War and Love By Richard Aldington IMAGES— OLD AND NEW WAR AND LOVE (1915-1918) BY RICHARD ALDINGTON Boston The Four Seas Company 1919 Copyright, ipip, by The Four Seas Company The Four Seas Press Boston, Mass., U. S. A. Cool FOREWORD To F. S. Flint : I would like to dedicate this little book to you since, among my friends, you will I think be most likely to understand, through similar experiences, the moods it attempts to express. Like "Images" this little book comes out of a con- flict, but whereas in the former the conflict was of the spirit here it is of the flesh. "Images" consisted of short-hand notes, as it were, to illustrate the moods of a spirit torn between the beauty one imagines and the ugliness that is thrust upon one. The conclusion — if any — that I wanted drawn was a kind of tolerance, an affection for "carnal wisdom" as well as for "divine wisdom." I don't think I succeeded; the matter was not interesting to most readers and the manner — more or less novel at the time — repelled many who might otherwise have been interested. Here I have written less for myself and you andl others who are interested in subtleties and more for the kind of men I lived with in camp and in the line. (That they did not understand very much is a matter for cheerful acceptance.) Perhaps I have lost some- thing by this ; but you must know that, in intention at least, this is a book by a common soldier for common soldiers. [S] FOREWORD Just now I spoke of conflict; I did not mean war in its universal or journalistic sense but in its innpinge- ment upon the individual. These notations of moods attempt to express that conflict between the delight of the flesh, which we call love or passion, and that agony of the flesh which is known only to the infantrymen of the line. Even you may feel that these notes on war are over- strained, morbidly self-conscious, petulant perhaps. That may be, but (taking into account all enthusiasms and devotions) I affirm that they represent to some de- gree the often inarticulate feelings of the ordinary civilized man thrust suddenly into these extraordinary and hellish circumstances — feelings of bewilderment, bitterness, dumb revolt and rather piteous weakness. Poor human flesh is so easily rent by the shattering of explosive and the jagged shear of metal. Those of us who have seen it will never be quite happy again. You may feel also an almost exaggerated passion or sensualism in the second part of the book. That may be, but it expresses the soldier's mood ; a reckless and disregard of rules for conduct, a yearning of the flesh, a wild grasping at life. I think I have told you that when I came back from France last year I was quite overwhelmed by the beauty there seemed to be in women's faces. Well, can you understand that after those endless days of mud and destruction and racked nerves the body is wrought up to such an intensity that the passion of love becomes almost unendurable in its piercing beauty? [6] FOREWORD After the war if we are both still alive — which seems highly improbable — we shall have much to talk of and this little book will be a sort of memoir of the last two years, rather poignant to me and a little pathetic in that it falls so short of what it attempts. The army is not an ideal environment for literature. Yours ever, ^ rcFARD Aldington February, nr' [7] A few of these poems have appeared before in books and periodicals, as follows : Some Intagist Poets, igij (Houghton Mifflin Co., & Constable) ; New Paths, (1918) C. W. Beaumont, London); Reverie, 1917, (Privately printed, Cleveland, Ohio) ; The Dial; The Seven Arts; The Egoist. CONTENTS PART I Page FOREWORD 5 PROEM 13 VICARIOUS ATONEMENT I4 LEAVE-TAKING 1 5 BONDAGE 16 A moment's INTERLUDE 18 DAWN 19 CAPTIVE 20 PRAYER . . 21 on the march 22 our hands 23 fatigues 24 the wine cup 25 sorcery of words 27 the lover 28 april lieder 29 genius loci 30 three little girls 3 1 living sepulchres 32 machine guns 33 picket i, ii 34 the faun complains 35 trench idyll 36 rattle-field 38 ''ivy and violet . . . " • • • 39 a ruined house 4o time's CHANGES 4I IN THE TRENCHES, I, II 4-2 A VILLAGE 44 BARRAGE 46 BOMBARDMENT 47 [9] CONTENTS Page A YOUNG TREE 48 DISDAIN 49 AN EARTH GODDESS 50 H. S. R 52 E. T 53 SOLILOQUY, I 54 SOLILOQUY, II 55 DAUGHTER OF ZEUS 56 DEFEAT 57 CIVILIANS 60 DOUBT 61 TERROR 63 APATHY 65 THE BLOOD OF THE YOUNG MEN 68 PART II PRELUDE 73 AN OLD SONG 74 SONG 75 SONG FOR HER 76 POSSESSION yy AN INTERLUDE 78 BEFORE PARTING 79 PRAYER 81 ''\ DO NOT EVEN SCORN . . . '' 83 ABSENCE 85 HER MOUTH 86 DAYBREAK 87 SLEEP 89 A soldier's song 90 NIGHTS OF LOVE 91 GAIN 92 POSTLUDE 93 EPILOGUE 94 rioi PART I JVar "They said that this mysteo-y never shall cease: The priest promotes war, and the soldier peace. Blake. PROEM Out of this turmoil and passion, This implacable contest, This vast sea of effort, I would gather something of repose, Some intuition of the inalterable gods, Some Attic gesture. Each day I grow more restless. See the austere shape elude me. Gaze impotently upon a thousand miseries And still am dumb. May, igi^ [13] VICARIOUS ATONEMENT This is an old and very cruel god . . . We will endure ; We will try not to wince When he crushes and rends us. If indeed it is for your sakes, If we perish or moan in torture, Or stagger under sordid burdens That you may live — Then we can endure. If our wasted blood Makes bright the page Of poets yet to be; If this our tortured life Save from destruction's nails Gold words of a Greek long dead; Then we can endure, Then hope, Then watch the sun rise Without utter bitterness. But, O thou old and very cruel god. Take, if thou canst, this bitter cup from us. 14] LEAVE-TAKING Will the world still live for you When I am gone? Will the straight garden poppy Still spout blood from its green throat Before your feet? Will the five cleft petals of the campion Still be rose-coloured, Like five murdered senses, for you? Will your trees still live, Thrust metallic bosses of leafage From the hill-side in the summer light ; Will the leaves sway and grow darker, Rustle, swirl in the gales; Decay into gold and orange, Crinkle and shrivel. And fall silently at last On to frosty grass? Will there be sun for you; The line of near hills Cut out in thin blue steel Against red haze? Will there be silence? Will not even the clean acrid sea Turn stale upon your lips? Will the world die for you As it dies for me? [15] BONDAGE I have been a spendthrift — Droppmg from lazy fingers Quiet coloured hours, Fluttering away from me Like oak and beech leaves in October. I have lived keenly and wastefuUy, Like a bush or a sun insect — Lived sensually and thoughtfully, Loving the flesh and the beauty of this world- Green ivy about ruined towers, The out-pouring of the grey sea, And the ecstasy Of a pale clear sky at sunset. I have been prodigal of love For critics and for lonely places; I have tried not to hate mankind ; I have gathered sensations Like ripe fruits in a rich orchard . . . All this is gone; There are no leaves, no sea, No shade of a rich orchard. Only a sterile, dusty waste, Empty and threatening. I long vainly for solitude And the lapse of silent hours; [16] I am frantic to throw off My heavy cloth and leather garments, To set free my feet and body ; And I am so far from beauty That a yellow daisy seems to clutch my heart With eager searching petals, And I am grateful even to humility For the taste of pure, clean bread. [17] A MOMENT'S INTERLUDE One night I wandered alone from my comrades' huts ; The grasshoppers chirped softly In the warm misty evening ; Bracken fronds beckoned from the darkness With exquisite frail green fingers; The tree gods muttered affectionately about me, And from the distance came the grumble of a kindly train. I was so happy to be alone, So full of love for the great speechless earth, That I could have laid my cheek in the wet grasses And caressed with my lips the hard sinewy body Of Earth, the cherishing mistress of bitter lovers. [i8] DAWN The grim dawn lightens thin bleak clouds; In the hill-clefts beyond the flooded meadows Lies death-pale, death-still mist. We trudge along wearily, Heavy with lack of sleep, Spiritless, yet with pretence of gaiety. The sun brings crimson to the colourless sky ; Light gleams from brass and steel — We trudge on wearily — O God, end this bleak anguish Soon, soon, with vivid crimson death, End it in mist- pale sleep ! [19] CAPTIVE They have torn the gold tettinx From my hair; And wrenched the bronze sandals From my ankles. They have taken from me my friend Who knew the holy wisdom of poets, Who had drunk at the feast Where Simonides sang. No more do I walk the calm gardens In the white mist of olives; No more do I take the rose-crown From the white hands of a maiden. I, who was free, am a slave; The Muses have forgotten me. The gods do not hear me. Here there are no flowers to love ; But afar off I dream that I see Bent poppies and the deathless asphodel. [20] PRAYER I am a garden of red tulips And late daffodils and bay-hedges, A small sunk garden About an oblong pool With three grey lead Dutch tanks — I am this garden shattered and blown With a day-long western gale And bursts of rapid rain. There are dank petals in the ruffled waters, And muddy flowers upon the path. The grass is covered with torn leaves. God of gardens, dear small god of gardens, Grant me faint glow of sunlight, A last bird hopping in the quiet haze, Then let the night swoop swiftly. Fold round and crush out life For ever. [21] ON THE MARCH Bright berries on the roadside, Clear among your dusty leaves, Red, mottled berries. You are as beautiful As the points of a girl's breasts ; You are as firm and fresh . . . Beauty of the morning sun Among the red berries Of early Setember, You tear at my breast. Your light crushes me With memory of freedom lost And warm hours blotted out. I will throw away rifle and leather belt. Straps, khaki and heavy nailed boots, And run naked across the dewy grass Among the firm red berries ! I will be free And sing of beauty and the women of Hellas, Of rent seas and the peace of olive gardens, Of these rough meadows. Of the keen welcome smell of London mud! I will be free . . . Party— HALT! [22] OUR HANDS I am grieved for our hands, our hands that have caressed roses and women's flesh, old lovely books and marbles of Carrara. I am grieved for our hands that were so reverent in beauty's service, so glad of beauty of tressed hair and silken robe and gentle fingers, so glad of beauty of bronze and wood and stone and rust- ling parchment. So glad, so reverent, so white. I am grieved for our hands . . . December, iqi6 [23] FATIGUES The weariness of this dirt and labour, of this dirty, melting sky ! For hours we have carried great bundles of hay from barge to truck, and from truck to train. The weariness of this dirt and labour! But — look! Last June those heavy dried bales waved and glit- tered in the fields of England ! Cinque- foil and clover, buttercups, fennel, thistle and rue — daisy and ragged robin, wild rose from the hedge, shepherd's purse and long sweet nodding stalks of grass ! Heart of me, heart of me, be not sick and faint though fingers and arms and head ache; you bear the gift of the glittering meadows of England. Here are bundles from Somerset, from Wales, from Hereford, Worcester, Gloucester — names we must love, scented with summer peace. Handle them bravely, meadow-sweet, sorrel, lush, flag and arid knap-weed, flowers of marsh and cliff, handle them bravely! Dear crushed flowers ! And you, yet fragrant grasses, I stoop and kiss you furtively. Dear gentle perished sisters, speak, whisper once more, tell me next June again you will dance and whisper in the wind. [24] THE WINE-CUP Life was to us an amphora of wine Pressed from full grapes Upon the warm slopes of the Cyclades — Wine that brings light Into the gloomiest eyes of man, Wine, cooled and mingled for the eager lip. We had but gazed upon the amphora, Touching the figures painted on its flanks- Achilles reining in his four great horses Or Maenads dancing to a Faun's pipe. We had but sipped the wine, Watching its changing hue — Deep purple in the shadowy amphora But crimson where the light Pierces the crystal cup. And if we thought: "True, the cup soon is emptied. The amphora rings hollow And our veins lack warmth and life" — It did but give a gentle melancholy Making our present joy more keen and clear. But now Cold, terrible, unseen hands Have dragged the cup from us ; [25] We are distracted As a poor goatherd of the Thracian hills Robbed of his flock and sun-tanned wife By Scythian robbers, Hurrying in anguish to the unfriendly town As we to death. [26] SORCERY OF WORDS "The poetry of winter" — these words, remembered from some aesthetic essay, return and return to my memory with an ironic persistence. It happened yesterday when the ground was sheeted in frost. The sky rose upon the pale green coverlet of dawn, bare trees silhouetted, frozen pools of water. "The poetry of winter" — yes, that was poetry, the breath of the gods — light glowing and changing, the motionless trees, clear air. Yes, one can be hungry, sore, unshaven, dirty, eyes and head aching, limbs shivering, and yet love beauty. From the depths I cry it, from the depths which echo with the ironic phrase "the poetry of winter," from the depths I cry it ! You, who are clean and warm in the delicate leisure of a flower-scented library, strain your hearing, listen across the clamour of the age, for a whisper that comes to you so faintly, so ironically — "the poetry of winter !" [27] THE LOVER Though I have had friends And a beautiful love There is yet one lover I await above all. She will not come to me In the time of soft plum-blossoms When the air is gay with birds singing And the sky is a delicate caress; She will come From the midst of vast clamour With a mist of stars about her And great beckoning plumes of white smoke Upon her leaping horses. And she will bend suddenly and clasp me ; She will clutch me with fierce arms And stab me with a kiss like a wound That bleeds slowly. But though she will hurt me at first In her strong gladness She will soon soothe me gently And cast upon me an unbreakable sleep Softly for ever. [28] APRIL LIEDER I When I rose up this morning In a ruined town in France, I heard the sparrows twitter In gardens bare and grey And watched the sunbeams dance. O glad young April day! II When I lie down this evening In a damp cellar of France I'll hear the big guns booming By bare and blasted lanes, And watch the shrapnel dance. wild sad April rains! [29] GENIUS LOCI This place is evil Some bitter god dwells here. For when I think here of my love's face It is not tranquil, Nor eager, nor passionate, Nor flushed with desire, Nor rejoicing in beauty, But pale in anger against me With determined eyes Thwarting my will And thrusting upon me langour, Life- weariness. Surely, surely, I know There is evil in this place. [30] THREE LITTLE GIRLS (For My Sisters) Marianne, Madeline, Alys, Three little girls I used to see Two months ago, Three little girls with fathers killed And mothers lost, Three little girls with broken shoes And hard, sharp coughs. Three little girls who sold us sweets Too near the shells. Three little girls with names of saints And angels' eyes. Three little girls where are you now? Marianne, Madeline, Alys. [31] LIVING SEPULCHRES One frosty night when the guns were still I leaned against the trench Making for myself hokku Of the moon and flowers and of the snow But the ghostly scurrying of huge rats Swollen with feeding upon men's flesh Filled me with shrinking dread. [32] MACHINE GUNS Gold flashes in the dark, And on the road Each side, behind, in front of us, Gold sparks Where the fierce bullets strike the stones. In a near shell-hole lies a wounded man. The stretcher-bearers bending over him ; And at our feet Cower shrinkingly against the ground Dark shadowy forms of men. Only we two stand upright ; All differences of life and character smoothed out And nothing left Save that one foolish tie of caste That will not let us shrink. [33] PICKET I First Watch: Night The stars which night by night of late Were plain to all men's eyes Are veiled in cloud, As my clear happy mind In this brief solitude. II Last Watch: Dawn Dusk and deep silence . . . Three soldiers huddled on a bench Over a red-hot brazier, And a fourth one stands apart Watching the cold rainy dawn. Then the familiar sound of birds — Clear cock-crow, caw of rooks. Frail pipe of linnet, the "ting! ting!" of chaffinches, And over all the lark Outpiercing even the robin . . . Wearily the sentry moves Muttering the one word: "Peace." [34] THE FAUN COMPLAINS They give me aeroplanes Instead of birds and moths ; Instead of sunny fields They give me mud-holes ; And for my day-long, night-long sacred hush, (Flutter of leaves, bee-murmurs in the flowers, Ripe seeded grass just stirring into music) A hush wherein one seemed to hear The invisible wheels of burning stars Echoing upon the tiled paths of heaven — For this they give me noise, Harsh clangours of breaking metal, Abrupt huge bursts of flame. And for my woodland playmates. Dryads, yellow subtle fauns, Naked wanton hamadryads, And stealthy water-girls Who stole my honey and fruits When I lay sleeping by their pools — For these they give me men, Odd, loud-voiced, fearsome men, Who mock my little horns and pointed ears! [35] TRENCH IDYLL We sat together in the trench, He on a lump of frozen earth Blown in the night before, I on an unexploded shell; And smoked and talked, like exiles, Of how pleasant London was. Its women, restaurants, night clubs, theatres. How at that very hour The taxi-cabs were taking folk to dine . . . Then we sat silent for a while As a machine-gun swept the parapet. He said : "I've been here on and off two years And seen only one man killed." "That's odd." "The bullet hit him in the throat; He fell in a heap on the fire-step. And called out: 'My God! dead!'" "Good Lord, how terrible !" "Well, as to that, the nastiest job I've had Was last year on this very front Taking the discs at night from men Who'd hung for six months on the wire Just over there. [36] The worst of all was They fell to pieces at a touch. Thank God we couldn't see their faces ; They had gas helmets on . . ." I shivered ; "It's rather cold here, sir; suppose we move?" [37] BATTLE-FIELD The wind is piercing chill And blows fine grains of snow Over this shell-rent ground ; Every house in sight Is smashed and desolate. But in this fruitless land, Thorny with wire And foul with rotting clothes and sacks The crosses flourish — Ci-git, ci-git, ci-git . . . "Ci-git I soldat Allemana, Pries pour lui." [38] "IVY AND VIOLET, WHAT DO YE HERE. . . ?' Sometimes in bitter mood I mock myself : "Half ape, half ass, servant and slave. Where are your dreams gone now, Where your fierce pride? Whither goes your youth? And how will you dare touch again Dear slender women with those disfigured hands? Or bare your long dishonoured body To the contemptuous sun? How live after this shame?" And all my answer: "So that hate poison not my days, And I still love the earth, Flowers and all living things, And my song still be keen and clear, I can endure." [39] A RUINED HOUSE Those who lived here are gone Or dead or desolate with grief ; Of all their Hfe here Nothing remains Except their trampled, dirtied clothes Among the dusty bricks, Their marriage bed, rusty and bent. Thrown down aside as useless; And a broken toy left by their child . . [40] TIME'S CHANGES Four years ago to-day in Italy I gathered wild flowers for a girl — Thick scented broom, wild sword-flowers, The red anemones that line the ways And the frail-throated freezia Which lives beneath the orange boughs And whose faint scent to me Is love's own breath, its kiss . . , To-day in sunless, barren fields I gather heads of shells, Splinters of shrapnel, cartridges . . . What shall I gather Four years from to-day ? [41] IN THE TRENCHES Not that we are weary, Not that we fear, Not that we are lonely Though never alone — Not these, not these destroy us ; But that each rush and crash Of mortar and shell, Each cruel bitter shriek of bullet That tears the wind like a blade. Each wound on the breast of earth. Of Demeter, our Mother, Wounds us also. Severs and rends the fine fabric Of the wings of our frail souls. Scatters into dust the bright wings Of Psyche ! II Impotent, How impotent is all this clamour, This destruction and contest . . . Night after night comes the moon Haughty and perfect; Night after night the Pleiades sing And Orion swings his belt across the sky. Night after night the frost Crumbles the hard earth. [42] Soon the spring will drop flowers And patient, creeping stalk and leaf Along these barren lines Where the huge rats scuttle And the hawk shrieks to the carrion crow. Can you stay them with your noise? Then kill winter with your cannon, Hold back Orion with your bayonets And crush the spring leaf with your armies ! [43] A VILLAGE I Now if you saw my village You'd not think it beautiful, But flat and commonplace — As I'd have called it half a year ago . . . II But when you've pondered Hour upon chilly hour in those damned trenches You get at the significance of things, Get to know, clearer than before, What a tree means, what a pool, Or a black, wet field in sunlight. One gets to know, In that shell-pierced silence Under the unmoved, ironic stars. How good love of the earth is. So I go strolling, Hands deep in pockets, head aslant, And eyes screwed up against the light. Just loving things Like any other lunatic or lover. Ill For there's so much to love, So much to see and understand, So much naivete, whimsicality. Even in a dull village like this. [44] Pigeons and fowls about a pointed haystack ; The red-tiled barns we sleep in ; The profile of the distant town Misty against the leaden-silver sky; Two ragged willows and a fallen elm With an end of broken wall Glimmering through evening mist — All worthy Rembrandt's hand, Rembrandt who loved homely things . . . Then there's the rain pool where we wash, Skimming the film-ice with our tingling hands; The elm- fringed dykes and solemn placid fields Flat as a slate and blacker. There's the church — The poorest ever built I think — With all its painted plaster saints Straight from the rue St. Sulpice, Its dreadful painted windows, And Renaissance "St. Jacques le Majeur" Over the porch . . . IV To-day the larks are up, The willow boughs are red with sap, The last ice melting on the dykes ; One side there stands a row of poplars, Slender amazons, martial and tall, And on the other The sunlight makes the red-tiled roofs deep orange [45] BARRAGE Thunder, The gallop of innumerable Walkyrie impetuous for battle, The beating of vast eagle wings above Prometheus, The contest of tall barbaric gods smitten by the ham- mer of Thor, Pursuit ! Pursuit ! Pursuit ! The huge black dogs of hell Leaping, full-mouthed, in murderous pursuit! [46] BOMBARDMENT Four days the earth was rent and torn By bursting steel, The houses fell about us ; Three nights we dared not sleep. Sweating, and listening for the imminent crash Which meant our death. The fourth night every man, Nerve-tortured, racked to exhaustion. Slept, muttering and twitching. While the shells crashed overhead. The fifth day there came a hush ; We left our holes And looked above the wreckage of the earth To where the white clouds moved in silent lines Across the untroubled blue. [47] A YOUNG TREE (for j. w.) There are so few trees here, so few young trees, That Fate might have been merciful And turned aside the shock of flame That strewed your branches on the torn-up earth, Ending the joy we had in your fresh leaves. And every dear young lad that's killed Seems to cry out: "We are so few, so very few, Could not our fate have been more merciful?" [48] DISDAIN Have the gods then left us in our need Like base and common men? Were even the sweet grey eyes Of Artemis a lie, The speech of Hermes but a trick, The glory of Apollonian hair deceit? Desolate we move across a desolate land. The high gates closed. No answer to our prayer ; Naught left save our integrity. No murmur against Fate Save that we are juster than the unjust gods. More pitiful than they. April, 19 ij. 149] AN EARTH GODDESS After the Advance, i^ij You are not the august Mother Nor even one of her comely daughters, But you gave shelter to men, Hid birds and little beasts within your hands And twined flowers in your hair. Sister, you have been sick of a long fever, You have been torn with throes Fiercer than childbirth and yet barren; You are plague-marked ; There are no flowers in your hair. I have seen your anguish, O Sister, I have seen your wounds. But now there is come upon you peace, A peace unbroken, profound. Such as came upon the mother of King Eteocles When both her sons were dead. For in your agony. Sister, When men bruised and ravished you. You remembered the wide kindness of our mother And gave shelter to each of them that rent you, Shielded them from death with your delicate body. And received their clotted corpses into your once pure breast. And now since you have endured. Since for all your wrong and bitter pain [so] There came no hatred upon you But only pity and anguish Such as the mother of King Eteocles felt Gazing upon her two angry sons — Because of this, your peace is wonderful. Underfoot are a few scant grasses Amid rusty ruin; Overhead the last of your larks Cries shrilly before the broken clouds ; And for your sake, O my Sister, O daughter of our great Earth-Mother, Because of your old pain And long-suffering and sweetness, Because of the new peace Which lies so deep upon you, The chains of my bitterness are broken, The weight of my despair leaves me. (SI] H. S. R. (Died of wounds, April, ipiy) You are dead — You, the kindly, courteous, You whom we loved, You who harmed no man Yet were brave to death And died that other men might live. Far purer, braver lips than mine should praise you, Far nobler hands than mine record your loss, Yet since your courteous high valour scorned no man, I, who but loved you from the depths, can greet you, Salute your grave and murmur, ** Brother, Hail and farewell ! You are dead." [52] E. T. (Died of wounds, May, ipi^) You too are dead, The coarse and ignorant, Carping against all that was too high For your poor spirit to grasp, Cruel and evil-tongued — Yet you died without a moan or whimper. O, not I, not I should dare to judge you! But rather leave with tears your grave Where the sweet grass will cover all your faults And all your courage too. Brother, hail and farewell! [531 SOLILOQUY—I No, Vm not afraid of death, (Not very much afraid, that is) Either for others or myself ; Can watch them coming from the Hne On the wheeled silent stretchers And not shrink, But munch my sandwich stoically And make a joke, when "it" has passed. But — the way they wobble! — God ! that makes one sick. Dead men should be so still, austere, And beautiful, Not wobbling carrion roped upon a cart . Well, thank God for rum. [54] SOLILOQUY— II I was wrong, quite wrong; The dead men are not always carrion. After the advance, As we went through the shattered trenches Which the enemy had left. We found, lying upon the fire-step, A dead English soldier. His head bloodily bandaged And his closed left hand touching the earth, More beautiful than one can tell, More subtly coloured than a perfect Goya, And more austere and lovely in repose Than Angelo's hand could ever carve in stone. [55] DAUGHTER OF ZEUS (For J. C.) "Tuerons la lune." — ^Maxinetti. No! We will not slay the moon, For she is the fairest of the daughters of Zeus, Of the maidens of Olympus. And though she be pale and yet more pale Gazing upon dead men And fierce disastrous strife, Yet for us she is still a frail lily Floating upon a calm pool — Still a tall lady Comforting our human despair. [S6] DEFEAT Though our hearts were mad and strong With love for you, Though we fought for you, Though our remnant struggled And not one was false, We are beaten. Beauty, for your sake we are lost. For you we are crushed. Scorn and bitterness are cast at us. And fools who hate you Are preferred to us. Treacherous wonderful lady, Despoina ! Basilea ! Potnia ! You have betrayed us — Yet, hurt and overwhelmed and in despair We can but turn to you again And sing our love for you. White goddess of beauty. Take these roses — It is our blood that colours them ; Take these lilies — White as our intense hearts ; Take these wind-flowers — Frail as our strength spent in your service; Take these hyacinths — Graven with the sigh of our lost days; Take these narcissus blooms Lovely as your naked breasts. [S7l White goddess of beauty, Though the stars rose against you And the steeds of the day Were arrayed against you, Though the might of the sea And the menace of night Were against you, We would be with you And worship you. Ah, goddess! Lovely, implacable, What wine shall we bring. What cup for your lips ? Blood, blood of our hearts for a drink. Our lives for a cup. White grape and red grape and pale Dim scarlet of weaned mouths. Flowers and the music of trees, Hills golden with sun And the sea, still and blue and divine — These are yours But not ours. We are scorned for your sake. We are broken, Ah, Goddess ! You turn from our pain ! And once we begged of you death, Death, quiet and smiling. Death cold as the wind of the sea. Now, love has lighted our hearts. Now, though we are beaten and crushed, Grant us Ufe. [58] Grant us life to suffer for you, To feed your delicate lips With the strength of our blood, To crown you with flowers of our pain And hail you with cries of our woe, Yet sweet and divine. Grant us life! If we die there is none upon earth To feed the fierce pride of your heart ; There is none so fine and so keen, Th^re is none to sing at your feast. Grant us life, And gold lyre and box-wood pipe Shall sound from hill-top and shore, From the depth of the city street, From under the horror of battle, Faint as we faint in despair, Yet clear in your praise. We dream of white crags. Skies changing and swift. Of rain upon earth. Of flowers soft as your fingers And bright as your garments of love. We have none of these things ; Only strife and despair and pain. Lands hideous and days disfigured, A grey sea and a muddy shore. But for you we forget all this, We forget our defeat. All, all, for your sake. [59] CIVILIANS Why should you try to crush me ? Am I so Qirist-Hke? You beat against me, Immense waves, filthy with refuse. I am the last upright of a smashed break- water But you shall not crush me Though you bury me in foaming slime And hiss your hatred about me. You break over me, cover me ; I shudder at the contact; Yet I pierce through you And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken. But whole and fierce. [60] DOUBT Can we, by any strength of ours, Thrust back this hostile world That tears us from ourselves, As a child from the womb, A weak lover from light breasts? Is there any hope? Can we believe That not in wild perversity, In blinding cruelty, Has flesh torn flesh, Has soul been torn from soul? Must we despair? Throw back upon the gods this taunt That even their loveliest is at best Some ineffectual lie? II Sand in the gale whirls up, Pricks and stifles our flesh, Blinds and deafens our sense So that we cannot hear The crumbling downfall of the waves Nor see the limpid sunlight any more. But could we thrust from us This threat, this misery, [6i] Borrow the mountain's strength As now its loneliness, Hurl back this menace on itself, Crush bronze with bronze — Why, it would be as if some tall slim god. Unburdened of his age-long apathy. Took in his hand the thin horn of the moon And set it to his lips And blew sharp wild shrill notes Such as our hearts, our lonely hearts, Have yearned for in the dumb bleak silences. Ill Ah ! Weak as wax against their bronze are we, Ah ! Faint as reed-pipes by the water's roar. And driven as land-birds by the vast sea wind. [62 TERROR Those of the earth envy us, Envy our beauty and frail strength ; Those of the w^ind and the moon Envy our pain. II For as a doe that has never born child We were swift to fly from terror; And as fragile edged steel We turned, we pierced, we endured. Ill We have known terror : The terror of the wind and silent shadows. The terror of great heights, The terror of the worm, The terror of thunder and fire. The terror of water and slime, The terror of horror and fear, The terror of desire and pain — The terror of apathy. IV As a beast, as an arrow of pine, Terror cleft us, Tore us in envy away. So that for month upon month Pain wore us, hope left us, despair clutched us. [63] For they of the earth envied us, Envied our beauty and strength. Yet because, though we faltered and wept. We held fast, clung close to our love, Scorned hate even as they scorned us, Some god has lightened our lives, Given back the cool mouth of song And the hands that blossom of fire, Given too the month crushed like a flower Which unpetals in marvellous ways. The limbs that are hard and straight With maidenly thews and blood. Given these so that day is aflame And night shot golden with shafts. VI We have suffered, we have bled, And those of the wind and the moon Envy our pain, the pain of the terror, The delight no terror could slay. [64] APATHY Come down the road and do not speak. You cannot know how strange it is To walk upon a grey firm road again, To feel the noiseless waves of air break on one's flesh. You do not speak, you do not look at me ; Just walk in silence on the grey firm road Guessing my mood by instinct, not by thought — For there is no weapon of tongue or glance So keen that it can stir my apathy, Can stab that bitterness to hope, Can pierce the humour to despair. Silence fits the mood then — silence and you. The trees beside the road — can you interpret These fragments of leaf-music. Here a phrase, here a sort of melody That dies to silence or is broken By a full rustling that is discord? Can you interpret such a simple thing? Can I interpret this blank apathy, This humourous bitterness? Lean on the bridge now — do not speak — And watch the coloured water slipping past, While I struggle with myself. Confront half-impulses, half-desires, Grapple with lustreless definitions, [65] Grin at my inarticulate impotence And so fall back on — apathy ! The bridge has three curved spans, Is made of weathered stones, And rests upon two diamond-pointed piers — Is picturesque. (I have not lost all touch and taste for life, See beauty just as keenly, relish things.) The water here is black and specked with white ; Under that tree the shallows grow to brown. Light amber where the sunlight straggles through — But yet, what colour is it if you watch the reeds Or if you only see the trees' reflection? Flat on the surface rest the lily leaves (Some curled up inwards, though, like boats) And yellow heads thrust up on fine green throats. Two — three — a dozen — watch now — demoiselle flies Flicker and flutter and dip and rest Their beryl-green or blue, dark Prussian blue, frail wings On spits and threads of water-plant. Notice all carefully, be precise, welcome the world. Do I miss these things? Overlook beauty? Not even the shadow of a bird Passing across that white reflected dloud. And yet there's always something else^- The way one corpse held its stiff yellow fingers And pointed, pointed to the huge dark hole Gouged between ear and jaw right to the skull . . . [66] Did I startle you ? What was the matter ? Just a joke they told me yesterday, Really, really, not for ladies' ears. Forgive me ; Fll not laugh so suddenly again. [67] THE BLOOD OF THE YOUNG MEN I Give us back the close veil of the senses, Let us not see, ah, hide from us The red blood splashed upon the walls, The good red blood, the young, the lovely blood Trampled unseeingly by passing feet, Feet of the old men, feet of the cold cruel women. Feet of the careless children, endlessly passing . . . II Day has become an agony, night alone now. That leisurely shadow, hides the blood-stains, The horrible stains and clots of day-time. Ill All the garments of all the people. All the wheels of all the traffic, All the cold indifferent faces, All the fronts of the houses. All the stones of the street — Ghastly! Horribly smeared with blood-stains. IV The horror of it ! When a woman holds out a white hand Suddenly to know it drips black putrid blood ; When an old man sits, serene and healthy. In clean white linen, with clean white hair, [68] Suddenly to know the linen foully spotted, To see the white hair streaked with dripping blood. V O these pools and ponds of blood, Slowly dripped in, slowly brimming lakes, Blood of the young men, blood of their bodies. Squeezed and crushed out to purple the garments of Dives, Poured out to colour the lips of Magdalen, Magdalen w^ho loves not, w^hose sins are loveless. O this steady drain of the w^eary bodies, This beating of hearts growing dimmer and dimmer, This bitter indifference of the old men, This exquisite indifference of women. VI Old men, you will grow stronger and healthier With broad red cheeks and clear hard eyes — Is not your meat and drink the choicest? Blood of the young, dear flesh of the young men? VII Ah, you women, cruel exquisite women, What a love-fountain is poured out for you, What coloured streams for your pleasure ! Go your ways, pass on, forget them ; Give your lips and breasts to the old men, The kindly, impetuous, glowing, old men! They who will love you indeed, indeed, dears, [69] Not as we do, drained of our blood, with weeping. Sell yourselves, oh, give yourselves to the cripples, Give yourselves to the weak, the poor forgotten, Give yourselves to those who escape the torture And buy their blood from the pools with weight of gold. Give yourselves to them, pass on, forget us ; We, any few that are left, a remnant. Sit alone together in cold and darkness, Dare not face the light for fear we discover The dread woe, the agony in our faces, Sit alone without sound in bitter dreaming Of our friends, our dear brothers, the young men, Who were mangled and abolished, squeezed dry of blood, Emptied and cast aside that the lakes might widen. That the lips of the women might be sweet to the old men. VIII Go your ways, you women, pass and forget us. We are sick of blood, of the taste and sight of it; Go now to those who bleed not and to the old men. They will give you beautiful love in answer ! But we, we are alone, we are desolate, Thinning the blood of our brothers with weeping, Crying for our brothers, the men we fought w^ith, Cr}dng out, mourning them, alone with our dead ones ; Praying that our eyes may be blinded Lest we go mad in a world of scarlet. Dripping, oozing from the veins of our brothers. January, igrS. [70] PART II Love 'Amor si dolce mi sa fa sentire Che, s'io allora non perdessi ardire, Farei, parlando, innamorar la gente," Dante. 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. [73] AN OLD SONG I have no lust nor care To sing of Mary, I praise the quaint sweet air Of a mortal lady. She is not clothed in sad Raiment like Maiy But in cloth and silk that is glad And full seemly. Her eyes are not tear-rimmed Like those of Mary, Only with love are they dimmed When she kisses me. By God, though she be God's mother, I care not for Mary, Only to serve this other That is so dear to me. Therefore, sweet friends, I know, By the splendour of Mary, Into uttermost hell shall I go For sweet sin with this lady. [74] SONG "Lady, let me woo you with song. Words choicely got, With strains intense and long." She smiled and answered not. "Lady, let me sing your praises All through the day, Hymn you with lovely praises." She smiled and turned away. Then I came and caught her hand. Saying without fear : "You are mine — do you understand?" She smiled : "How I love you, dear !" [75] SONG FOR HER Why should love be dumb and go Hidden in a shroud of lies? Why should lovers fear to tell What they see in women's eyes? What it is all lovers know And the world should know as well. Is a woman's heart of ice? Is a woman's sex of snow? I've a mistress and I see Warm desire that moves me so I would give the whole world thrice To express it worthily. Every night that we can steal Close, as lovers do, we lie. And the wanton things we do And the amorous pangs we feel Told, would make the hard world cry, "Teach us how to love like you !" Yet if you would love aright You must love, like us, with all Sense and spirit, flesh and breath ; Then indeed it may befall That you burn w^ith our clear light — Light that only fades with death. [76] POSSESSION I have held you with joy and passion, With ecstasy sharp like pain — Blind with your kisses, dumb with desire, Shuddering at the fierce bliss of your touch. Thus I have loved you, thus held you mine; But I must hold you in grief and anguish. In the long agony of childbirth ; I must hold you by shame, I must hold you by despair, I must hold you by sin, I must hold you in death. I must possess you utterly And utterly must you possess me ; So even if that dreamer's tale Of heaven and hell be true There shall be two spirits rived together Either in whatever peace be heaven Or in the icy whirlwind that is hell For those who loved each other more than God, So that the other spirits shall cry out : "Ahi ! Look how the ancient love yet holds to them That these two ghosts are never driven apart But kiss with shadowy kisses and still take Joy from the mingling of their misty limbs !" [77] AN INTERLUDE There is a momentar}^ pause in love When all the birth-pangs of desire are lulled By poppied kisses, when not yet begins The light strong life of love that lives indeed Through many dappled days of good Spring weather, A pause when all the senses are bound up Like flowers to form a garland, which her hand Will scatter for delight upon her bed. One waits, And glides upon the crested surge of days Like some sea-god, with tangled dripping beard And smooth hard skin, who glimpses from the sea An earth-girl naked by the soft foam fringe, And, utterly forgetting all his life. Flings toward the shore, is caught up by a wave And hurried toward her, glad with sudden love ! Even in that pause of speed I live; And though the great wave curl in spikes of foam And crash me bleeding at her cool small feet All breathless with the waters' sudden swirl, I shall be glad of every stabbing wound If she will hold my tired limbs to hers And breathe wild love into my mouth and thrill Even the blood I shed with that desire Which throbs all through me at her lightest touch. [78] BEFORE PARTING Love, though the whole earth crumble and rock, With the shattering roar of the guns' huge booming, Though in that horror of din and flame and murder All men's blood grows faint and their limbs as water, Though I return once more to the terror of battle. Though perchance I be lost to you for ever — Give me, O love, your love for this last brief season, Be mine indeed as I am yours for ever. To-night there shall be no tears, no wearing sorrow. No drawn-out agony of hope, no cold despairing. Only we two together in a sudden glory Of infinite delight and sharp sweet yearning. Shutting out for a space the world's harsh horror. Kiss my lips with your mouth that is wet with wine, Wine that is only less keen than your lips are, Slip from your fragile garments as a white rose Slips from under her leaves to the naked sunlight ; Give to my eyes your straight young body. The limbs that embrace me, the breasts that caress me, Hold me to you as I hold you and kiss me. Whisper to me the sudden words of yearning, The broken words that speak an infinite yearning That delight would last for ever, love never be ended. Let me take you with all my senses, all my days, dear, All the days that built up my flesh and framed me A man to be your lover, a man to mate you, A man whose flesh is white with desire for you. [79] Take me also, make me yours, as a woman Who knows love's torture, who is burned with the same burning. Only can take the lover herself has chosen Until his broken sobs mix with her love-plaint. Take me thus and I care not if death come after. For to-night there shall be no tears, no wearing sorrow, Only our kisses and whispers and stabbing heart-beats. [80] PRAYER Lord and father of life, Of death and of bitter weeping, One or many, pitiful or cruel, Hear me, my prayer beating Like rain importunately, without intermission, For life, for a little life. Lord, you know not her or love If you let death take me. I will speak outright: No God, no nation, no cause. No life of any man, no person, Nothing created or living Do I love as I love her. I do not ask you for her — No god can take her from me. Take her kisses and lithe body. I ask life, a few years To pour out for her. Until she tires of me Or age loosens my sinews And I be no more delightful to her. Her body is honey and wheat. The taste of her mouth delicate ; Her eyes overcome me with desire, Her lips are a woman's. Under her feet I spread my days As soft silk for her walking, [8i] She touches me with her hands And I am faint with beauty. The embraces of her body are wonderful, They are more to me than wisdom and honours. Therefore I am not wilHng to die Since she needs me. For her sake I would betray my comrades, I would rend the vesture of the most high! Yet if you are so avid of blood That even she cannot move you, . Poor God without a lover, Slay us together, mouth to mouth and happy And we will thank not curse vou. [82: I do not even scorn your lovers — They clasped an image of you, a cloud. Not the whole life of you that's mine. II I do not even pity my mistresses — Such a poor shadow of desire Their half-warm passion drew from me. Ill You are a delicate Arab mare For whom there is but one rider; I am a sea that takes joyfully Only one straight ship upon my breast. IV Look, like a dark princess whose beauty Many have sung, you wear me The one jewel that is warmed by your breast. V See, as a soldier weary of fighting Turns for peace to some golden city, So do I enter you, beloved. VI The scarlet that stains your lips and breast-points- Let it be my blood that dyes them, My very blood so gladly yielded. [83] VII Let it be your flesh and only your flesh That fashions for me a child Whose beauty only shall be less than yours ! VIII Everlasting as the sea round the islands I cry at your door for love, more love, Everlasting as the roll of the sea My blood beats always for you, for you, Everlasting as the unchangeable sea I cry the infinite for space to love you ! IX Earth of the earth, body of the earth, Flesh of our mother, life of all things, A flower, a bird, a rock, a tree. Thus I love you, sister and lover ; Would that we had one mother indeed That we might be bound closer by shame. [84] ABSENCE Day after day fades from me, Each one cold and wan Because you are not near me. Night after night drifts past. Cheerless, indifferent, Because you are not with me, Because I have not your lips to burn me Awake to a great rapture. Because you are not gripping me close to you, Because your eyes are not looking into mine With the keen entreaty of desire, Because the loveliness of your flesh is denied me, Because each night I lie alone. I am fierce, indignant, humiliated— To be chained away from you When I desire you above all things. Half I possess you, half hold you, half keep you ; But would all of you satisfy my desire? I am insatiate, desperate — Death, if need be, or you near me. Loving me, beautifully piercing me to life. But not this, not this bitterness, this grief, This long torture of absence. [85] HER MOUTH I Her mouth is a crushed flower That unpetals marvellously Beneath my lips. II The perfume of her flesh stays with me, Dwells in my mouth and nostrils After she has gone, So that no flavour of wine or flower Can conquer it. Ill The crimson that dyes her lips Dyed mine, so close were our kisses ; All day I felt its soft caress Making smooth my lips. IV She has but to turn her head And lay her lips to mine For all my blood to throb tumultuously : She is so shudderingly beautiful. When I am bitter sad With the emptiness of harsh days The memory of her kissing mouth Bums me to gladness. [86] DAYBREAK The naked pale limbs of the dawn lie sheathed in dove- white folds of lawn But from one scarlet breast I see the cloudy cover slowly drawn. Not all the blood of all our dead, the bright gay blood so gaily shed, Shines with so clear a glow as gleams your breast- flower peering from our bed. All night your body lies and throbs, with cries of love and amorous sobs, Close to my blood-flushed limbs till dawn with gleam- ing fingers comes and robs Our bright bed of your limbs and hair, and I can only lie and stare And moan in weakness for my loss and crush my brow in sharp despair. Ah, bend above me, dear, and take my life breath with your lips and break My body up as wheaten bread and use my very blood to slake Your parching sudden thirst of lust! Be cruel, love, be fierce and thrust Your white teeth in my fle^h and taste how honey- sweet is amorous dust! [87] Ah ! slay me with your lips, ah ! kill my body's strength and spirit's will, So that at dawn I need not go but lie between your breast-flowers still. [88] SLEEP If but to sleep alone be fair As poets say, How piercing sweet to lie all night Until the day With all her flower-like body pressed Close unto mine, To feel her moving heart, to taste Her breath like wine. To hold her pointed, smooth, soft breast In one firm hand And let the other lie at rest In love's own land. Ah, it were good to cease and die So sweet a way. Never to waken from her bed To the chill day. But sleep forever in a dream, Head beside head, Warm in a golden swoon of love — Divinely dead. [89] A SOLDIER'S SONG How sadly for how many nights My dear will lie alone, Or lie in other arms than mine While I lie like a stone. If she remembers me or weeps For her lost happiness, Though dead, I shall be pierced at heart For her great loneliness. If she forgets me, if she gives Her lips and limbs to new desire, Though dead, I shall be pierced at heart, Burned stark by a sharp fire. I would not have her pine and weep, Nor would I have her love again — Whatever comes after I die There will be only pain and pain. I dare not ask for life, I dare Only to ask for utter death So that I may not know she breathes Life from another's amorous breath. [90] NIGHTS OF LOVE O the nights of love, The nights of close long kisses, Of the passionate clasping of two bodies So delighted with poignant touch; O the nights of warm adoration, Of the meeting of breasts and hands, Of the joining of flesh with flesh; O the nights when the world was abolished, When the city outside was forgotten When the moon seemed not to shine And nothing endured but our love ; O the nights of peace after love, Of sleep with her head on my arm. Of our breathing mingled as one ; O the nights that were day too soon. When we hated the Hght of the sun That severed our amorous flesh ; O the nights when we needed no God, When we needed no helper, no friend, When we needed no good upon earth ; O nights I shall never forget. You will sweeten the harshness of death. You will thrill the last beat of my heart. You will sooth my last moan into praise. [91 GAIN Let not the jesting bitter gods Who sit so goldenly aloof from us Mock us too deeply, Let them not boast they hold alone The reins of pleasure, the delight of lust — We also, we that are but air and dust Moistening that dust a little with old wine And kindling that air with fire and love Have burned an hour or two with blossoming pangs, And, leaning on soft breasts made keen with love And murmuring fierce words of rending bliss, Have gathered turn by turn unto our lips The twin wild roses of delight. The quickflower-flames that sear into the soul Sharp wounds of pleasure and extreme desire. [92] POSTLUDE Have I spoken too much or not enough of love? Who can tell ? But we who do not drug ourselves with lies Know, with how deep a pathos, that we have Only the warmth and beauty of this world Before the blankness of the unending gloom. Here for a little while we see the sun And smell the grape-vines on the terraced hills, And sing and weep, fight, starve and feast, and love Lips and soft breasts too sweet for innocence. And in this little glow of mortal life — Faint as one candle in a large cold room — We know the clearest light is fed by love, That when we kiss with life-blood in our lips Then we are nearest to the dreamed-of gods. [93] EPILOGUE Back we go to the shell-tossed land, To the whine of the shells that tears one's nerves And the crash that's only not near enough; Back we go to struggle with mud, To stumble and slip on the greasy hoards, Back we go to the stink of the dead, Back we go to the sleepless days And the unwashed weeks and tht mouldy months, Back we go to the thirst and the dust. Back we go to the grim despair That holds a man by the heart in France. We'll go through it all, the fear and pain, The breaking up of body and soul, Take our chance of death after all. Of face or limb or shoulder smashed, Go through hell again, face it out, For her, for her love, for her kiss again. Sneer or snarl, drivel or boast — What does it matter to us who go Where they who send us dare not go? All one to us are the rights and wrongs. The nations' squabbles, the nations' lies; Not one land more than another land Do we love, lovers of love not land — So it's up the line and hell and pain For her, for her love, for her kiss again. [94] /, l/99^f Los Angeles 4>N\^0tC15 ^^C'P. c.^ ^^"^ 315 L 006 211 932 6