
A rush, a scream, then gone again!
With bodies like a continent
Encased in silken seas, they went

And came and called and took their tea

And patronised the Deity
Who copies their munificence
With creditable heart and sense.

Each face a plaster monument

For some belovèd aliment,
Whose everlasting sleep they deign
To cradle in the Great Inane;

Each tongue, a noisy clockwork bell

To toll the passing hour that fell;
Each hat, an architect’s device
For building churches, cheap and nice.

I saw the County Families

Advance and sit and take their teas;
I saw the County gaze askance
At my thin insignificance:

Small thoughts like frightened fishes glide

Beneath their eyes’ pale glassy tide:
They said: “Poor thing! we must be nice!”
They said: “We know your father!”—twice.

III

SOLO FOR EAR-TRUMPET

T HE carriage brushes through the bright
Leaves (violent jets from life to light).
Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves
Between the showers of bright hot leaves.
The window-glasses glaze our faces
And jarr them to the very basis,—
But they could never put a polish
Upon my manners, or abolish
My most distinct disinclination
For calling on a rich relation!
In her house, bulwark built between
The life man lives and visions seen,—
The sunlight hiccups white as chalk,
Grown drunk with emptiness of talk,
And silence hisses like a snake,
Invertebrate and rattling ache.
....
Till suddenly, Eternity
Drowns all the houses like a sea,
And down the street the Trump of Doom
Blares,—barely shakes this drawing-room
Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn
As dank dark nettles. Down the horn
Of her ear-trumpet I convey
The news that: “It is Judgment Day!”
“Speak louder; I don’t catch, my dear.”
I roared: “It is the Trump we hear!”
“The What?”—“The TRUMP!” ... “I shall complain—
The boy-scouts practising again!”
ANTIC HAY
H OW like a lusty satyr, the hot sun
Doth in his orbit run
O’er rivers and the light blue hills of noon,
And where the white still moon
Sleeps in the lovely woodlands of the light.
Made drunken with his might,
Like flames the goat-foot satyrs leap and fling
The blossom’d beans of Spring.
The oreads leave their swan-like fountains, bells
Of foam, and dark wood-wells,
And grasses where the pale dew lovelorn lies
And like an echo dies.
The river-gods are tossing their blue manes
Still wet with brine; the reins
Lie loosely on their plunging horses; earth
Shakes with the storm of mirth;
And all the cloudy castles of the air
Are bathed with radiance. There,
Beneath dark chestnut trees, King Pan doth sport
With all his hornèd court.
Their goat-feet clattering to the oaten tune
That cools the heat of noon
Like water gurgling; hoofs all wreath’d with flowers,
Wild as the dew-pale hours,
The clownish satyrs dance the antic hay;
They butt with horns and sway,
While laughing leaves, like smitten cymbals thrill
Their sunburnt dance; until
The light falls like a rain of panick’d leaves
Through the gold heart of eves.
O’er misty fields, mild Dian’s old faint horn
Bloweth a sound forlorn.
Then from their hives with palest flowers bedight,
The yellow bees take flight—
Whirling where old Silenus tries to sing
Unto his hornèd King
—Feeding upon gold-freckled strawberries—
 Feeding upon gold freckled strawberries
And sting the poor fat fool until he cries.
 LULLABY

G OLDEN night-airs lull his eyes,

Starlight come not where Love
lies,
Lest your faint light touch his wings
Who swiftly comes and swiftly flies;
Lovers, wake him not with sighs,
But list where Philomela sings
Lullaby.

Dreams come tiptoe to his bed,

Dim fantastic wings outspread
To fan his pretty sleeping eyes.
Upon my breast he laid his head
(On lilies white heap roses red);
Hushed in my maiden heart, Love lies
A-sleeping.
 WATER MUSIC

F ROM Florence and from Venice,

Like silver swans at noon,
That silken dim winds menace—
Each barque a drownèd moon,
I’ll bring you freights of amber,
Perfumèd like the rose,
To build your sleeping chamber,
And song-birds for your close;
Faint stars to go a-singing,
Like fluttering nightingales
From golden cages winging,
When, Love, your tir’d wing fails.
And as we come a-rowing,
Great rainbows rise and swing
Like haughty peacocks bowing
In the gardens of the King.
 THE WEB OF EROS

W ITHIN your magic web of hair lies furled

The fire and splendour of the ancient
world;
The dire gold of the comet’s wind-blown hair,
The songs that turned to gold the evening air
When all the stars of heaven sang for joy;
The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy;
The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth,
The myrrh-lit flames that gave both life and birth
To the soul-Phœnix, and the star-bright shower
That came to Danæ in her brazen tower.
Within your burning web of hair lies furled
The fire and splendour of the ancient world.
 DROWNED SUNS

T HE swans more white than those forgotten fair

Who ruled the kingdoms that of old-time
were,
Within the sunset water deeply gaze
As though they sought some beautiful dim face,
The youth of all the world; or pale lost gems,
And crystal shimmering diadems,
The moon for ever seeks in woodland streams
To deck her cool faint beauty; thus in dreams,
Belov’d, I seek lost suns within your eyes
And find but wrecks of love’s gold argosies.
THE SPIDER
T HE fat light clings upon my skin,
Like grease that slowly forms a thin
And foul white film; so close it lies,
It feeds upon my lips and eyes.

The black fly hits the window-pane

That shuts its dirty body in;
So once, his spirit fought to quit
The body that imprisoned it.

He always seemed so fond of me,

Until one day he chanced to see
My head, a little on one side,
Loll softly as if I had died.

Since then, he rarely looked my way,

Though he could never know what lay
Within my brain; though iron his will,
I thought, he’s young and teachable.

And often, as I took my drink,

I chuckled in my heart to think
Whose dark blood ran within his veins:
You see, it spared me half my pains.

The time was very long until

I had the chance to work my will;
Once seen, the way was clear as light,
A father’s patience infinite.

He always was so sensitive;

But soon I taught him how to live
With each day, just a patch of white,
A blinded patch of black, each night.

Each day he watched my gaiety.

It’s very difficult to die
When one is young I pitied him
When one is young.... I pitied him,
The glass I filled up to the brim,

His shaking fingers scarce could hold;

His limbs were trembling as with cold....
I waited till from night and day
All meaning I had wiped away,

And then I gave it him again;

The wine made heaven in his brain.
Then spider-like, the kindly wine
Thrust tentacles through every vein,

And knotted him so very fast

I knew I had him safe at last.
And sometimes in the dawn, I’d creep
To watch him as he lay asleep,

And each time, see my son’s face grown

In some blurred line, more like my own.
A crumpled rag, he lies all night
Until the first white smear of light;

And sleep is but an empty hole ...

No place for him to hide his soul,
No outlet there to set him free:
He never can escape from me.

Yet still I never know what thought,

All fly-like, in his mind lies caught:
His face seems some half-spoken word
Forgot again as soon as heard,

Beneath the livid skin of light;

Oh, just an empty space of white,
Now all the meaning’s gone. I’ll sit
A little while, and stare at it.
THE DRUNKARD
T HIS black tower drinks the blinding light.
Strange windows livid white,

Tremble beneath the curse of God.

Yet living weeds still nod

To the huge sun, a devil’s eye

That tracks the souls that die.

The clock beats like the heart of Doom

Within the narrow room;

And whispering with some ghastly air

The curtains float and stir.

But still she never speaks a word;

I think she hardly heard

When I with reeling footsteps came

And softly spoke her name.

But yet she does not sleep. Her eyes

Still watch in wide surprise

The thirsty knife that pitied her;

But those lids never stir,

Though creeping Fear still gnaws like pain

The hollow of her brain.

She must have some sly plan, the cheat,

To lie so still. The beat

That once throbbed like a muffled drum

With fear to hear me come,

Now never sounds when I creep nigh.

Oh! she was always sly.
And if to spite her, I dared steal
Behind her bed, and feel

With fumbling fingers for her heart ...

Ere I could touch the smart,

Once more wild shriek on shriek would tear

The dumb and shuddering air....

And still she never speaks to me.

She only smiles to see

How in dark corners secret-sly

New-born Eternity,

All spider-like, doth spin and cast

Strange threads to hold Time fast.
THE MOTHER
I
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