■^OS^C^USX£v/>XU\«a^O-0#C'^uStfw^tJS^ The Book THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE The Book of" Modern British Verse The Book of Modern British Verse Edited by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS 31 copyright, 19 i 9 by small, mavnard & company (incorporated) THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. TO H. P. S. THESE SYDNEIAN SHOWERS GOSSAMERY APRIL GOLDEN OCTOBER "\ FOREWORD This little collection is intended to present to Ameri- can readers the character of contemporary British verse. The period has now definitely assumed the name of " Georgian." It began with John Masefield and has grown into the newer blossoming of Seigfried Sassoon, Robert Graves, and Robert' Xichols. The late petals of the Victorian Bower began to droop under the reign of Edward VII. They dropped to the ground at the first touch of the frosty truth in the sub- stance, and the converting concreteness in the expres- sion, of " The Everlasting Mercy " and '* The Widow in the Bye Street." The new era began with an as- sault upon reality and a shock of symbols. And upon it descended the conflagration of the world. The sow- ing was turned to the surface by a world war. The re-sowing began in the trenches: the first fruits of which are beautiful to the eye but bitter to the taste. What tin- full harvest will be no one can say, because the presenl bad weather of social, economic, and polit- ical turmoil is raging over the fields of dream. The contemporary poets of Great Britain an- much read and admired in America, a compliment not paid D) Great Britain to American poets. I have edited this volume as a companion to the "Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse" to link tip- contemporaneous FOREWORD periods of British and American poetry. The present volume will serve to indicate, I trust, what the most recent character of British poetry is like. Points of difference with our own art, and they are fundamental in mood, may be studied. The instinct at present in America to appreciate good poetry from whatever source, will not permit these points -of national and cultural difference to dull the enjoyment of an art whose nature we had begun to look upon as a little in- adequate to our conception and understanding of life. Our own poetic independence has brought us to the point when we can enjoy British poetry when it is most British. W. S. B. Arlington Heights, Massachusetts. October 2, 1919. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For selections in this volume thanks are due to the fol- lowing publishers for permission to use the poems by the authors mentioned : The Macmillan Co. for poems by John Masefield, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Ralph Hodgson, James Stephens, and George Rostrevor. E. P. DuttON AND Co., for poems by Winifred M. Letts, Siegfried Sassoon, Evelyn Underhill and Herbert Trench. Henry Holt and Co., for poems by Walter de la Mare, Padraic Colum and Edward Thomas. GEORGE 11. DoBAN Co., poems by Cicely Eox Smith and May Doney. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., poems by Robert Graves, William H. Davies, Hester Sainsbury, and J. C. Squire. Frederick A. Stokes Co., poems by Robert Nichols, Theo- dore Maynard and Thomas MacDonagh. John Lane Co., poems by Lascelles Abercrombic, Iris Tree and Rupert I'rooke. Houghton Mifflin Co., for poems by John Drinkwater and F. S. Flint. I >' PFIELD and Co., for poems by Francis Ledwidge. Longm \ns, Green and Co., for poems by Eva Gore-Rooth, Willounhby Weaving and Bernard Gilbert; and as the American representatives of B. II. Blackwell of Ox- ford) for poems by Esbert Sitwell, Sacheverell Sitwell, Edith Sitwell, Sherard Vines. Aldous Huxley, T. W. Earp, Lucy Hawkins, Elizabeth Rendall, Dorothy D, Savers. Gwen Upcotl ami Fredegond Shove. • .. P. l'i i. -.am ' Sons, for poems by John McCrae, Charles Hamilton Sorley, and James (". Welsh. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Four Seas Co., for poems by Seosamh MacGath- mhaoil (Joseph Campbell), and Richard Aldington. Thomas B. Mosher, for poems by Lucy Lyttelton. B. W. HUEBSCH, for a poem by Irene Rutherford McLeod. Small, Maynard and Co.. for a poem by Joseph Mary Plunkett. Elktn Mathews, for poems by Gordon Bottomley. Burns and Oatf.s, for a poem by Gilbert K. Chesterton. Martin Secker, for poems by James Elroy Flecker. Selwyn and Blunt, for poems by John Freeman. Sidgwick and Jackson, for a poem by W. J. Turner. Poetry Bookshop, London, for poems by Harold Monro. The Smart Set Magazine, for the poem by Lord Dunsany. CONTENTS i. Time, You Old Gipsy Man i Ralph Hodgson 2. The Star . . 2 Willoughby Weaving 3. Discovery 3 John Freeman 4. Music Comes 4 John Freeman 5. Clavichords 5 Osbert Sitwell C. Who Buys Land ... 7 Seosamh MacCathmhaoil 7. Symbols 8 John Drinkivater 8. So Much is Altered 8 T. W. Harp 9. Man 9 William II. Davies 10. \ Man Dreams that He is the Creator .... 10 Fredegond Shove 11. Every Thing 11 Harold Monro 12. Children's Song M Ford Madox 1 Inciter 13. The Carol of the Poor Children '5 Rii hard Middleton 14. Willi FOB My Sun "' V homtu Mai Donagh CONTENTS 15. The Two Children 18 William H. Davie s 16. Quod Semper 18 Lucy Lyttelton 17. Catharine 20 William H. Danes 18. Eager Spring 21 Gordon Bottomley 19. A Song of Aprii 22 Francis Ledividge 20. Spring 23 Hester Sainsbury 21. Sunrise on Rydal Water 26 John Drinkzvatcr 22. The Bird at Dawn 28 Harold Monro 23. The Kingfisher 2Q William H. Davie s 24. Netted Strawberries 29 Gordon Bottomley 25. The Wind 31 Elizabeth Kendall 26. In the Country 32 William H. Davics 27. Behind the Closed Eye 33 Francis Ledividge 28. Wanderlust 34 Gerald Gould 29. The South Country 35 Hilaire Belloc 30. I am the Mountainy Singer 37 Seosamh MacCathmhaoil 31. The Ascetics 38 George Rostrevor xii CONTEXTS 3->. Reciprocity 39 John Drinkwater 33. Magic 40 // . ./. Turner 34. Stune Trees 42 John Freeman 35. If I Should Ever by Chance 43 Edzvard Thomas 36. What Shall 1 Give? 44 Edward Thomas 3J. If I Were to Own 45 Edward Thomas 38. And You, Helen 46 Edward Thomas 39. The Fish 47 Rupert Brooke 40. Mole 49 Aldous Huxley 41. The Buli 51 Ralph Hodgson 4--. Bodily Beauty 58 George Rostrevor 43. Any Lover, Any Lass 59 Richard Middleton 44- "Bid Adieu to Girlish Days" 60 James Joyce 45. Love Came TO Us 61 James Joyce •.iiKk Two Years <>i Ru hard Aldington 47. A Sum, of Woman's Smilini 62 May l>oney 48. To My Win (>4 James C. H 'i7.\ /1 xiii CONTENTS 49. C. L. M 65 John Mascfield 50. The Mandrake's Horrid Scream 66 Bernard Gilbert 51. An Old Woman of the Roads 69 Padraic Colum 52. Old Woman Forever Sitting 70 Iris Tree 53. No Wife 71 Bernard Gilbert 54. Marriage Song 76 Lascelles Abercrombie 55. The Affinity 82 Anne Wickham 56. The Ballad of Camden Town 83 James Elroy Flecker 57- Eve 85 Ralph Hodgson 58. Balkis 87 Lascelles Abercrombie 59. Lancelot and Guinevere 89 Gerald Gould 60. A Ballad of Doom 90 Elizabeth Rendall 61. Dust 93 Rupert Brooke 62. To a Greek Marble 95 Richard Aldington 63. Epilogue 96 Lascelles Abercrombie 64. The Golden Journey to Samarkand 101 James Elroy Flecker 65. Arabia 104 Walter de la Mare xiv CONTENTS 66. Babylon 105 Ralph Hodgson 67. Babylon 107 Viola Taylor 68. The Bough of Nonsense 108 Robert Graves 69. A Song for Grocers 109 Sherard Vines 70. "PsiTTACHUS EOIS IMITATRIX ALES AB I.VMS" . . Ill Sacheverell Sitwell 71. Fables 112 Sacheverell Sitzvcll 72. Check 113 James Stephens 73. Myself on the Merry-Go-Round 114 Edith Sitwell 74. Philosophy 116 Cicely Fox Smitli 75. Billy's Yarn 118 Cicely Fox Smith 76. "Ships that Pass" no Cicely Fox Smith 77. " In Prize" 122 Cicely Fox Smith 78. Tmk Little Waves of Brf.ffny 124 lira Gore-Booth 7h, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may. Time. ) ou ')1(1 gipsj . Why hasten away? I.i i n 1 1 k iii Babylon, I.a^t night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome ; Under Paul's dial You tighten \ our rein — ' )nly a moment, And oiV once again ; ( )ff to "Hi' city THE BOOK OF Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay. Put up your caravan . Just for one day? Ralph Hodgson The Star BEAUTY had first my pride; But now my heart she hath, And all the whole world wide Is Beauty's path ! By mountain, field and flood I walked in hardihood ; But now with delicate pace Her steps I trace. Once did my spirit dare In fond presumptuous dream To make her ways more fair That fair did seem. But all the world became Her ways elect, to shame With their least lovely lot My loftiest thought. MODERN BRITISH VERSE Her worshipful bright fire ! Ah ! Whither will it lead My burning faint desire And feet that bleed? Far in my failing view, A pure and blazing gem, She lights on earth the New Jerusalem ! WiUoughby Weaving J Discovery BEAUTY walked over the hills and made them bright. She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars, But not like stars cold, severe, terrible. Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped. Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide. Ilcrs the bright light within the quick green Of every new leaf on the oldest tree. It was her swimming made the river run Shining as the sun ; Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark, Singing in the incessant lark . . . All tbis was hers — yet all this had not beer, Except 'twas seen. Ft was my eye Beauty, thai made thee bright; M_\ ear- that heard, the blood leaping in mj veins, The vehemence of transfiguring thought — .5 THE BOOK OF Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains — That made thy wonders wonderful. For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee, Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play, Empty of meaning and so of all delight. Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss, Shaking thy rainy light all over the eartb. And I have paid thee with my thankfulness. John Freeman 4 Music Comes MUSIC comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep Dreamily, half asleep; When through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep, Oboe oboe following. Flute answering clear high Ihite, Voices, voices — falling mute, And the jarring drums. At night I heard First a waking bird Out of the quiet darkness sing . . . Music comes Strangely to the brain asleep ! And I heard Soft, wizard fingers sweep Music from the trembling string, 4 MODERN BRITISH VERM And through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep; Oboe oboe following, Flute calling clear high flute, Voices faint, falling mute, And low jarring drums; Then all those airs Sweetly jangled — newly strange, Rich with change . . . Was it the wind in the reeds? Did the wind range Over the trembling string; Into flute and oboe pouring Solemn music ; sinking, soaring Low to high. Up and down the sky? Was it the wind jarring Dnn\sy far-off drums ? Strangely to the brain asleep Music comes. John Freeman 5 Clavichords [To Mrs. Gordon Woodhouse] I pure and dulcel tone So clear and cool Rings out — tho' muffled by the centuries ed by; : i note THE BOOK OF A distant sigh From some dead lovely throat. A sad cascade of sound Floods the dim room with faded memories Of beauty that has gone. Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool, Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground); — Like moonlit skies Or some far song harmonious and sublime — Breaking the leaden slumber of the night. A perfume, faint yet fair As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn Seeming to flower alone Within the arid wilderness of Time The music fills the air Soft as the outspread fluttering wings Of flower-bright butterflies That dive and float Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn. The rippling sound of silver strings Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves Break over rocks. And into hidden caves Of silent waters — never to be found — Waters as clear and glistening as gems. And in this ancient pool of melodies, So soothing, deep. We search for strange lost images and diadems And old drowned pleasures, — Each one shining bright 6 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep. As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat Blown by a salt cool breeze — Laden with age-old treasures And rich merchandise, Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas, — So this last glowing note Hovers a while, — then dies. Osbcrt Sitwell Who Buys Land WHO buys land buys many stones. Who buys flesh buys many bones; Who buys eggs buys many shells. Who buys love buys nothing else. Love is a burr upon the floor. Love is a thief behind the door; Who loves leman for her breath May quench his fire and cry for death ! Love is a bridle, love is a load. Lo> c is a thorn upon the road ; Love is the fly that flits its hour, Love is the shining venom flower. Love is a net, love is a snare, Love is a bubble blown with air ; TITE ROOK OF Love starts hot, and waning cold. Is withered in the grave's mould ! Seosamh MacCathmhaoil {Joseph Campbell) 7 Symbols I SAW history in a poet's song, In a river reach and a gallows-hill, In a bridal bed, and a secret wrong, In a crown of thorns: in a daffodil. I imagined measureless time in a day, And starry space in a wagon-road, And the treasure of all good harvests lay In a single seed that the sower sowed. My garden-wind had driven and havened again All ships that ever had gone to sea. And I saw the glory of all dead men In the shadow that went by the side of me. John Drinkwater 8 So Much is Altered SO much is altered ; we no longer write As those poets did, who, in their pride and might, Went from their fellows and made a lonely song Of their own victory or defeat and wrong, I k'wed out a great battle with the world. For they were titans; passion on passion hurled, 8 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Raised them to God. Men saw them, as from far Eve-weary shepherds watch a distant star. But now we go to cities, feel the need To be near each other, to flow in crowds, to feed On their rich human presences. We have said That the' ancient terror, loneliness, is dead. Soul is like soul ; the old enmity is past, The war of self and self. And now at last The poet has learned to serve; with the rest he weaves The one fair pattern, and with them believes That life is a green tree with many whispering leaves. T. W. Earp Man I SAW Time running by — Stop, Thief, was all the cry. I heard a voice say, Peace ! Let this vain clamour cease. Can ye bring lightning back That leaves upon its track Men, horses, oak (frees dead? Canst bring hack Time? it said. There's nothing in Man's mind Can catch Time up behind; In front of that fast Thief There's no on.' — end this grief. Tut, what is Man? How trail ! A grain, a little nail. The wind, a change of cloth — A fly can give him death. THE BOOK OF Some fishes in the sea Are born to outlive thee, And owls, and toads, and trees — And is Man more than these? I see Man's face in all Things, be they great or small; I see the face of him In things that fly or swim; One fate for all, I see — Whatever that may be. Imagination fits Life to a day; though its Length were a thousand years, 'Twould not decrease our fears ; What strikes men cold and dumb Is that Death's time must come. William H. Dories io A Man Dreams That He is the Creator I SAT in heaven like the sun Above a storm when winter was: I took the snowflakes one by one And turned their fragile shapes to glass: I washed the rivers blue with rain And made the meadows green again. I took the birds and touched their springs, Until they sang unearthly joys: io MODERN' BRITISH VERSE They flew about on golden wings And glittered like an angel's toys: I filled the fields with flowers' eyes, As white as stars in Paradise. And then I looked on man and knew llim still intent on death — still proud; Whereat into a rage I flew And turned my body to a cloud : Tn the dark shower of my soul The star of earth was swallowed whole. Frcdegond Shove i r Every Thing S[NCE man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), lli- has not understood the little cries And foreign conversations of the small Delightful creatures that have followed him Xot far behind; Has failed to bear the sympathetic call Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind Reposeful 'I eraphirn Of bis domestic happiness; the Stool He sat on, or the Door he entered through He lias not thanked them, overbearing fool! What is be coming to? II THE BOOK OF But you should listen to the talk of these. Honest they are, and patient they have kept, Served him without his Thank you or his Please I often heard The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, Murmuring, before I slept. The Candle as I blew it, cried aloud, Then bowed, And in a smoky argument Into the darkness went. The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath : — ' Pooh ! I have boiled his water, I don't know Why ; and he always says I boil too slow. He never calls me " Sukie, dear," and oh, I wonder why I squander my desire Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire.' Now the old Copper Basin suddenly Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, Bumping and crying: 'I can fall by myself; Without a woman's hand To patronize and coax and flatter me. I understand The lean and poise of gravitable land.' It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, Twisted itself convulsively about, Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare, It stares and grins at me. The old impetuous Gas above my head Begins irascibly to flare and fret, 12 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Wheezing into its epileptic jet, Reminding me I ought to go to bed. The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot. Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again. The Putty cracks against the window-pane. A piece of Paper in the basket shoves Another piece, and toward the bottom moves. My independent Pencil, while I write, Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock Stirs all its body and begins to rock. Warning the waiting presence of tin- Night, Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain Ticking of ordinary work again. You do well to remind me, and 1 praise Yf flowers, In purple and chrome. As a sea breaks in foam; And the lilacs in fountains and showers < If emerald rain, fling Their tiny green buds or the wing — Just poised on the edge of the spring — 23 THE BOOK OF To fix- Bye and bye, To burst into loveliness airily fair. In garlands for dryads to weave in their hair, In a virginal dance With a scent to entrance The sweet fickle air — And late when the evening Comes subtle and blue. And stars are all opening Hearts of bright dew — The sun will slip easily, Tenderly, Bright, Out of sight, More silver than gold To behold — Not as in summer he dies, When low in the West he lies In the sanguine flood Of his own heart's blood, Shot by the shaft of the maiden moon, With regret in his eyes That the amazon comes too soon. And my little son Has run From me To the flowery hills, to the dappled sea; For somebody told him that shepherds in spring Taste the new green sap of the old green trees, And pluck a feather from the wing 24 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Of a throstle While they sing, All together. In a ring. And toss it up into the breeze; And their brains CiO mad with the ecstasy coursing their veins, And they wreathe them in violets, dance them in dew, Till their ankles are blue, Through and through Enchantingly cold with sweet pains — While the sun in the clouds (jold-dapples the sheep, Till the stars in bright crowds Tempt the shepherds to sleep; Who with eyes, wild dark. And hair like a flame, Singing still like the lark, ( "ry loud on the name Of each his Corinna to come and be tame To his love, I.ike a dove ; \nd their sheep Turn to silver — and sleep. And my little boj With his young spring joy Will not discover the leanness of truth; With the magical, Tragical, • redence of youth He will think the vine shepherds he meets on his was 25 THE BOOK OF Are mad to-morrow To his sorrow, Or yesterday. Hester Sainsbury 21 Sunrise on Rydal Water COME down at dawn from windless hills Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island houghs One silence and one element. Where wonder goes surely as once It went By Galilean prows. Moveless the water and the mist, Moveless the secret air above. Hushed, as upon some happy tryst The poised expectancy of love ; What spirit is it that adores What mighty presence yet unseen? W r hat consummation works apace Between These rapt enchanted shores? Never did virgin beauty wake Devouter to the bridal feast Than moves this hour upon the lake In adoration to the east. 26 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Here is the bride a god may know, The primal will, the young consent, Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent The god shall leap — and, lo, Over the lake's end strikes the sun — White, flameless fire; some purity Thrilling the mist, a splendor won Out of the world's heart. Let there be Thoughts, and atonements, and desires: Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue; Where now we move with mortal care Among Immortal dews and fires. So the old mating goes apace. Wind with the sea, and blood with thought. Lover with lover; and the grace <)t" understanding comes unsought 'Alien stars into the twilight steer, ' >r thrushes build among the may. < )r wonder moves between the bills. \nd day Conies up on Kydal m< re. John Drinkwater -7 THE BOOK OF 22 The Bird at Dawn WHAT I saw was just one eye In the dawn as I was going: A bird can carry all the sky In that little button glowing. Never in my life I went So deep into the firmament. He was standing on a tree, All in blossom overflowing; And he purposely looked hard at me, At first, as if to question merrily: "Where are you going?" But next some far more serious thing to say: I could not answer, could not look away. Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye : Little mirror of all sky ! — And then the after-song another tree Held, and sent radiating back on me. If no man had invented human word, And a bird-song had been The only way to utter what we mean, What would we men have heard. What understood, what seen. Between the trills and pauses, in between The singing and the silence of a bird? Harold Monro 28 MUDERX BRITISH VERSE a thousand strong, Wandered on from plain to plain. Up the hill and down the dale, Always at his mother's tail; How he lagged behind the herd. Lagged and tottered, weak of limb. And she turned and ran to him. Blaring at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies Waiting for the flesh that dies. 34 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Dreaming maybe of a day When her drained and drying paps Turned him to the sweets and saps. Richer fountains by the way. And she left the hull she bore And he looked to her no more; And his little frame grew stout. And his little legs grew strong And the way wa.s not so long; And his little horns came out, And he played at hutting trees And boulder-stones and tortoises. Foined a game of knobby skulls With the youngsters of his year, All the other little bulls. Learning both to bruise and bear, Learning how to stand a shock Like a little bull of rock. I >r< aming of a day less dim, Dreaming of a time less far. \\ hen the faint but certain star < >f destiny burned clear for him, And a tierce and wild unrest Broke the quiet of his breast. And the gristles of In- youth I lardened in his cornel) pow . And In- c.inic t-> fighting growth, Beal his bull and won hi- cow. 55 THE BOOK OF And flew his tail and trampled off Passed the tallest, vain enough, And curved about in splendour full And curved again and snuffed the airs As who should say Come out who dares ! And all beheld a "bull, a Bull, And knew that here was surely one That backed for no bull, fearing none. And the leader of the herd Looked and saw, and beat the ground, And shook the forest with his sound, Bellowed at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies Waiting for the flesh that dies. Dreaming, this old bull forlorn, Surely dreaming of the hour When he came to sultan power, And they owned him master-horn, Chiefest bull of all among Bulls and cows a thousand strong; And in all the tramping herd Not a bull that barred his way, Not a cow that said him nay, Not a bull or cow that erred In the furnace of his look, Dared a second, worse rebuke ; 56 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Not in all the forest wide, Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen, Xot another dared him then, Dared him and again defied; Not a sovereign buck or boar Came a second time for more; Not a serpent that survived Once the terrors of his hoof Risked a second time reproof, Came a second time and lived, Not a serpent in its skin Came again for discipline; Not a leopard bright as flame, Flashing fingerhooks of steel, That a wooden tree might feel, Met his fury once and came For a second reprimand, Not a leopard in the land; Not a lion of them all, Not a lion of the hills, I [ero of a thousand kills, Dared a second fight and fall, Dared that ram terrific twice, Paid a second time the price. . . . Pity him, this dupe of dream, der spirit's youth Smiles into such a happy lighl From God's touch, while mj hair turns whit-- THE BOOK OF Yea, even as angelhood it feels, Sometimes, for Heaven to show This freshness which my freedom seals : — My God ! I thank Thee so For giving my soul's smiles to me In such a precious liberty. Max Donev 48 To My Wife WHEN sere has touched the leaf with age And Time brings Leisure's glow, Turn softly o'er this scribbled page And learn the things I know. If in the waning summer night A fragrance lightly blows, When winds remember roses bright, Think to yourself . . . He knows. When sleeps the regal sire of day In western glory red, And lazy, crawling mists betray The winding river's bed, When moor birds call, and night birds cry, And night scents fill the air From winds that know where thyme-beds lie, Think to yourself . . . He's there. When day with evening fondly parts Along the gorsy hills, 64 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And tawny dusk a veil imparts O'er little bogland rills, Turn to the thoughts of yesterday Among the cool green groves, And think that always and for aye As well as now ... He loves. Yet there will come a time when I, Dear heart, shall leave your side As stars fade quietly from the sky When dawn wins day for bride ; Scent of the fragrant birk and briar May fail their round to steer, Think to yourself — though worlds in fire May perish . . . He is here. James C. Welsh 49 C. L. M. IN the dark womb where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot sec, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her. Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well. THE BOOK OF Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind. If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son. I am so grown. If we should meet She would pass by me in the street. Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me. What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leached Fre Birth's releasing hell was reached? What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still. Men trample women's rights at will. And man's lust roves the world untamed. O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed. John Mase field jo The Mandrake's Horrid Scream WHY ain't the Mester back" Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neigh- bours. An' when he's finished \\i' his labours, 66 MODERN BRITISH VERSE He gallops off full crack! I sits aloan an' shaakes \vi' fear While he he rousin' at the " Deer." Them what's in towns has niver tried To live aloan. all terrified; They talk ahout churchyards at night, I )r things wi' chains dressed up in white: Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep In any place what made them creep! Coz allers they've a friend ahout To hear if they should give a shout! They dunno what it is to fear But — here — What's that? Duly the cat ! An' she's as black as Death's own self. She squats all loathly on yon shelf, Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me I wish the Devil — No ! Not He! I didn't mean to mention names, Nor interfere wi' others' gaames: They saay as cats is really witches. Like Betty Williamson, now dead. What lister wear her husband's breeches An' ate the queerest food, foak said; Sh< set beside her "pen door Wi' one fool allers off the floor. Quietly knitting; one eye cast To overlook you as yon passed; An' just the same, j on nastj crittei " THE BOOK OF Stares at me now that soft an' bitter ! Oh, Dear ! I wish my man would come ! May ague twist, an' strike him dumb! May fairies nip his liver out An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. Forsaking me, all loansome here With iverything what's wrong and queer. From out my winder, where I sit I see the willows round yon pit : Dark Pit where Moller Homes was found As some said, — accidental drowned ! — But I heard screechin', terrified, About the time he must a died. Having noa bottom, soa they say; Its dreadful secrets there must stay Until the Resurrection Day ! Oh where the Devil is that Tom? I'll give him "pub" when he gits hoam : The wind is moanin' round that Pit As if somebody wished to flit : There's Things in there what stirs by night An' if you see, yer hair turns white; Around, they say, the Mandrake grows What's pulled at dead of night by those Who little care although it screams To wake poor mortals from their dreams. Our parson tells of Powers Evil : (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) Where should they laay, but in yon Pit ? W : hat makes me squirl to think on it : All gashly arms a-reachin' out 68 MODERN BRITISH VERSE To clamber up yer water spout An' reach you through — Oh Lor! Who's that? 'Tis something comin' I hear it hummin' . . . My dear good Tom ! Thank God it's him ! I was afraid of something grim — I've bin a-wantin' you soa long — You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong Of beer an' bacca ! Off to bed ! I'll larn yer. Thomas, who you've wed: 'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead. Bernard Gilbert 5/ An Old J I 'otnan of the Roads Oto have a little house ! To own the hearth and stool and all ! The heaped up sods upon the fire. The pile of turf against the wall ! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled witli shining delft. Speckled and white and blue and brown ! I could be busy all the day ' tearing and sweeping hearth and floor, t*> THE BOOK OF .And fixing on their shelf again My white and hlne and speckled store ! I could be quiet there at night Besides the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking cloth and the shining delft! Och ! but I'm weary of mist and dark. And roads where there's never a house nor hush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush ! And I am praying to (Jod on high. And I am praying Him night and day. For a little house — a house of my own- — Out of the wind's and the rain's way. Padraic Colum 52 Old W oman Forever Sitting OLD woman forever sitting Alone in the large hotel under the fans. Infinitely alone where around you spin So many lives like painted tops. Smearing the void a moment with their hues. Giddily catching at balance as they pause. What crime was yours, old woman. What sin against the Earth That she should give you now 7° MODERN BRITISH VERSE A cap of dust and furrows on your checks. And at the end A link' dug in the mould? Is death the promise of Fate's last rebound, Revenge of Time that waits within the clock And laughs awry at life. For a kiss, for a dream, for a child that you bore. For a fresh rose pinned to your bosom? The owl is in your spirit, Blinking through the oldest tree of wisdom — And now your fingers are weaving The cold pale invisible blossoms of death Into a waxen wreath. And Time Sits down beside you knitting with quick hands Grey counterpanes to cover up a i^rave ! Iris Tree T > No Wife T( )M ! Tom ' What yer think ? I've ed the Parson's wife The first time in 'er life, acrosl our door! What for? What for? Why, Tom, you'd niver niver guess! Not if yon lived as old as < .rammer Bess What's latel) svvok She- a bunder an' tour — She wants us two, to go ofl mi' sadn< 1 I silence of Par I am not of these about thy feet, These garments and decorum I am thy brother, The lover of aforetime crying t<> thee, Vnd thou nearest me not. 95 THE BOOK OF I have whispered thee in thy solitudes Of our loves in Phrygia, The far ecstasy of burning noons When the fragile pipes Ceased in the cypress shade. And the brown fingers of the shepherd Moved over slim shoulders ; And only the cicada sang. T have told thee of the hills And the lisp of reeds And the sun upon thy breasts, And thou hearest me not. Thou hearest me not. Richard Aldington 63 Epilogue WHAT shall we do for Love these days? How shall we make an altar-blaze To smite the horny eyes of men With the renown of our Heaven, And to the unbelievers prove Our service to our dear god, Love? What torches shall we lift above The crowd that pushes through the mire, To amaze the dark heads with strange fire? I should think I were much to blame, If never I held some fragrant flame Above the noises of the world, 96 MODERN BRITISH VERSE And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares, Worshipt before the sacred fires That are like flashing curtains furl'd Across the presence of our lord Love. Nay, would that I could fill the gaze Of the whole earth with some great praise Made in a marvel for men's eyes, Some tower of glittering masonries, Therein such a spirit flourishing Men should see what my heart can sing: All that Love hath done to me Built into stone, a visible glee; Marble carried to gleaming height As moved aloft by inward delight; Xot as with toil of chisels hewn, But seeming poised in a mighty tune. For of all those who have been known To lodge with our kind host, the sun. I envy one for just one thing: In Cordova of the Moors There dwelt a passion-minded King, Who set great bands of marble-hewers To fashion his heart's thanksgiving In a tall palace, shapen so All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish lass. His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone I [e sent, as if the stone were glass Fired and into beauty blown. Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric Stood, 97 THE BOOK OF Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly spaced Seriously the fabric stood. But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament, Wreathing up like ravishment. Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make, Well I can see that shining song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides. You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been A young god's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame ; Such an immortal passion Quiver'd among the slim hewn stone. And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star, Wherein a wine, that will be poured Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored. 98 MODERN BRITISH VERSE But within this fretted shell, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude. For right amidst there was a court, Where always musked silences Listened to water and to trees; And herbage, of all fragrant sort, — Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury, — Was the grass of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid. Jarring the air with rumour cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness. Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and OUt weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; ( )r on a lotus leaf would crawl. A blinded loach to bask and sprawl. Tasting the warm sun ere it dipt Into the water; but quick as fear Back in shining brown I" ad slipt To crouch on the gravel ol his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack, Split shatter'd gold aboul bis back. 99 THE BOOK OF So within that green-veiled air. Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud, — Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake On the leafage overhowed, — Often the King and his love-lass. Let the delicious hours pass. All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixt in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and passion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is God's word written in ecstasies, And where is now the palace gone, All the magical skill'd stone, All the dreaming towers wrought By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was? How could such a wonder pass? Ah, it was but built in vain Against the stupid horns of Rome, That pusht down into the common loam The loveliness that shone in Spain. But we have raised it up again ! A loftier palace, fairer far, Is ours, and one that fears no war. Safe in marvellous walls we are; ioo MODERN' BRITISH VERSE Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above Our unapproacht and perfect hour Within the splendours of love's power. Lasccllcs Abercrombie 64 The Golden Journey to Samarkand At the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad, in olden time. the merchants (together) AWAY, for we are ready to a man! Our camels sniff the evening and are glad. Lead on, O master of the Caravan: Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad. THE CHIEF DRAPER Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine, Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils, \nd broideries of intricate- design, And printed hangings in enormous bales? THE ' him GROCER We have rose-candy, we have spikenard. Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice, And such sweel jams meticulously jarred \- God's own Prophet eats in Paradise 101 II IE BOOK OF THE PRINCIPAL JEWS And we have manuscripts in peacock styles By AH of Damascus; we have swords Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles, And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN But you are nothing but a lot of Jews. THE PRINCIPAL JEWS Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes, You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way? THE PILGRIMS We are the Pilgrims, master ; we shall go Always a little further: it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, Across that angry or that glimmering sea. White on a throne or guarded in a cave There lives a prophet who can understand Why men were born but surely we are brave, Who make the golden journey to Samarkand. THE CHIEF MERCHANT W'e gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away! ONE OF THE WOMEN O turn your eyes to where your children stand. Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay! J 02 MODERX BRITISH VERSE THE MERCHANTS (ill chorus) We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. AN OLD MAN Have you not girls and garlands in your homes, Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command? Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams! THE MERCHANTS (ill chorus) We make the golden journey to Samarkand. A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells When shadows pass gigantic on the sand, And softly through the silence beat the bells Along the golden road to Samarkand. A MERCHANT We travel not for trafficking alone: By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned: For lust of knowing what should not be known We make the golden journey to Samarkand. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN I »|mh the gate, watchman of the night! I II e WATCH MAN Ho, traveller-. I open. For what land Leave you the dim-moon city of delight? Til HANTS ( With a shout) We make the golden journey tO Samarkand. [The Caravan passes through ///<• .'/<''<•.) [03 THE BOOK OF the watchman (consoling the women) What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus. Men are unwise and curiously planned. A WOMAN They have their dreams, and do not think of us. voices of the caravax ( [in the distance, singing) We make the golden journey to Samarkand. James Elrov Flecker 65 Arabia FAR are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon ; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies. Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear murk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians In the brooding silence of night. 104 MODERN BRITISH VERSE They haunt mc — her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say — ' He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away.' Walter de la Marc 66 Babylon IF you could bring her glories back ! You gentle sirs who sift the dust And burrow in the mould and must Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; Who catalogue and pigeon-hole The faded splendours of her soul And put her greatness under glass — If you could bring her past to pass! If you could bring her dead to life! The soldier lad; the market wife: Madam buying fowls from her; Tip, the butcher's bandy cur; Workmen carting bricks and clay; Babel passing to and fro On the business of a day '.on.- three thousand years ago — Thai yon cannot ; then be done, I'm the goblel down again, I0: THE BOOK OF Let the broken arch remain, Leave the dead men's dust alone — Is it nothing how she lies, This old mother of you all, You great cities proud and tall Towering to a hundred skies Round a world she never knew. Is it nothing, this, to you ? Must the ghoulish work go on Till her very floors are gone? While there's still a brick to save Drive these people from her grave ! The Jewish seer when he cried Woe to Babel's lust and pride Saw the foxes at her gates; Once again the wild thing waits. Then leave her in her last decay A house of owls, a foxes' den ; The desert that till yesterday Hid her from the eyes of men In its proper time and way Will take her to itself again. Ralph Hodgson 1 06 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 6/ Babylon I'M going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain — For, oh, the music stirs my blood as once it did before And still I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The dancing feet in Babylon, of those who took my floor. I'm going silent all my years, but garnered in my brain Is that swift wit which used to flash and cut them like a sword And now I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The foolish tongues in Babylon, of those who took my word. I'm going lonely all my days, who was the first to crave The second, fierce, unsteady voice, that struggled to speak free — And now I watch in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The pallid loves in Babylon of men who once loved me. I'm sleeping early by a flame as one content and gray, But, oh, I dream a dream of dreams beneath a winter moon, I breathe the breath of Babylon, of Babylon, of Baby- lon, The scent of ^ilks in Babylon that filiated to a tune. 107 THE BOOK OF A band of years has flogged me out — an exile's fate is mine, To sit with mumbling crones and still a heart that cries with youth. But, oh, to walk in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The happy streets in Babylon, when once the dream was truth. Viola Tavlor 68 The Bough of Nonsense AN IDYLI. BACK from the Somme two Fusiliers Limped painfully home; the elder said, 5". " Robert, I've lived three thousand years This Summer, and Fm nine parts dead." R. " But if that's truly so," I cried, " quick, now, Through these great oaks and see the famous bough " Where once a nonsense built her nest With skulls and flowers and all things queer, In an old boot, with patient breast Hatching three eggs; and the next year. . . ." S. " Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did." Said he, " Before this quaint mood fails, We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," R. " Hanging it up with monkey tails In a deep grove all hushed and dim . . ." 108 MODERN BRITISH VERSE 5". ' To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees," R. " Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese," S. " Which men are wise beyond their time, And worship nonsense, no one more." R. " Hard by, among old quince and lime, They've built a temple with no floor," S. " And whosoe'ver worships in that place, He disappears from sight and leaves no trace." R. "Once the Galatians built a fane To Sense: what duller God than that?" S. " Hut the first day of autumn rain The roof fell in and crushed them flat." R. Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls When nonsense is foundation for the walls." I tell him eld Galatian tales; He caps them in quick Portuguese, While phantom creatures with green scales Scramble and roll among the trees. The hymn swells: on a bough above us sings A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings. Robert Graves 69 . 1 Song For Grocers HEAVEN bless grocers' shops wherein Raisins arc with tawny skin, Murrey wine, and green liqueurs, ( oirious spice in canisters, 109 THE BOOK OF Honest ham, and mother tea, Isinglass and carroway, Rennet, vinegar, and salt That honour has, and clear cobalt : Coffee, that swart Mussulman, Caviar the Caspian, Suave oil, angry condiments, Anchovies, and sweet essence Of clove and almond, honeycomb. Jam our English orchards from, Portly cheeses full of mould, Sugars and treacles brown or gold; Soap, to keep us pure, and white Candles, the slim sons of light, Butter like the flow'r of gorse, Wheat meal fine and oat meal coarse, Soda for our maid's service, Sago, tapioca, rice An economic trinity. Bacon, friend ham's affinity. Bananas, which the People please, Proletarian oranges, While of fruits in syrup a Frequent cornucopia. Eggs fresh within and white without, Cocoa of origin devout, Nuts and string and brooms and mops. Saveloys and lollipops — God, be good to grocers' shops ! Sherard Vines i ro MODERN BRITISH VERSE 70 " Psittachus Eois Imitatrix ales ab Indis." — Ovid THE parrot's voice snaps out — No good to contradict — What he says he'll say again: Dry facts, like hiscuits. His voice and vivid colours Of his hrcast and wings Arc immemorably old; ' )ld dowagers dressed in crimped satin Boxed in their rooms Like specimens beneath a glass Inviolate — and never changing, Their memory of emotions dead; The ardour of their summers Sprayed like camphor I )n their silken parasols hit issued in a cupboard. " Psittachus eois imitatrix ales ab indis." Reflective, but with never a new thought The parrot sways upon his ivory perch — Then gravely turns a somersault Through rings nailed in the roof — Much as the sun performs his antics he climbs the aerial bridge 1 1 1 THE BOOK OF We only see Through crystal prisms in a falling rain. Sachcvcrcll Sitzvcll /I Fables WHO taught the centaur first to drink Ladling his huge hands from the brink When other monsters lie and lap The waters like a fruitful pap? The same who by ingenious ways Taught the chameleon his rays To take from leaves of tow'ring trees Strung thick with dew-bells that the bees Set ringing, till they bring the honey, Thrilled with music, gold with money Back to their castles in the clouds — And the chameleon, his crowds Of foes to fight with, has two eyes That travel sideways, no surprise On any side. He swiftly sees All — flowers, slow floating birds and bees. The gentle, loving unicorn Will never eat the grass — All bushes have too many thorns Their leaves are made of brass, His horn is given him to take The soft fruit from the trees, " Please grasp my horn and roughly shake, 112 MODERN BRITISH VERSE () nymph, among those leaves; This pear transfixed upon my horn ; I cannot reach " — beyond the brim ; Clutched at; she misses; it has gone — ■Alas! You've gut it ! I can't swim." To comb a satyr's silken beard Arabian travellers aspire. They beg, they bribe ; more loved than feared The satyr trots to take his hire — Fawning, he takes from outstretched hand Such fruit his eyes have sometimes seen On swaying branches where the land Sighs in a soft wind and the green Leaves shake beneath the nightingale. Thus cajoled, they can reach his beard Where gums lie, gathered frum the frail Flowers he feeds on, where no voice is heard. Sacheverell SitweU /"-' Check THE night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and stole again Along the grass b< side the wall. I heard the rustle of her shawl As she threw blackness everywhere i fpon the sky and ground and air, "3 THE BOOK OF And in the room where I was hid: But no matter what she did To everything that was without, She could not put my candle out. So I stared at the night, and she Stared back solemnly at me. James Stephens 7? Myself on the Mcrry-Go-Round To Robert Nichols THE giddy sun's kaleidoscope — The pivot of a switchback world Is tied to it by many a rope: The people (flaunting streamers), furled Metallic banners of the seas, The giddy sun's kaleidoscope Casts colours on the face of these : Cosmetics of Eternity, And powders faces blue as death ; Beneath the parasols we see Gilt faces tarnished by sea-breath, And crawliiig like the foam, each horse Beside the silken tents of sea In whirlpool circles takes his course. Huge houses, humped like camels, chase The wooden horses' ceaseless bound ; The throbbing whirring sun that drags The streets upon its noisy round With tramways chasing them in vain, 114 MODERN BRITISH VERSE Projects in coloured cubes each face — Then shatters them upon our brain. The house-fronts hurl them back, they jar Upon cross-currents of the noise: Like atoms of my soul they are. They shake my body's equipoise, — A clothes line for the Muse to fly (So thin and jarred and angular) Her rags of tattered finery. Beneath the heat of trees' sharp hue — A ceaseless whirr, metallic-green. Sounds like a gimlet shrilling through The mind, to reach the dazzling sheen Of meanings life can not decide: Then words set all awry, and you Are left upon the other side. Our senses, each a wooden horse, We paint till they appear to us T.ike life, and then s. ' when all is said, Just think o' them poor chaps tint's dead — Poor pals o' mine as 'ad to die — '/ hey took their chances , . . so do I ' < i, ely Fox Smith "7 THE BOOK OF 75 Billy's Yam "f\0 seen her off?" . . . vy " Me," says the tide, " I 'ad to, for why, there was no one beside ; For sailor-folks' women, they're busv" enough. Thont 'angin' round pier-'eds to see their chaps off. The gulls all about 'er they wrangled an' cried. An' I seen 'er off," says the Liverpool tide. " Oo waved 'er good-bye?" . . . " Me," says old Tuskar, " When the sun it went down an' the light is got dusker, ( With a sea gettin' up an' the wind blowin' keen) An' the smoke of 'er funnels could 'ardly be seen. An' the last of the sunset was red in the sky . . . With the first of mv flashes I waved 'er good-bye." ^ v " Oo seen 'er sink ?'"... " Me," says the sun, " At the top o' my climbin' I seen the thing done . . I seen 'er 'eave to, an' I seen 'er 'ull shiver, Settle, an' stumble, an' tremble, an' quiver, An' 'er stern it went up, an' 'or how it went down. An' the most of 'er people they just 'ad to drown. An' Fd never a cloud for to shut out the sight, So I seen 'er sink," says the sun in 'is might. " Oo seen the last of 'er? " . . . " Us," says the crew. All that was left out o' twenty-and-two, [i8 MODERN BRITISH VERSE " We seen the last of 'er — floatin' round On a bottom-up boat among dead uns and drowned — We seen 'er waterways runnin' with blood — We seen poor mates of ours shot where they stood — But them chaps as done it, I tell you now true, They ain't seen the last of us yet," says the crew, " Xo, you bet your sweet life," says what's left o" the crew. Cicely Fox Smith 76 •' Ships That Pass" An Episode of the Cruiser Patrol P^HERE are ships that pass in the night-time, some M- poet has told us how, But a ship that passed in the day-time is the one I'm thinking of now, Where the seas roll green from the Arctic and the wind comes keen from the Tole, Tween Rockall Bank and the Shetlands, up North on the long patrol sighted her one