POEMS

By

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

Tenth Edition

LONDON
Published by DAVID NUTT
at the Sign of the Phoenix
in Long Acre
1907

Edinburgh: T. and A. Police officer, Printers to the King

Take, my dear, my little collection of songs,
   Whether they’re old or new,
Everything good in them is yours
   And yours alone;

And, singing like everything was new,
They will remember
The others, who lived but didn't get recognized—
The way of everyone.

W.E.H.

April 1888
      September 1897.

My friend and publisher, Mr. Alfred Nutt, has asked me to introduce this re-release of my old work in a new format. At his request, I want to mention that nearly all the pieces in this volume are reprinted from ‘A Book of Verses’ (1888) and ‘London Voluntaries’ (1892–3). From the first collection, I have removed some poems that I felt were not worth keeping; and I have included certain others from those publications that had originally replaced them. I have made corrections where possible, added dates where I could, and, through reorganization and revision, I have done my best to give my book, as it stands, its final form. If anyone is unhappy with the result, I can only suggest that my poems are my own, and this is how I want them to be read.

The process of revising has reminded me that despite the small size of this book, it represents all the poetry I've created during the years between 1872 and 1897. A big reason for this is that, after spending most of my life pursuing poetry, around 1877, I found myself so completely unpublishable that I had to admit defeat in art and spent the next ten years focused on journalism. Then came the publication by my old friend, Mr. H. B. Donkin, in his small collection of ‘Voluntaries’ (1888), which he compiled for that East-End Hospital where he has dedicated so much time, energy, and skill, featuring those unrhymed rhythms in which I attempted to distill, as (I believe), one can hardly do with rhyme, my impressions of the Old Edinburgh Infirmary. They had long p. viii been rejected by every well-known editor in London—I almost said in the world; but as soon as Mr. Nutt read them, he urged me to dig deeper. I followed his advice; old dusty manuscripts were brought to light; the work of selecting and correcting began; I threw away a lot; I discovered that, after all, the lyrical instinct had just been dormant—not dead; I took the chance (in short) ‘A Book of Verses.’ It was received with such interest that I felt encouraged again, and wrote the pieces that were later reprinted from ‘The National Observer’ in the first collection (1892) called ‘The Song of the Sword’ and later (1893), ‘London Voluntaries.’ If I haven't said anything since, it's because I have nothing to share that isn't, for now, too personal—too personal and too painful—for me to express.

As for my book, it speaks for itself:—

I think about it just for the simple joy of realizing that it has brought me a lot of friends and a few foes.

W. E. H.

Muswell Hill, September 4, 1897.

The morning mist still lingers on the rocky street;
The northern summer air is sharp and chilly;
And look, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like old friends shake hands.
Through the wide, echoing emptiness and drafty gloom
A small, odd child—so old yet so young!—
Her little arm wrapped and supported,
Leads me solemnly to the waiting room.
I hobble behind, my confidence completely gone.
The gray-haired soldier-porter gestures for me to continue,
And I move forward, my spirits still sinking:
A tragic bleakness seems to surround
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, bare, tidy—part workhouse and part jail.

A block, cramped room (a discounted cellar),
Dull to the soul, dull even in the daylight;
Plaster peeling in strange-looking tin containers;
Scissors, gauze, and medicine jars.

Here, on a bench, a skeleton would twist
Angry and aching, I wait to be let in:
Wait until my heart feels heavy in my stomach,
While two attendants casually go about their work.

One has a probe—it feels like a crowbar to me.
A little boy sniffs and shudders at the bluestone.
A poor old homeless man talks about his ancient ulcers.
Life is (I think) a mistake and a shame.

The thin brown walls
seem endless in their shabby bleakness.
There's nothing cozy in the clattering kettle,
      the oppressive fire.

The
atmosphere
Suggests the path of a haunting pharmacist.
Bandages and gauze on the long, narrow table—
      Who are they for?

The
patients yawn,
Or lie as if preparing for a shroud and coffin.
A nurse in the hallway scolds and argues.
      It’s dark and weird.

Far footsteps echo.
The injured one waits with his head unwrapped.
My neighbor gasps in the grip of chloral . . .
      O, what a gruesome world!

Check it out at me waiting—waiting for the knife.
Soon enough, I’ll jump right into the thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,
the drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
no innocent child to think of as I approach
the fateful minute; nothing too dear
weakens me for my moment of passive struggle.
Yet I’m shaking a bit and feeling a little sick,
and, face to face with chance, I hesitate slightly:
my hopes are strong, but my will feels a bit weak.
Here comes the basket? Thank you. I'm ready.
But, gentlemen my bearers, life is fragile:
You carry Caesar and his fortunes—steady!

You are taken in a basket,
Like a corpse from the slaughterhouse,
To the theater, a pit
Where they lay you on a table.

Then they ask you to close your eyes,
And they cover your face with a cloth,
And the anesthetic flows
Warm and gentle through your body.

And you gasp and stumble and shiver
In a wild, swaying ecstasy,
While the voices next to you
Fade—pulling back—fainter—farther.

Lights around you rain down and swirl,
And your blood feels like it's freezing—
Sharp and lively, yet inside you
Agonizing and rushing back and forth.

p. 8Then the lights flash rapidly,
And you hear the sound of rushing water,
And you struggle, disoriented and dizzy,
In a tormented effort,

Until a sudden silence surrounds you,
And you echo a complete darkness . . .
And come to life . . . with an effort . . .
In front of a quiet, focused audience.

Like a small flame covered in smoke,
So passes my life through these numbing shows;
So my thoughts flicker and fade, struggling
Against the heavy numbness that I push through
And feel sick from—it’s so disgustingly sweet.
Faces look strange from a distance—and vanish.
Distant voices, suddenly loud, irritate my ears—
Then fall silent just as quickly. Then my senses slip away:
Everything was blank, except for this dull, new pain
That grates on my leg and foot; and briefly
Time and place come into focus for me again;
And, without surprise, emerging from uncertainty,
I wake—slipping back—somewhat faint but eager,
To an overwhelming, comforting dream state.

Lived on one’s back,
In the long hours of rest,
Life is a real nightmare—
Terrible whether asleep or awake.

Shoulders and hips
Hurt—!
Hurt, and the mattress,
Feels like rocks and lumps,
Burns like an oven, while the covers—
Tumbling, annoying, crazy—
Shift and roll, and the light,
Cranked down all the way,
An unavoidable dot of brightness,
Lingers, and a heavy sleeper
Snores me into anger and hopelessness.

All the old times
Rush painfully in front of me;
p. 11Old voices, old kisses, old songs
Mock me as they surround me;
While the new days
Flow by in an endless stream:
A parade of shadows
Silently, mockingly moving
On . . . and still on . . . still on!

Far away in the quiet, a cat
Cries out loudly. A spark
Falls, and the shadows
Jump at the flicker of the flame. The man next to me
Turns with a groan; and the one snoring,
The drug like a noose around his neck,
Gasping, choking, snorting himself free, as the night-nurse,
Silent and odd,
Her lantern dimly glowing in her apron,
(Whispering to me, ‘Are you not asleep yet?’),
Moves by, in soft slippers and looking around,
...and then she’s gone.

Sleep finally arrives—
Sleep filled with dreams and worries—
p. 12Shattered by harsh and grim
Voices and noises that invade me,
Before I can wake to it,
The unnatural, unbearable day.

The great masters of the ordinary,
Rembrandt and good Sir Walter—only these
Could capture her essence for you: effortless poise
And classic vibrancy and heavy elegance;
The sweet old roses of her sunken face;
The depth and cunning of her sly, grey eyes;
The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies;
The sharp Scots wit that hits you like a hammer.
She’s been caring for patients here for thirty years,
Some of that time under Syme, her hero still.
She is worth a lot, and even more is said about her.
Patients and students hold her very dear.
The doctors love her, tease her, and value her skills.
They say ‘The Chief’ himself is a little afraid of her.

Some three, five, or seven and thirty years;
A Roman nose; a cute double chin;
Dark, shy eyes that, unaware of sin,
Seem to know about tears;
A lovely figure; a slender, rosy hand,
Oddly adorned with a signet ring;
A modest vibe that suits everything;
A well-mannered silence always at hand.
Her simple print dress, neat cap, and shiny steel chain
Seem out of place on her, and I find myself
Engrossed in her, like a delightful mystery.
Quick, skilled, gentle, soft in speech and touch . . .
‘Do you like nursing?’ ‘Yes, Sir, very much.’
Somehow, I have a feeling she has a story.

Blue-eyed and bright of face but fading fast
Into the dryness of innocent decline,
I watch her as she comes in, day by day,
Like a sweet sunset almost gone.
Kind and calm, noble to the end,
Her gown of sober gray falls gracefully,
And on her chignon’s stylish arrangement
Even the simplest cap carries a sense of class.
She talks about Beethoven; frowns in disapproval at Balzac's name, sighs when mentioning ‘poor George Sand’;
Knows she has very pretty hands;
Speaks Latin with the right accent;
And offers, when needed (as one who understands)
Advice, guidance, diagnosis, encouragement.

Hist? . . .
Through the corridor’s echoes,
Louder and closer
Comes a heavy shuffle of feet.
Quick, everyone,
Straighten your blankets, and act right!
Here comes the Professor.

In he comes first
With the bright look we know,
From the broad, white brows the kind eyes
Soothing yet unsettling you. Here at his side,
White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,
Towel on arm and her inkstand
Fidgeting with quills.
Here in the crowd, anyway,
p. 17Surging
Along,
Louts, losers, stylish folks, students, and know-it-alls—
Facial hair and foreheads, scarf pins and glasses—
Hustles the Class! And they form a circle
Around the first bed, where the Chief
(His assistants and clerks on alert),
Leans in for inspection already.

So shows the ring
Seen from behind a performer
Doing his act in the street.
High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,
Round, square, and angular, pushing and shoving;
While from within a voice,
Deep and weighty, flowing smoothly,
Sounds; and then stops; and suddenly
(Look at the tension in the shoulders!)
Out of a moment of silence,
Over the hiss of the spray,
Comes a low cry, and the sound
Of breath quickly taken in through teeth
Clenched in determination. And the Master
Breaks away from the crowd, and walks,
Wiping his hands,
p. 18To the next spot, with his students
Gathering and whispering behind him.

Now one can see.
Case Number One
Sits (rather pale) with his bedding
Pulled up, revealing his foot
(Alas for God’s Image!)
Wrapped in damp, white gauze
Vividly ugly with red.

Two and thirty is the ploughman.
He’s a tall, impressive guy,
And his hair is short and curly,
      And his beard;
But his face is pale and sunken,
And his eyes are big and bright,
And his shoulder blades are prominent,
      And his knees.

He’s not very smart, quite religious,
Filled with feelings and longing,
Soft, worn out—with a cough
      And a snore.
When his wife (who was a widow,
And is many years older than him)
Doesn’t write, which is always,
      He gets depressed.

p. 20Let his sadness roam,
And he’ll share charming tales
Of the women who've pursued him
      Ages ago;
Or he’ll sing of lovely girls
Watching sheep among the heather,
With a sharp, distinctive sound
      In his voice.

Just like red varnish and shining
His hair dripped; his feet seemed stiff;
Lifting up, he awkwardly settled to the side:
You could tell his injuries were spinal.

He had fallen from a train,
And had been dragged along the tracks.
It was hopeless, and they realized it;
So they covered him and walked away.

As he lay there, partially aware,
   Groaning without words,
   With his sock-covered feet sticking out
   Bare and uncomfortable from the blankets,

To his bed, a woman arrived,
Stood, looked, and sighed softly,
And left without saying a word,
Just like he did a few hours later.

p. 22I was told she was his girlfriend.
They were about to get married.
She stood still like a statue,
But her lip was pale and twisted.

From the winter's dull sadness,
From the summer's lazy warmth,
Death, the companion of Life,
Sets us free forever.

Inevitable, silent, unseen,
Everywhere all the time,
A shadow at night and a light during the day,
Signs that she's finally arrived for those she's chosen;
And as she signals them forward,
Sorrow and Joy
Drop their appearances and their voices,
Put down their hopes, and become
One in the blurred Forever.

Into winter's grey delight,
Into summer's golden dream,
Holy, elevated, and unbiased,
Death, the mother of Life,
Brings all people together forever.

His forehead is broad and calm, and his eye
Is deep and bright, with a steady gaze that endures.
Soft lines of peaceful reflection grace his face—
His expression is both kind and proud yet humble.
If envy lurks, if ignorance denies,
His flawless patience and unyielding determination,
Wonderful gentleness and impressive skill,
Are met with countless expressions of gratitude.
His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainty,
And seems to inspire such love and faith in all his patients
That even failure cannot diminish it.
We see him as another Herakles,
Fighting against tradition, bias, and illness,
Like the son of Zeus once battled Death and Hell.

Tall, but built so well his height
Half-disappears in the flow of his chest and limbs;
Mustache and beard neatly trimmed like a soldier's;
Open-faced, bright-eyed, open-hearted; always cheerful
And always on time—morning, noon, and night;
Gentle as a Jesuit, serious like a hymn;
Humorous, yet without a hint of silliness;
Kind and friendly, but ready to stand his ground.
His faith, although fresh and genuine,
Hasn't drained the color from his everyday mood
To the dull uniformity of his specific beliefs.
Sweet, easy-going, tolerant, truly humane,
Creative types appreciate his kind nature,
And embrace his mild-indifference.

O, the fun, the fun and playfulness
That The Wind that Shakes the Barley
Spreads through a penny whistle
Played by skilled hands!

Kate the scrubber (forty summers,
Stout but sporty) dances to her own rhythm,
Smiling, a whole ballet in herself,
Steadfast like destiny in front of her audience.

Stumps are shaking, supported by crutches;
Splinted fingers tap out the rhythm;
And a head wrapped in bandages
Nods in measured approval.

Of their mattress-life unaware,
   All the patients, lively and cheerful,
   Are cheering on the dancer,
   And clapping for the musician.

p. 27Lower the gas lights in the output
   For so many passionate smokers,
   Shadows loom in the corners,
   And the doctor looks in and moves on.

There might be some suspicion
of someone being an alcoholic . . .
'Have a drink of this, my woman!' . . .
New Year comes just once a year.

Here in this dim, dull, double-bedded room,
I’m playing dad to two boys,
Sick but still making all sorts of noise,
Stuck in bed yet full of health and cheer.
Roden, the Irish kid, is seven,
With blue eyes, a snub nose, chubby, and cute.
Willie is just six and seems to enjoy the spot,
A cheerful little miner through and through.
They eat, laugh, sing, and fight all day;
At night, they sleep like dormice. Watch them play
At doctor:—Roden, the professor,
Saws, lectures, takes the artery and ties;
Willie, kind of dazed, with half-closed eyes,
Holding the limb and moaning—Case and Dresser.

She's tall and thin, and on her hard, sad face
There are flashes of the old fun’s spirit
Mixed with a fixed, grumpy resignation
Born from a past filled with troubles.
She tells me that her husband, before he died,
Watched seven of their children pass away,
And never knew the little girl at play
Outside on the grass, whom he’s now idolized.
Her family scattered, her friends forgotten and gone,
With all the simple faith of her honest Irish heart,
Scolding her spoiled young child, she keeps pushing on:
Sharing her dreams, caring for her patients,
Sometimes trailing her coat: and you will find
No rougher, quirkier speech, nor kinder heart.

Her little face looks like a walnut shell
With wrinkled lines; her soft, white hair frames
Her withered brows in cute, straight curls, like horns;
And all around her lingers a gentle, sweet scent.
Her dress is neat and her shawl is like a Quaker's.
Her bonnets seem like they've always belonged to her.
Can you picture a Fairy Godmother
Driven by a strong sense of faith?
In snow or sunshine, she rushes from bed to bed,
All sparkling smiles and verses and pious stories,
Her mittened hands that always give or pray,
Carrying a pile of tracts, a bag of treats:
A tiny old maid who clears the Bridegroom’s path,
Confident in a cheerful trust that never wavers.

‘Chat about guts!’ the Sailor continued,
Propped up on his elbow,
‘I was at the dock in Charleston,
Just coming in from the boat.

‘It was gray and grim weather,
And I heard a drum rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awfully gloomy and defiant.

‘In and out among the cotton,
   Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
   Walked a group of worn-out scarecrows—
   Poor old Dixie’s last dime!

‘Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Those who weren’t bald were beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!

p. 32‘Rags and scraps, belts and bayonets,
On they marched, the drum rolling,
Angry and bitter. It looked like war,
And they were serious about it, for sure!’

It's spring.
The Earth has given life, and her heart,
Full of summer, is happy.

Views of change and adventure,
Through the green fields
The gray roads invite and twist,
Filled with wagons, and ringing
With the sound of harness bells:
Ringing and creating rough rhythms
To the slow pace of the majestic, big horses
Whistled and shouted as they passed.

White clouds,
Filled with abundance,
Float peacefully across the blue sky. Green flames flicker in the hedgerows.
Blackbirds are calling, and the tall poplars sway
In the damp breeze.
p. 34Scenes
Of color and fragrance,
Drift through the sweet meadows, while the gentle
Spirit of May walks unseen,
Clearly blessing the world.

Oh, the beauty of blooming orchards!
Oh, the taste and joy of the woods,
When their leaves are moved
By the passage of the Rain Angel!
The bull bellows loudly; in the fields
Crows are on guard; and the streams
Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Through the twilight,
Under the unique, timid stars,
A boy and girl wander,
Dreaming in the darkness and dew.

It’s spring.
A weak and shabby energy
Stirs in the ward, and I feel sick,
Helpless, with winter in my heart.

Down the quiet evening,
Through my window with the sunset
Plays a distant organ
Silly songs;

And just like when you switch
Images in a projector,
Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling
Fade away and disappear,

And I’m doing well again...
August is hot and sweltering,
But my heart is filled with April
Joy and sweetness.

In the quiet evening
I am hanging around, longing, dreaming . . .
Dreaming, and a distant organ
Plays me tunes.

p. 36I can see the shop,
I can smell the freshly paved street,
Where she serves—her chestnut bun
Excites my senses!

O, the sight and smell,
Nostalgic evening and fragrant pavement!
In the distance, an organ plays . . .
The feeling

Comes to me again,
And for a moment my spirit
Breathes through the music the blessed
Sounds of London.

Gazing lifelessly at the ceiling,
   Notice his rough, unshaven face,
   Pale brown against the pillow,
   And his throat—so oddly wrapped!

Lack of work and lack of food,
A binge of smuggled whiskey,
And his kids in the workhouse
Made the world such a dark puzzle

That he dove in search of a solution;
And, even though his knife had no edge,
He was quickly sinking toward one,
When they arrived, discovered, and rescued him.

Stupid now with shame and sadness,
   In the night I hear him crying.
   But sometimes he speaks a little.
   He has shared all his problems with me.

p. 38His face is broad, tanned yet pale,
   His eyes are bright and wild;
   And his smile, mysterious and sad,
   Yet somehow submissive, gives you chills!

Slim-legged, thin-chested, slight beyond description,
Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face—
Lean, large-boned, with a curved nose, and showing signs of his heritage,
Bold-lipped, beautifully colored, changeable like the sea,
The brown eyes glowing with energy—
There shines a brilliant and romantic grace,
An intense and rare spirit, layered with
Passion, boldness, and vitality.
Valiant in velvet, light in worn-out luck,
Most vain, most generous, critically tough,
Buffoon and poet, lover and hedonist:
A bit of Ariel, a hint of Puck,
Much like Antony, mostly Hamlet,
And something of the Shorter-Catechist.

Laughter the cheerful April morning
Through my dirty, small window,
And a beam of sunshine breaks
Through the shadows in the square.

Dogs are running through the grass,
Crows are cawing around the chimneys,
In and out among the laundry
Goes the West playing hide-and-seek.

Loud and cheerful rings the bell.
Here the nurses gather for breakfast.
Attractive, unattractive, all are women . . .
Oh, the Spring—the Spring—the Spring!

At the empty core of midnight,
When the shadow closes and opens
As the loud flames beat and dance,
I can hear a tank dripping.

Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,
Rough, uneven, half-melodic,
Like the patterns copied from nature
In the early days of music;

Like the buzzing of an insect,
Still, irrational, persistent . . .
I have to listen, listen, listen
In a fervor of focus;

Till it taps on my heartstrings,
And my very life drips away,
Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dripping,
In the drip-drop of the cistern.

Carry me out
Into the breeze and the sunlight,
Into the lovely world.

Oh, the magic and charm of the streets!
The size and power of the horses,
The sound and rhythm of footsteps,
The loud rumble and clatter of wheels!
A big tram moves swiftly past us . . .
Is this a dream?
The scent of mud in my nose
Feels bold—like a breath of the ocean!

As in the past,
Flowing, undulating fabric,
Vague and oddly enticing,
Flutters and invites. Oh, look over there—
Is that?—the shine of a stocking!
Suddenly, a spire
p. 43Stuck in the mist! Oh, the buildings,
The long rows of tall, grey buildings,
Crossed with shadow and light!
These are the streets . . .
Each one is a path leading
Wherever I choose!

Free . . . !
Dizzy, overwhelmed, lightheaded,
I sit, and the carriage moves on with me
Into this amazing world.

The Old Infirmary, Edinburgh, 1873–75

Do you remember
That afternoon—that Sunday afternoon!—
When the church bells were ringing,
And the gray city was filled
With feelings and vibes of Sunday,
Lewis—our Lewis back then,
Now belonging to the whole world—and you,
Young, yet looking quite like an elder, came,
Loaded with Balzacs
(Big, yellow books, really boldly French),
The first of many times
In that changed back-kitchen where I lay
For so long, so many centuries—
Or years is it!—ago?

Dear Charles, since then
We’ve been friends, Lewis, you, and I,
(How nice it sounds, ‘Lewis, you, and I!’):
Such friends, I like to think,
p. 45That in us three, Lewis, me, and you,
Is something of that brave dream
Which old Dumas—the generous, the kind,
The seventy times to be forgiven!—
Dreamed as a blessing for humanity,
The immortal Musketeers.

Our Athos is resting—the wise, the kind,
The generous and dignified, his mistakes forgiven,
Resting in the busy yard
There on the west side of Princes Street. We three—
You, me, and Lewis!—still walking,
We're still together, and our lives,
In harmony for so long, may stay
(God bless the thought!)
Untangled until the end.

W.E.H.

Chiswick, March 1888

(To Rudyard Kipling)

1890

p. 49The Sword
Singing—
The voice of the Sword from the core of the Sword
Clanging with authority
Echoing from the fortresses of Time
His timeless and victorious Song.

In the beginning,
Before God breathed life
Into the clay figure
Molded in His image,
The empty, the bare shell
Soon to be Man:
Thoughtfully, He considered it,
Lying there and powerless,
p. 50Fragile,
Ready for attack and defeat;
Then, with a smile—
As He heard in the Thunder
That laughed over Eden
The sound of the Trumpet,
The strong Benevolence,
Calling His fates
To the Winds of the world—
Bending down, He traced
In the sand with His finger
A shape as a sign
Of His path to the eyes
That would awaken in wonder,
As proof of His will
To the struggling mind.
That was the birth of me:
I am the Sword.

Bleak and thin, gray and harsh,
Short-hilted, long-shafted,
I became solid as steel;
And the blood of my ancestor,
His hand on my handle,
Surged like a wave
p. 51In the wind, as the feeling
Of his strength grew to joy;
Glowed like a coal
In the throat of the furnace;
As he recognized and named me
The War-Thing, the Comrade,
Father of honor
And giver of kingship,
The fame-smith, the song-master,
Bringer of women
Ignited by his hands
For the pride of fulfillment,
Priest (says the Lord)
Of his marriage with victory
Hey! then, the Trumpet,
Handmaid of heroes,
Summoning the peers
To the place of unions!
Hey! then, the brilliance
And blaze of my work,
Clothing the earth
With a robe of lightning!
Hey! then, the music
Of battles in charge,
And shattering armors,
p. 52And God’s gift returning
In rage to God!
Thrilling and sharp
As the song of the winter stars,
Hey! then, the sound
Of my voice, the relentless
Angel of Destiny!—
I am the Sword.

Heroes, my children,
Follow, oh, follow me!
Follow, rejoicing
In the great light that shines
From the sacred Companionship!
Push through the foolish,
Push through the mindless crowd,
Born in my shadow
And heavy with my gift!
Push through, and listen
Oh, hear the Trumpet,
The Virgin of Battles,
Calling, still calling you
Into the Presence,
Sons of the Judgment,
Pure expressions of the Will!
p. 53Ready to destroy,
Armed with authority,
Follow, oh, follow me,
Until the barren places
All over the gray globe
Leak, like honeycomb
Drips, with the sweetness
Extracted from my strength,
And, flourishing in peace
Through the turmoil of my arrival,
They reflect in beauty
The fear and the pain
They felt from my visit!
Follow, oh follow, then,
Heroes, my reapers!
Where the tall grain is ripe
Thrust in your sickles!
Stripped and burned
In a stubble of empire,
Cutting and binding
The full bundles of sovereignty:
Thus, oh, thus gloriously,
Shall you fulfill yourselves!
Thus, oh, thus mightily,
Show yourselves as my children—
p. 54Yes, and earn my favor:
I am the Sword!

I am the feast-maker:
Listen, through the noise
Of the screaming eagles,
Listen to the Trumpet,
The mistress of mistresses,
Calling, silver-throated
And serious, where the tables
Are set, and the meal
Of the Lord is ready!
Driving out the darkness,
Just like the banners
And the spears of the Morning;
Sifting through the nations,
Separating the slag from the metal,
The waste and the weak
From the fit and the strong;
Fighting the brute,
The chaotic Fecundity;
Controlling the gross,
Numerous mistakes,
The stumbling, the blind
p. 55Excesses
In service
Of the universal Womb,
The ultimate drudge;
Igniting the symbols
Carved on the World,
The miraculous gem
In the seal-ring that burns
On the hand of the Master—
Yes! and authority
Flames through the dim,
Unyielding Grisliness
Down the deepest
Chasms of the Void!—
Clear singing, clean slicing;
Sweet spoken, soft finishing;
Making death beautiful,
Life just a coin
To be risked in the game
Whose play is more
Than just the transfer of existence;
Arch-anarch, chief builder,
Prince and evangelist,
I am the Will of God:
I am the Sword.

p. 56The Sword
Singing—
The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword
Majestic clanging,
As from the celestial stairways
Of the ultimate Authority,
His powerful, unstopable song.

(To Elizabeth Robins Pennell)

1893

Once upon a time
There was a little boy: a master mage
Because of a Book
Of magic—oh, so magical it filled
His life with visionary splendor
Procession! And Powers
Followed him wherever he went. And Thrones
And Dominations, armed and feathered and armored,
Crowded the criss-cross streets,
The palaces mixed with playgrounds,
Domes, cloisters, dungeons, caverns, tents, arcades,
Of the unseen, silent City, in his soul
Pavilioned jealously, and hidden
As in the deep, still quietness of some enchanted lake.—

I closed my eyes . . . And suddenly!
A flickering fragment of memory floats
p. 60On the surface of a dark pool
Thirty-five dead years deep,
Playfully dressed in girlish patterns
And skirts and silly strapped shoes
And a wide-brimmed sun hat, he walks
Calmly in the shadow of a church
(St. Michael’s: where his first cries of anger
Were drowned out by its loud bell),
Serene despite his hurry
To get home; and nestled in his arm,
Encouraging stillness and solitude,
Dressed in dull brown,
With small, rectangular, attention-grabbing cuts
Printed on top of the double-columned, tight,
Quaker-like text, a Book! . . .
What else could it be but that cherished brief
Of what is finest and best
In all the well-stocked Libraries of Romance?
The Book of rocs,
Sandalwood, ivory, turbans, ambergris,
Cream pastries, and lettered monkeys, and calendars,
And ghouls, and genies—oh, so enormous
They might have overshadowed the tall Minster Tower
With ease, like schoolboys grabbing a post!
Indeed, the Book of Camaralzaman,
p. 61Schemselnihar and Sindbad, Scheherezade
The unmatched, Bedreddin, Badroulbadour,
Cairo and Serendib and Candahar,
And Caspian, and the dark, terrifying mass—
Ice-bound, haunted by demons, surrounded by spells and storms—
Of Kaf! . . . That center of wonders,
The one and only, incomparable Arabian Nights!

I had a lot of old friends—both kind and serious.
Familiar faces, quirky buddies
And goblins! Every forest had
Some group of lively little figures. No stream
That didn’t have its gathering
Of green-haired, silver-curving sprites,
To settle in the caves and wander
Along its lily-lined edges. Every lonely hillside
Could lead to Elf-Land. Every stalk
That wrapped around a beanpole belonged
To that magical ladder with delicate rungs
That let you climb above the clouds and discover
The Farmhouse where the Ogre, stuffed
And sleepy, sat in his big oak chair,
Surrounded by meat and pewter dishes by the fire,
Called for his Faery Harp. And in it flew,
p. 62And, perched on the kitchen table, sang
Cheerful and joyous, with a sound
Like those bright, golden-flowered songs
The shy thrush sings in mid-May
From damp orchards lit by the triumphant dawn;
Or blackbirds making a racket as they listened closely,
In old-world woods enchanted by an old-world spring,
For Pan’s own whistle, wild and rich and lewd,
And answered him note for note!

I could not pass
The half-door where the cobbler sat in view
Nor picture the withered Leprechaun,
In square-cut, faded reds and buckle shoes,
Bent at his work by the hedge, and know
Just how he tapped his brogue and twitched
His wax-end this way and that, both with wrists
And elbows. In the lush June fields,
Where the ripe clover attracted the bees,
And the tall quakers shook, and the West Wind
Lounged his half-holiday away
Beside me, lounging through my own,
p. 63It was nice to follow the Miller’s Youngest Son
On his white horse along the leafy lanes;
For at his stirrup, linked and running,
Not cynical and shuffling, as he loped
From wall to wall above the espaliers,
But in the finest tops
That a market town, a town of tops, could show:
Bold, subtle, adventurous, his tail
A banner waving in contempt
Of human schemes and tricks:
King over All the Catlands, present and past
And future, that mustachioed
Creator of fortunes, Puss-in-Boots!
Or Bluebeard’s Closet, filled with a mix
Of meat-hooks, sawdust, blood,
And wives that hung like freshly dressed carcasses—
An odd assortment, mostly a butcher’s, part
A faery chamber vaguely seen
And vaguely imagined—on dark afternoons
And windy nights was the best kind of visit.
Then, too, the sound of hooves
Out in the roaring darkness revealed
Herne the Hunter in his antlered helmet
Galloping, as if with messages from the Pit,
Among his hellish hounds.
p. 64And Rip Van Winkle... often I waited to hear,
Outside the long, low timbered, tar-covered wall,
The mutter and rumble of the rolling bowls
Down the narrow plank, before they knocked down the pins;
For, listening, I could help him play
His amazing game,
In those blue, booming hills, with sailors
Revived from kegs not made in this world.

But what were these so close,
So familiar thoughts that brought
The experience of Ali Baba’s Cave
Just from saying ‘Open Sesame,’
With gold to measure, piece by piece,
In round, brown wooden bowls
You borrowed at the store? . . . Or once
Made you Aladdin’s buddy at school,
With access to his Garden of Jewels, Ring, and Lamp
In perfect shape? . . . Or women, beautiful
For all the golden scars on their white skin
Suffered under some cruel law,
Which made them whip, and cry bitterly,
Strange curses that echoed their cries,
Until there was never a Black Dog of all
p. 65Your companionship but could have been
Spellbound miserably for sins
Committed in the pride of womanhood and desire . . .
Or at the eeriest heights of night,
While you lay wondering and cold,
Your senses were painfully heightened; and soon
Queen Labé, both dreadful and cherished,
Rose from beside you, opened the Box of Doom,
Scattered the yellow powder (which I saw
Like sulphur at the docks in bulk),
And mumbled certain words you couldn’t catch;
And there! a living stream,
The brook you bathed in, with its weeds and flags
And cresses, sparkled and sang
Out of the hearthrug over the bare,
Clean and proper, of your bedroom floor! . . .

I was—how many times!—
That Second Calendar, Son of a King,
On whom it was strongly insisted,
Pausing at one mysterious door,
To pry no further, but satisfy his soul
With his kind Forty. Yet I couldn't relax
Because of idleness and uncontrollable Fate.
p. 66And the Black Horse, which fed on sesame
(That amazing word!),
Gave me his back, and spread his wings,
And soaring, soaring on
From air to air, came diving to the ground
Straight, like a lark from the midsummer clouds,
And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I lay
Flicked at me with his tail,
And left me blinded, miserable, distressed
(Even as I was indeed,
When doctors arrived, and awful things were done
To my poor tortured eyes
With knives; or some nasty acid stung
And twisted them like hot sand,
And desperately from room to room
I must feel my dark, hopeless way),
To get to Bagdad however I could. But there
I encountered Merry Ladies. O you three—
Safie, Amine, Zobëidé—when my heart
Forgets you all shall be forgotten!
And so we dined, we and the others,
On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates,
Almonds, pistachios, citrons. And Haroun
Laughed from his lordly beard
p. 67At Giaffar and Mesrour (I recognized the Three
For all their Mossoul ways). And outside
The Tigris, flowing fast
Like Severn bend for bend, sparkled and shimmered
With broken and shifting shapes of stranger stars;
The vast, blue night
Was filled with the whispers of peris’ plumes
And the leathery wings of genies; powerful words
Were murmuring; and old fishermen,
Casting their nets with prayer, might bring ashore
Dead beauty: or a marvel in scales
Worth in the Caliph’s Kitchen pieces of gold:
Or copper vessels, sealed with lead,
Where some Squire of Eblis watched and complained,
In confinement under potent writing
Carved by the seal of King Solomon . . .

Then, just like the Book was reflected
In Life as in some old-fashioned mirror,
Bewildering angles, so would Life
Shine light back on the Book; and both
Were transformed. Once, in a decaying house
From better times, hosting a strange display
(With all its tales of decay
p. 68filled with eerie wax figures,
Unhuman, quiet, ghastly with Painted Eyes),
I wandered; and no living soul
Was closer than the ticket booth; and I stared
At them staring—just staring. Until finally,
Three sets of rafters from the streets,
I found myself in a musty, rat-infested room,
With the two Dancers, hideous and obscene,
Guarding the door: and there, in a set bedroom,
Behind a curtain of faded crimson cords,
With an air of frills
And delicate fabrics and violated privacy
That made you yearn and hesitate to look,
A Woman with her pile of Babies—all dead,
All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes
Staring—still staring; so I turned and ran
For my life, but in the street
Caught my breath. The same, it seemed,
And yet not quite the same, I was about to discover,
As I walked up! For afterwards,
When I went my rounds alone—
All day alone—in long, stern, silent streets,
Where I could reach out and take
Whatever I wanted: still there were Shapes of Stone,
p. 69Motionless, lifelike, terrifying—for the Wrath
Had struck them; but they watched,
One by her melons and figs, another by his rings
And chains and watches, with that dreadful gaze,
The Painted Eyes unbearably,
Now, of those gruesome figures; and I
Pursued my dearly cherished quest,
Thrilled with a new and delicious fear.
So night fell—with no lamplighter in sight;
And through the King's Palace
I groped among the echoes, and I felt
That they were there,
Horrifyingly there, the Painted staring Eyes,
Hall after hall . . . Until suddenly! from afar
A Voice! And soon after
Two candles burning! And the Voice,
Heard in the wonderful Word of God, belonged to—whose?
Whose but Zobëidé’s,
The lady of my heart, like me
A True Believer, and like me
An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . .

Or, while sailing to the Isles
Of Khaledan, I noticed one evening
A dark shape in the sunset; and it grew
p. 70Quickly . . . and grew.  The sailors, tearing their beards,
Wept and prayed; but the heavy ship,
Loaded with spices and pearls, went wild,
Snatched the long tiller out of the steersman’s hand,
And, turning sideways,
Like the most iron would, was pulled in closer,
And closer still;
And, all awash, with terrifying lurching jumps
Rushed at that Omen, casting a shadow now
That engulfed sea and sky; and then,
Anchors and nails and bolts
Screamed out of her, and with clang after clang,
A noise like fifty forges, crashed against the sides
Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay,
A shattered pile of firewood, scattered
Across the waters; and her crew
Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left
To drown.  All night I swam;
But in the morning, oh, the beautiful coast
Lined with date trees, meadow-like,
Bordered with sloping sands!  And a huge wave
Threw me ashore; and I was saved.
So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes,
And, moving inland, in a desolate area
p. 71I stumbled upon an iron ring—
Just like fifty built into the Quays:
When, sensing a trapdoor,
I dug and dug; until my biggest blade
Caught in wood.  And then,
The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs,
Sunk in the bare rock!  The cool, clean vault,
So tidy with niche after niche it could have been
Our beer cellar except for the rows
Of bronze urns (like giant chemist’s jars)
Filled to the wide, squat mouths
With gold dust, but on top
A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things
I knew were olives!  And far, oh, far away,
The Princess of China languished!  Far away
Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief
Of Eunuchs and the privilege
Of going out at night
To play—untroubled, majestic, secure—
Where the old, brown, friendly river curved
Like Tigris shore to shore!  Maybe a Ghoul
Sat in the graveyard under a frightened moon,
A thighbone in his hand, glaring
At dinner with a Lady: she who took
Her rice with tweezers, grain by grain.
p. 72Or you might stumble—there by the iron gates
Of the Pump Room—underneath the limes—
Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and shorts,
Just as the polite Genie laid him down.
Or those red-curtained windows,
From where a tame cornet played throatily
Of beer mugs and spittoons and new long pipes,
Might lead to a caravanserai, where
You found Noureddin Ali, grandly drunk,
And that beautiful Persian, bathed in tears,
You’d not trade away
For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous
You had escaped that dark and disheveled afternoon
On a roc’s claw,
Disguised like Sindbad—but in Christmas beef!
And all the blissful while
The schoolboy satchel at your hip
Was such a bulge of gems as would astonish
Grey-whiskered merchants drawn
From across the Caspian: yes, the Chief Jewelers
Of Tartary and the bazaars,
Seething with trade, of enormous India.—

Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart
The magical East: thus the child’s eyes
p. 73Spelled out the wizard message by the light
Of the everyday hours
They saw, week in and week out, pass, and still pass
In the sleepy Minster City, wrapped kind
In ancient Severn’s embrace,
Among her water-meadows and docks,
Whose floating crowd of ships—
Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines,
Bluff barques and reckless fore-and-afters—brought
To her very doorsteps and geraniums
The scents of the World’s End; the calls
That cannot be denied to rise and ride
Like fire on some high mission of the race;
The irresistible calls
For companionship that sound
Steadily from the relentless sea.
Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the story,
Telling itself anew
In terms of living, working life,
Took on the colors, dressed it in the wear
Of life that lived and worked; and Romance,
The Angel-Playmate, raining down
His golden influences
On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did,
p. 74Walked with me arm in arm,
Or left me, like one adorned with straws
And bits of glass, to brighten my heart
Who had the gift to seek and feel and find
His fiery-hearted presence everywhere.
Even so beloved Hesper, bringer of all good things,
Sends the same silver dews
Of happiness down her dim, joyful skies
On some poor coal-mining village—(mound on mound
Of sifted misery; here a soot-throated stack
Sullenly smoking over a row
Of flat-faced homes; black in the gritty air
A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings
Of hurling, tipping trams)—
As on the love-struck nightingales
And roses of Shíraz, or the walls and towers
Of Samarcand—the Ineffable—where you see
The brilliance of Ginnistan’s embattled spears,
Like listed lightnings.
                     Samarcand!
That name of names! That star-crowned lookout
Built against the Chambers of the South!
That outpost on the Infinite!
                     And behold!
Questing from there, you knew not what wild tide
p. 75Might overtake you: for one fringe,
One suburb, is established on firm ground; but one
Floats founded vague
In delightful lands—isles of palm
And lotus, fortunate coasts, far-shimmering seas,
The promise of wistful hills—
The shining, shifting Sovereignties of Dream.

1877–1888

To W. A.

Was I a famous Samurai,
Wielding two swords, fierce, and skilled with a bow?
An actor, dramatic and intense?
A priest? a porter?—Child, even though
I've completely forgotten, I know
That in the shadow of Mount Fuji,
When the cherry blossoms bloom,
I loved you once in ancient Japan.

As you hang out here, in your flowing gown
And big sash, with pins in a row
Your unique head adorned like it’s on fire,
Shy, inviting—even then,
When cheerful girls in Miyako
Started to feel the sweetness of the year,
And green gardens overflowed,
I loved you once in old Japan.

p. 80The hills shine clearly; the rice fields around
Two cranes are circling, sleepy and slow,
A blue canal meets the lake’s blue edge
Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and look!
Touched by the spirit and glow of sunset,
I see you turn, with a playful fan,
Against the blossomy snow of the plum tree . . .
I loved you once in old Japan!

Envoy

Dear, it was twelve lifetimes ago;
But I was a lucky guy
The Toyokuni here will prove:
I loved you—once—in ancient Japan.

I. M.
Thomas Edward Brown
(1829–1896)

Springtime at its peak on a perfect morning,
Sails that dance in a rushing storm,
Beauty of music, joy of poetry—
Youth is what they all represent.
Winter evenings and falling leaves,
An empty bottle, a turned-down page,
A broken wheel, a worn-out ball—
These symbolize the world of Age.

Bells that clash with a flashy sound,
Swords that clash in grand displays,
The words that resonate and the fame that rises—
Youth is their common sign, for everyone.
Old hymnals in a dusty corner,
A bald, blind bird in a wild cage,
The remnants of a faded celebration—
These reflect the world of Aging.

p. 82Hours that flaunt themselves as the heirs of time,
Actions whose stories are like a trumpet's call,
Songs where the singers elevate their souls—
Youth is the symbol of them, every single one.
A cane that leans against a wall,
A spinning battle, a worn-out measure,
The song of an approaching funeral—
These represent the world of Age.

Messenger

Struggle and chaos, celebration and fights—
Youth embodies them all.
An empty fireplace and a quiet stage—
These reflect the reality of old age.

To W. H.

With a rustle of leaves and a gentle sound of streams
The whole world moves in a rhythm of celebration,
And the winds blend with the clouds and sunlight—
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
The evening expands; in a purple mist,
While the West, from a blissful sunset, turns,
Faint stars lift their beautiful lights—
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

The green heart of the woods is filled with dreams,
The thick grass grows, dances, and sways,
The early wheat rustles, the scenery shines—
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
In the quiet fields, along the still paths,
All hidden shadows and magical lights,
Late-night lovers whisper, hang around, and gaze—
Midsummer nights! Oh, midsummer nights!

p. 84There’s a sound of bells from the bustling teams,
Wild skylarks drift, the gorse is in bloom,
The rich, ripe rose gives off its fragrance—
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
A spirit from the honeysuckle wanders,
And the nightingale from high places
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays—
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

Representative

And it’s Oh, for my dear and the charm that remains—
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
It’s Oh, for my Love and the darkness that troubles—
Midsummer nights! Oh midsummer nights!

I. M.
Edward John Henley
(1861–1898)

Where's the location? are the passions they tried to express,
And where are the tears they caused to flow?
Where are the wild emotions they showcased
For the world to laugh at and understand?
Othello’s anger and Juliet’s sorrow?
Sir Peter’s quirks and Timon’s bitterness?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go everyone.

Where are the brave ones, new or worn?
The feathers, the armor—friend and enemy?
The gold fabric, the rare brocade,
The cloaks sparkling back and forth?
The splendor, the pride, the royal display?
The shouts of battle and celebration?
The youth, the elegance, the charm, the shine?
Into the night go everyone.

p. 86The curtain falls, the show is over:
The Beggar packs up next to the Dandy;
The King gathers his troops, and so does the Maiden;
The Thunder mingles with the Snow.
Where did all the party-goers go, both rich and poor?
The clashing swords? The lover’s shout?
The dancers shining in rows?
Into the night they all head out.

Messenger

Prince, in one common overthrow
The Hero falls with the Thrall:
Like dust that moves, like straws that blow,
Into the night go everyone.

To C. M.

Fountains that dance and spray
The moss they overflow;
Pools that the breezes ripple;
The wheel next to the mill,
With its damp, weedy edge;
Wind shadows in the wheat;
A water truck in the street;
The rim of foam that surrounds
A tiny island's ferns;
The minor thirds of a green sky—
To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass, the tinkling,
Clear and silver-sharp;
Perfect peaches without a blemish;
Cherries and snow on demand,
From china bowls that satisfy
The senses with a sweet
p. 88Disinterest of heat;
Dripping bits of melon;
Creamy strawberries;
Evening dairies filled with curds—
To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves sparkling
With gentle breezes clear and still;
The feel of a forest stream
That ripples fresh and quick
Around your bare feet;
The snouts of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-soaked birds—
To live, I think of these!

Messenger

Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaids’ tails, cool lawns,
Dew at dawn and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words—
To live, I think of these!

Gold or silver, every day,
Dies to gray.
There are knots in every thread.
Hours of work and hours of play
Fade away
Into one huge emptiness.
Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,
Are just as pointless
As the foam or as the spray.
Life goes singing, soft and eager,
One refrain:
‘If it could be always May!’

Though the earth is vibrant and cheerful,
         Though, they say,
Humans can sip from the cup of heaven;
Though they try to control their little world,
         They show
A wealth of insight and intelligence:
Autumn brings a fog and rain
         That force
p. 90Him and his to face decay,
Where the bright lights that fade
         Would stay,
If it could always be May.

Yes, unfortunately, we must say No,
         Flesh to clay.
Chance and Time are always separate.
People may mock, and people may pray,
         But they pay
Every pleasure with a pain.
Life may rise high, and Fortune might
         Explain
Where her rewards are hidden away;
But we miss the vibrant vibe
         We should have,
If it could be always May.

Representative

Time, the teacher, with his cane
         Might hold on,
But his students would all wander
Skipping school in every street—
         Jack with
Jane—
If it could always be May.

Idiots may long, and drunks may drink,
Cynics mock, and prophets shout,
Moralists may criticize and teach,
Preachers speak, and cowards back down.
Let them complain, or threaten, or cry!
Until the influence of Circumstance
Brings everything down,
Fate’s a musician, Life’s a performance.

What if the skies are dull and cold?
What if the winds are harsh and stale?
Soon the east will come alive,
And the sad, deflated sail,
Filling with a friendly breeze,
Will carry you towards the sun, while your luck
Returns you a hopeful shout:—
‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’

p. 92Lazy shot or upcoming bill,
Unlucky love or a failed promise,
Swallow it (don’t chew your pill!),
And, if Burgundy doesn’t work out,
Give the simpler pot of ale a shot!
Above it all is the sky’s vastness.
Gold can be found among the rubble.
Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,
Good Sir Galahad searches for the Grail,
Proud Sir Pertinax shows off his frill,
Tough Sir Æger dents his armor;
And meanwhile, across hills and valleys,
Tristram's bravery shines and catches the eye,
And his cheerful horn carries its story:—
‘Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.’

Araminta is loud and bold,
Delia is emotional and delicate,
Doris writes with sincere dedication,
Athanasia chooses a life of solitude:
Wiser Phyllis, at her chores,
In the center of all love stories
p. 93Reading, sings to Strephon’s work:—
‘Fate plays the fiddle, Life is a dance.’

Every Jack needs his Jill
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!):
Come on, couples—be determined!
This world isn’t a prison.
Listen to the music, small fry and big fish!
Hands together, step back, move forward!
Even if the grim reaper's after you,
Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

Messenger

Boys and girls, at slug and snail
And their kind look suspiciously.
Make sure you pay your way:
Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

The big spinning top twirls,
And eras rise and fall
As luck settles down or spins;
But when it comes to loss and gain,
The result is always clear.
Read on the grand shroud,
The funeral weeds
That hide both praise and blame,
The -isms and the -anities,
Greatness and disgrace:—
‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

The Fates are tricky girls!
They give us junk instead of value.
And Time, the powerful one, throws,
Like a sudden death, contempt
At everything that heart and mind
Create, whether big or small,
p. 95On this earthly sphere.
Do you want to be a knight and lady?
Or pursue the sweet aspects of humanity?
Or make a name known?
Oh, the emptiness of all emptiness!

We dive into the ocean for pearls,
Or let them wash down the drain;
We serenade it with the blackbirds,
Or pull and sweat and strain;
We crawl, or we rule;
We stroll, or we fight;
We respond, or we shout;
We look to the stars for Fame,
Or bury her deep underground;
The story hasn’t changed:—
‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

Here at the wine bar,
Someone is clanking a chain.
The flag that this man rolls up
That man is eager to raise.
Pleasure gives way to pain:
These crawl in the gutter,
p. 96While others walk the sidewalk.
She has an amazing goal,
He lives for trivial things.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!

Clods and earls are the same.
For fool, and seer, and peasant,
For emperors and for commoners,
For remedy and curse,
There’s only one saying:
Just one for king and servant,
For David and for Saul,
For the quick and the lame,
For good and bad,
The image and the frame:—
‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

Life is like smoke that twists—
Twists in a flickering thread,
That moves and swirls and spins
An illusion, thin and pointless,
Into the vast Nothingness.
One end for home and mansion!
p. 97One end for prison and barn!
All are burned in one common fire
Are wisdom and madness.
This is the only reason we came:—
‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

Representative

Prince, pride always leads to downfall.
What is the value of all
Your state's greatest comforts?
The game is not worth it at its best.
The Sage could very well say:—
‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

To W. G. S.

The blackbird sang, the sky was clear and bright
We drove along a winding road
Smoothly curved and serpentine
Through silent melodies of summer green.
Suddenly, the Forth appeared before us—sorrowful in look,
No clouds to color it, no breeze to stir:
A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign
Of life or death, two spits of sand in between.
Water and sky merged blankly in the mist,
The Fort loomed ghostly, and the Guardship’s masts
Cast vague, black shadows on the shimmering surface:
We felt the dim, strange years, the gray, strange weather,
The still, strange land, untouched by sun or stars,
Where Lancelot rides clanking through the haze.

She is an enchanting little Israeli,
A world of hidden dimples!—Dusky-eyed,
A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride,
With hair that seems to have escaped from some Arabian Night,
Her lips are red, her cheeks are golden-white,
Her nose like a scimitar; and, pushed aside
The bamboo hat she wears with such pride,
Her dress a dream of delicacy and joy.
And when she walks by with the rough boys
And rowdy girls, the loud and crude cockneys,
My thoughts, tied to the Minories but eager to wander
To the Land of the Sun, blend with the noise
Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood,
A touch Sidonian—modern—captivating—strange!

A strict northeast wind has been beating down on her for fifty winters,
Leaving her face and neck bronzed and shriveled;
Her hair is wild and grey, her teeth are decayed;
Her foot is large, her bent leg lean and strong.
A wide blue cloak, a short and sturdy group
Of plain blue jackets, a clean headscarf,
A white vest embroidered in black, her outfit adorned,
And their chosen, stern, old-fashioned look feels right.
With a large creel slung on her forehead, she walks close by,
Adjusting the heavy strap with her gnarled, brown fingers,
The spirit of commerce sharp in her gaze,
Now and then begging you to make a purchase,
As she looks down the street, pausing in her stride,
Discontented, with a strange and mournful cry.

To D. F.

I watched you walk down the sand:
Calm and grand, the golden sun
Shined brightly around your peacock feather,
And sparkled from your jeweled hand.
Your tawny hair, arranged strand by strand
And tied with blue ribbons together,
Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather,
That draped over your graceful shoulder.
Your elegance instantly caught my eye:
The quirky looped hat, the twisted locks,
The snug scarf, and underneath these
The flowing, flapping fabrics—
My mind still lingers on the outline,
Charming, amusing, Japanese!

To G. W.

The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then,
He groped and fiddled stubbornly along,
His worn face glaring at the careless crowd
The stony irritation of blind men.
He looked barely older than his clothes. Again,
Clumsily twisting many an old sweet song,
So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong,
You could hardly tell one in ten.
He finally stopped and sat down on the sand,
And, wearily holding his bread-winner,
Stared dimly towards the vast blue sky,
Then leaned his head on his poor old hand.
He may have slept: he didn't speak or move:
His gesture conveyed a deep despair.

To A. J.

A black and glassy float, opaque and still,
The loch, at its lowest point, lying in sleep,
Reflecting, mirrored in its bright depths
The calm grey skies; the serious slopes of hills;
Heather, corn, and wisps of lingering haze;
The small white cottages, black-hatted, puffing smoke;
The slopes beyond—and when the ripple stirred,
They trembled with the disturbed and wavering shine.
The air was quiet and dreamy. Always
A sound of running water whispered nearby.
A distant crow called out, high and thin. A bird
Sang from the birch leaves. Around the pebbled shore,
Yellow with seaweed, there drifted, vague and clear,
Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, casually heard.