THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE ISLAND OF YOUTH
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 Verse 
 
 SONGS, 1915 
 
 POEMS, 1916 
 
 THE QUEEN OF CHINA AND OTHER POEMS, 1919 
 
 Novels 
 
 THE OLD INDISPENSABLES, 1919 
 THE PEOPLE OF THE RUINS, I92O
 
 THE 
 
 ISLAND OF YOUTH 
 
 LONDON: 48 PALL MALL 
 
 W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD. 
 
 GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
 
 Copyright 1921 
 
 Manufactured in Great Britain
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PR 
 
 4,037 
 
 TO 
 
 EDWARD MARSH
 
 NOTE 
 
 Many of the shorter pieces in this volume have 
 already appeared in Land and Water, the London 
 Mercury, the New Statesman, the Outlook, the Owl, 
 the Spectator, To-day, and the Westminster Gazette. 
 I am grateful to the Editors of these periodicals, not 
 for permission to reprint, which was not theirs to 
 give, but for having printed my verses in the first 
 place. 
 
 E. S.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 FIRST PART 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THE ROCK POOL II 
 
 THE SWIMMERS 12 
 
 MEMORY I 6 
 
 IN ANOTHER COUNTRY 21 
 
 THE GLADE 26 
 
 MORNING ON THE HILL 28 
 SONNET! Like someone bolted in a lightless room 30 
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN VOICE 3! 
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN LIGHT 33 
 
 THE DANCER 35 
 
 SECOND PART 
 
 THE ISLAND OF YOUTH 39 
 
 7
 
 THIRD PART 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THE SKY AT CAMPDEN 87 
 
 BOATS AT NIGHT 92 
 
 THE HARBOUR 93 
 SONNET! The dying man, whom all give up for dead 9^ 
 
 THE NIGHTJARS 96 
 
 DOVER'S HILL 100 
 
 THE EMIGRATION IOI 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION IIO 
 
 THE SHADOW 113 
 
 A HOLLOW ELM 114 
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE Il6 
 
 CHORUS FROM A TRAGEDY 12 J 
 
 THE END 133
 
 FIRST PART
 
 THE ROCK POOL 
 
 To Alice Warrender. 
 
 '"TpHIS is the sea. In these uneven walls 
 
 A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away 
 Outward to ocean, as the slow tide falls, 
 
 Her sisters through the capes that hold the 
 
 bay 
 
 Dancing in lovely liberty recede. 
 Yet lovely in captivity she lies, 
 Filled with soft colours, where the waving 
 
 weed 
 
 Moves gently and discloses to our eyes 
 Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent shells 
 Under the light-shot water; and here 
 
 repose 
 Small quiet fish and dimly glowing bells 
 
 Of sleeping sea-anemones that close 
 Their tender fronds and will not now awake 
 Till on these rocks the waves returning break. 
 
 ii
 
 THE SWIMMERS 
 
 r I ''HE cove's a shining plate of blue and 
 
 green, 
 
 With darker belts between 
 The trough and crest of the lazily rising 
 
 swell, 
 And the great rocks throw purple shadows 
 
 down 
 Where transient sun-sparks wink and burst 
 
 and drown, 
 And the distant glimmering floor of pebble 
 
 and shell 
 
 Is bright or hidden as the shadow wavers, 
 And everywhere the restless sun-steeped air 
 Trembles and quavers, 
 As though it were 
 More saturate with light than it could bear. 
 
 Now come the swimmers from slow-dripping 
 
 caves, 
 
 Where the shy fern creeps under the veined roof, 
 
 12
 
 And wading out meet with glad breast the 
 
 waves. 
 
 One holds aloof. 
 
 And climbs alone the reef with shrinking feet 
 That scarce endure the jagged stone's dull 
 
 heat, 
 
 Till on the edge he poises 
 And flies towards the water, vanishing 
 In wreaths of white, with echoing liquid noises, 
 And swims beneath, a vague, distorted thing. 
 
 Now all the other swimmers leave behind 
 
 The crystal shallow and the foam-wet shore 
 
 And sliding into deeper water find 
 
 A living coolness in the lifting flood: 
 
 Then through their bodies leaps the sparkling 
 
 blood, 
 So that they feel the faint earth's drought no 
 
 more. 
 There now they float, heads raised above the 
 
 green, 
 
 White bodies cloudily seen, 
 
 13
 
 Further and further from the brazen rock 
 On which the hot air shakes, on which the tide 
 Vainly throws with soundless shock 
 The cool and lagging wave. Out, out they go, 
 And now upon a mirrored cloud they ride 
 Or turning over, with soft strokes and slow, 
 Slide on like shadows in a tranquil sky. 
 Behind them, on the tall parched cliff, the 
 
 dry 
 
 And dusty grasses grow 
 In shallow ledges of the arid stone, 
 Starving for coolness and the touch of rain. 
 But, though to earth they must return again, 
 Here come the soft sea airs to meet them, 
 
 blown 
 
 Over the surface of the outer deep, 
 Scarce moving, staying, falling, straying, 
 
 gone, 
 Light and delightful as the touch of sleep. . . . 
 
 One wakes and splashes round, 
 And magically all the others wake 
 
 14
 
 From their sea-dream, and now with rippling 
 
 sound 
 
 Their arms the silence break. 
 And now again the crystal shallows take 
 The dripping bodies whose cool hour is 
 
 done : 
 They pause upon the beach, they pause and 
 
 sigh, 
 Then vanish in the caverns one by one. 
 
 Soon the wet footmarks on the stones are 
 
 dry: 
 The cove sleeps on beneath the unwavering 
 
 sun.
 
 MEMORY 
 
 TN silence and in darkness memory wakes 
 
 Her million sheathed buds and breaks 
 That day-long winter when the light and 
 
 noise 
 And hard bleak breath of the outward-looking 
 
 will 
 
 Made barren her tender soil, when every voice 
 Of her million airy birds was muffled or still. 
 
 One bud-sheath breaks : 
 One sudden voice awakes. 
 
 What change grew in our hearts seeing one 
 
 night 
 That moth-winged ship drifting across the bay, 
 
 Her broad sail dimly white 
 On cloudy waters and hills as vague as they ? 
 Some new thing touched our spirits with 
 
 distant delight, 
 
 Half seen, half noticed, as we loitered down, 
 
 16
 
 Talking in whispers, to the little town. 
 
 Down from the narrow hill 
 Talking in whispers, for the air so still 
 Imposed its stillness on our lips and made 
 A quiet equal with the equal shade 
 That filled the slanting walk. That phantom 
 
 now 
 Slides with slack canvas and unwhispering 
 
 prow 
 Through the dark sea that this dark room has 
 
 made. 
 
 Or the night of the closed eyes will turn to day 
 And all day's colours start out of the gray. 
 The sun burns on the water. The tall hills 
 Push up their shady groves into the sky 
 And fail and cease where the intense light 
 
 spills 
 
 Its parching torrent on the gaunt and dry 
 Rock of the further mountains, whence the 
 
 snow 
 
 That softened their harsh edges long is gone 
 
 17
 
 And nothing tempers now 
 The hot flood falling on the barren stone. 
 
 O memory, take and keep 
 All that my eyes, your servants, bring you 
 
 home 
 Those other days beneath the low white dome 
 
 Of smooth-spread clouds that creep 
 
 As slow and soft as sleep, 
 When shade grows pale and the cypress stands 
 upright, 
 
 Distinct in the cool light, 
 Rigid and solid as a dark, hewn stone; 
 
 And many another night 
 That melts in darkness on the narrow quays 
 And changes every colour and every tone 
 And soothes the waters to a softer ease, 
 When under constellations coldly bright 
 The homeward sailors sing their way to bed 
 On ships that motionless in harbour float. 
 The circling harbour-lights flash green and 
 red; 
 
 18
 
 And, out beyond, a steady travelling boat 
 Breaking the swell with slow industrious oars 
 
 At each stroke pours 
 Pale lighted water from the lifted blade. 
 Now in the painted houses all around 
 
 Slow darkening windows call 
 The empty unwatched middle of the night. 
 The tide's few inches rise without a sound. 
 On the black promontory's windless head, 
 The last awake, the fireflies rise and fall 
 And tangle up their dithering skeins of light. 
 
 O memory, take and keep 
 All that my eyes, your servants, bring you 
 home! 
 
 Thick through the changing year 
 The unexpected, rich-charged moments come, 
 
 That you twixt wake and sleep 
 In the lids of the closed eyes shall make appear. 
 
 This is life's certain good, 
 Though in the end it be not good at all
 
 When the dark end arises 
 And the stripped, startled spirit must let fall 
 
 The amulets that could 
 Prevail with life's but not death's sad devices. 
 
 Then, like a child from whom an older child 
 
 Forces its gathered treasures, 
 Its beads and shells and strings of withered 
 flowers, 
 
 Tokens of recent pleasures, 
 The soul must lose in eyes weeping and wild 
 
 Those prints of vanished hours. 
 
 20
 
 IN ANOTHER COUNTRY 
 
 "\X7HEN the lamp's guardian flame was out, 
 
 he fell 
 
 Through dark abysses full of hollow sound, 
 Through caves of sleep that murmured like 
 
 a shell, 
 
 Till in night's furthest corridors he found, 
 Past any thought or feeling, his escape, 
 Where being loses shape, 
 Where sorrow melts and merges in profound 
 Blackness, that is not pricked by any light. 
 There he found rest, how long he could not 
 
 know, 
 
 In the deep middle of unfriendly night, 
 Safe in his stupor through the to and fro 
 Of the slow hours which strike and will not spare. 
 But sorrow's pack soon scented that dark lair, 
 And as he slept he knew that gradually 
 Light grew around him, lifting veil by veil 
 The swathings of his hid security, 
 Till darkness' self grew pale. 
 21
 
 Whither he wandered in that middle land, 
 Shining and silent, between sleep and waking, 
 How should he tell ? But yet he sees them 
 
 stand, 
 Those calm and carven poplars, rising, 
 
 breaking 
 Like frozen fountains the still, pearl-pure 
 
 skies, 
 Sees, but not hears, the soundless aspen 
 
 shaking 
 
 Over the long and lichened seat of stone 
 Where he awoke. He lifted heedless eyes 
 Across the lawns and flower-beds overgrown 
 Up to the house that crowned the terraces, 
 And down again, and saw the staring pond, 
 Lucent and smooth and ringed with irises, 
 The tall yew-hedge, the orchard trees be- 
 yond. . . . 
 All this, most strange, was strange beyond 
 
 his care, 
 
 For grief attended him, 
 Moved like a wind soft fingers in his hair 
 22
 
 And with her touch his burning eyes made dim. 
 And now his eyes dropped tears, and did not 
 
 see 
 The glowing house, poised on the soft low 
 
 sky, 
 
 The rich warm flowers that nodded silently 
 Around him, or the birds in bush and tree 
 That moved as noiseless as the clouds. But 
 
 soon 
 
 Across the hush of that too quiet noon 
 Something unseen yet drew his misty gaze 
 To look for what he guessed not. So there 
 
 came 
 
 Softly towards him through the garden ways 
 A girl in white. Like an unreal flame 
 A golden pattern played upon her dress, 
 Which as he stared at her he knew to be 
 Cast by the tears on his own eyelashes, 
 Gathering softly and heavily. 
 
 Then as again his eyes were dimmed by tears 
 And with the falling echo of old fears 
 
 23
 
 His heart was filled, he bowed his head and 
 
 felt 
 
 Her sudden soothing hand upon his hair; 
 And moved by a strange reverence he knelt, 
 Hiding his hot face in her hollow palms, 
 And laid upon her lap his vague despair, 
 Till as a mild wind risen at evening calms 
 The last black vapours from a tumbled sky, 
 Her touch serenely rolled away his care 
 And shed on him her own tranquillity. 
 
 A timeless moment thus he stayed and drew 
 Peace from her hands and from her face 
 
 unseen 
 
 And in that posture greater quiet knew 
 Than ever yet his heart had found between 
 The grinding wheels of wakefulness and 
 
 sleep 
 
 Which day or night are full of restless sound, 
 Laments of giants bound 
 Or lost birds crying on the lightless deep. 
 A moment then the darkness of her hand 
 24
 
 Grew thicker round his eyes and held no more 
 The warm reflected sunshine of that land . . . 
 Deeper and colder . . . and a shudder tore 
 His waking body and a thin noise sighed 
 Through a new darkness dense and terrible 
 That blackened round him. ' Stay, stay, 
 
 stay! ' he cried, 
 
 Like the harsh notes of a storm-shaken bell. 
 But thicker all about the shadow fell, 
 Till with a pang he opened heavy eyes 
 On the beginning of a pale sunrise, 
 That flickered chilly on the lamp and bed. 
 Outside his window the sad aspen shook, 
 Murmuring loudly, and its tapered head 
 The poplar sighing bowed. An early rook 
 In the stiff elm rehearsed the grating cry 
 Which all the others answered back again. 
 Burdened by life and by a memory, 
 He rose to join the usual world of men.
 
 THE GLADE 
 
 TXT'E may raise our voices even in this still 
 
 glade: 
 Though the colours and shadows and 
 
 sounds so fleeting seem, 
 We shall not dispel them. They are not 
 
 made 
 
 Frailly by earth or hands, but immortal in 
 our dream. 
 
 We may touch the faint violets with the hands 
 
 of thought 
 
 Or lay the pale core of the wild arum bare; 
 And for ever in our minds the white wild 
 
 cherry is caught, 
 
 Cloudy against the sky and melting into 
 air. 
 
 This which we have seen is eternally ours, 
 No others shall tread in the glade which 
 now we see; 
 
 26
 
 Their hands shall not touch the frail tranquil 
 
 flowers, 
 
 Nor their hearts faint in wonder at the wild 
 white tree. 
 
 27
 
 MORNING ON THE HILL 
 
 QOFTLY, softly, the long bare boughs are 
 
 rubbed together, 
 A dry leaf spindles down, like a bird's light 
 
 feather. 
 
 Still, oh still- 
 Silence hath laid, in her woods and on her 
 
 hill, 
 
 The sighing wind asleep, 
 And thin clouds smoke over, gently creep 
 Across the bare furrows and rubbed grass 
 
 and settle down, 
 Coiling in faint wreaths among the golden 
 
 stones of the town. 
 
 Still, oh still! There is harm in speaking, 
 Speech is too hard, speech only means waking 
 Into a world of words where lovely things 
 
 are bound by names, 
 Where we pursue colour and call her flowers 
 
 or flames. 
 
 28
 
 Yet speak if you will, or rather sing 
 
 As softly, softly as the bare boughs rubbed 
 
 together, 
 Make no more sound than touch of leaf or 
 
 feather, 
 A song as vague as the mist-wreaths that 
 
 cling 
 Round the woods and the fields and the bare 
 
 sides of the down 
 And the tall ghostly gleaming houses of the 
 
 town, 
 A song that shall mix with silence, a faint 
 
 escaping thing. . . . 
 Then, then we may find in the magic of this 
 
 hour 
 Where it is thought is still, where the brain 
 
 has no power 
 And words have no meaning except their 
 
 sound. 
 
 29
 
 SONNET 
 
 IKE someone bolted in a lightless room, 
 We search and stumble, and our flesh 
 
 offend 
 On chairs and tables hidden in the gloom, 
 
 And pause, and start again, and in the end, 
 Legs bruised, hands torn, and minds be- 
 wildered, sink 
 
 Till, huddling comfortless upon the ground, 
 We wait for nothing, trembling when we 
 
 think 
 How in the darkness dark shapes hem us 
 
 round. 
 
 And some a paper hold, which faintest light 
 Silted between the shutters lets them see 
 Dimly, and something written, black on white, 
 To tell them where the door is and the key. 
 But even those who see as much as this 
 Still guess and cannot riddle what it is.
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN VOICE 
 
 CPEAK once again, forgotten voice! 
 
 How, how gladly would I hear thee 
 Guide my blind and mortal choice, 
 Yet long months I come not near thee. 
 Whither hast thou then removed, 
 Or did I never hear thee ? 
 Was that whispering in the mind 
 Which with sense intent I divined 
 Only the stir of blood in pulses aching ? 
 Hast thou never to my ear 
 Stooped thy sweet mouth, my spirit waking ? 
 Speak now, if speak thou canst. The hot 
 
 blood shaking 
 
 Temples and arteries I know, 
 And in the loud confusion I shall know thee. 
 Speak and I will hear, 
 Heart, will and spirit all shall show thee. 
 
 Ah, no, no, no! 
 
 In the vast echoing cave 
 
 31 c
 
 Floored by green earth and roofed by empty 
 
 sky 
 
 Nothing but wind and wave 
 And no reply 
 Save vain reverberation of my cry. 
 
 Forgotten voice, speak, speak again, 
 Clearer than winds or waves or men. 
 Like a lost friend in countries far away, 
 Thou hast been for so long a day: 
 Yet rise again, yet speak again to me; 
 I dwindle, wanting thee!
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN LIGHT 
 
 T N the sad spirit 
 
 Where all is dark 
 And fault and merit 
 
 Are gray shapes stark, 
 Each like his neighbour 
 
 And each dim, 
 And pleasure and labour 
 
 Alike are grim, 
 Shine down, O Light 
 Illumine this night. 
 
 Here in the gray 
 
 Nor motion nor breath 
 Nor joy of day 
 
 Nor sharpness of death 
 Relieves the endless 
 
 Pitiless gloom 
 Where goes friendless 
 
 Desire to her doom : 
 33
 
 Shine down, O Light, 
 Illumine this night. 
 
 I know thou livest, 
 
 Then shine, then shine, 
 Thou that givest 
 
 Help divine, 
 Turn on this cold 
 
 Thy burning eyes 
 Ere starved and old 
 
 The dark heart dies : 
 Shine down, O Light, 
 Illumine this night. 
 
 34
 
 THE DANCER 
 
 OETWEEN the hither and the further 
 
 . woods, 
 On whose dark branches beats the sun in 
 
 vain, 
 Out in the midst where the intense light 
 
 broods, 
 
 There moves a livelier light, a living fire, 
 With speed that seems 
 That still and sleeping radiance to disdain, 
 And yet no more to tire 
 Than the quick shapes that haunt our happy 
 
 dreams. 
 
 Light-skirted, feather-footed, laughing, 
 
 dancing, 
 
 Borne on a breath of swift and buoyant air, 
 Turning and sidling, retiring and advancing, 
 She moves like thistledown, she floats away, 
 Swings and returns, lifts eyes to take the stare 
 Of the delighted watchers. Rise and sway 
 
 35
 
 Her skirts about her; and now she slowly 
 
 moves, 
 
 As though an unseen choir of singing Loves 
 Hovered about her thrown-back head and 
 
 cried 
 
 Delicious praise down to her smiling pride. 
 And every turn of her young body makes 
 A silent changing music, fast or slow, 
 Which as she pauses breaks 
 And sinks upon itself in shining overthrow. 
 Silence unbroken follows the silent measure, 
 The enraptured group that watched her 
 
 quietly breathes 
 
 In the arrested silence of that pause 
 An air filled full with the sweet scent of 
 
 pleasure. 
 
 Then, as a swordsman slowly sheathes 
 The blade wherewith he wove a net of light, 
 So she in ordinary flesh withdraws 
 The coloured image, volatile and bright, 
 That danced before them and enchanted them. 
 Her arms fall softly to her sides, 
 36
 
 Soft to the knee falls the skirt's airy hem, 
 The taut knees bend, the waist relaxes, swift 
 Down on the grass the unstrung body slides. 
 She lies there huddled, hidden the flushed 
 
 face, 
 
 Her shoulders heaving up the filmy shift, 
 One leg outstretched in spent, neglectful 
 
 grace. 
 
 Low mutter they their praise that softly 
 
 reaches 
 The panting girl. She does not raise her 
 
 head 
 
 But at the music of their grateful speeches 
 All her slack body comfortably glows 
 And in ecstatic weariness she makes 
 The sun-warmed turf a bed ; 
 Her limbs fall looser, the soft eyelids close, 
 She sleeps. No voice her languid slumber 
 
 breaks ; 
 
 But now the watchers, musing deep and far, 
 Lift up their eyes 
 
 37
 
 Towards the vague, the sapphirine calm skies. 
 While, like a visionary moving star, 
 Still through their thoughts her dancing 
 image flies.
 
 SECOND PART
 
 ARGUMENT 
 
 // was foretold by the oracle that Achilles, son 
 of the sea-goddess, Thetis, and of Peleus, King of 
 Thessaly, should have a glorious life but an early 
 and 'violent death. When the Greek chieftains 
 prepared their expedition against Troy, his mother, 
 hoping to avert this doom, conveyed him to Scyros, 
 where she hid him among the maidens of the 
 island, disguised by her enchantments as one of 
 them. It was also foretold that the Greeks should 
 not take Troy without the help of Achilles, and 
 Ulysses was therefore sent to find him out, which 
 he did by means of a trick. During his conceal- 
 ment on the island Achilles loved Deidamia, the 
 kings daughter, who afterwards bore him a son. 
 
 40
 
 THE ISLAND OF YOUTH 
 
 To H. C. Harwood. 
 
 "LJARDLY the first sweet day of sun and 
 
 showers 
 
 On which with dewy lashes the world awakes 
 And in the pale glass of the stretched sky, 
 Misty with her own tears, sees blurred and dim 
 Her half-forgotten youth hardly that day 
 Had stepped from troubled wave to quiet wave 
 Before the maidens of the island learnt 
 They had a new companion. She was tall 
 And fashioned with a grave and queenly 
 
 beauty 
 
 Wherein the darkness of a grief to come 
 Shone deep but lustrous, as upon the sand 
 Of shallow seas on clear and windless days 
 The shadow of the boat deepens, not flaws, 
 The watery light. She met them silently, 
 And when they asked her name she answered, 
 
 Stranger,
 
 But told not who had brought her there or 
 
 whence. 
 
 All knew a lady had been deep engaged 
 Through the whole day in secret with the 
 
 king 
 And with the rustic lords who counselled 
 
 him, 
 
 But none had seen her come or go. One said 
 There had been fluting in the morning wind 
 And stir of waters and a breeze that ran 
 Against the season's drift at touch of dawn 
 And strewed in the cool air a tingling music 
 Like fingers playing on a glass's rim. 
 One said that in her father's house at noon 
 She had passed the coolest chamber where the 
 
 light 
 Through the rush- woven hangings never 
 
 came, 
 And staying her bare feet by the shadowed 
 
 entry 
 
 Had seen pale radiance lying in a pool 
 Upon the trodden floor, and faintly heard 
 42
 
 Her father's voice answering another voice 
 That uttered, like a wind on ruffling water, 
 Delicate syllables. And in truth there was 
 A presence on the island all that day 
 And all that night. The simple island lords, 
 Who ruled a land as peaceful as themselves, 
 Careful to have the granges full of corn, 
 The goat-skins plump with wine, the flocks 
 
 and herds 
 
 Guarded and tended to a due increase, 
 Showed in their eyes, like a reflected light, 
 Serenity, and in their bearing peace, 
 And in their speech a cadence tranquiller 
 Than they had used before. Another told 
 How the next day she had drowsed upon 
 
 her bed 
 About the dawn, poised between sleep and 
 
 waking, 
 And seen or dreamt (for when full morning 
 
 came 
 
 She knew not which) a rosy shape that drew 
 Over the ripples to the sea's red verge, 
 43
 
 Couched in a rosy shell, with dolphin-teams 
 And scaly-skinned outriders on the backs 
 Of great sea-horses, blowing in resonant 
 
 conches 
 A deep-breath'd tune, like noise of boisterous 
 
 waves 
 
 Which in full sunshine on a rocky coast 
 Prolong their turmoil when the storm is done 
 And seem in play to mock their late assault. 
 While from her window these she watched, 
 
 she heard 
 
 A crying from wild ocean rise in answer 
 And saw the rosy shell fade in the dawn 
 That flowered upon the sea. Or did a cloud, 
 The sun's first messenger, dipped in his 
 
 colours, 
 
 Melt in his fiery breathing as he rose ? 
 And was that clamour only the first wind 
 That moves at dawn and from the light- 
 thrilled air 
 
 Draws a faint melody ? She did not know, 
 For while she watched with elbows on the sill 
 44
 
 Sleep soothed her eyes again. She woke to 
 
 find 
 
 Sky, 1 'sea and light and air and nothing more, 
 Save in her thoughts a half-forgotten dream. 
 
 The island Scyros floated on the sea 
 And in the water shone her crags and towers, 
 A second self existing in the wave, 
 Mysterious and lovely, like the double 
 Which, as some yet believe for comfort's sake, 
 Attends each man from birth to death, 
 
 remaining 
 
 What in a kinder world he might have been. 
 But few in Scyros were the flaws and scars 
 Which the transmuting mirror-sea might 
 
 smooth, 
 
 And in that summer Thetis' blessing lay 
 Especially upon her. Fishermen 
 Thanked the sea-goddess for continual calm 
 That lulled their storm-washed vessels near 
 
 the rocks 
 
 45
 
 And herded in their nets the plenteous fish. 
 The farmers watched their fields grow day 
 
 by day 
 
 More fruitful, and the vines under the sun 
 More prosperously ripen to the vintage, 
 Unvexed by creeping rot or summer tempest. 
 Nor wolf nor murrain did the shepherd plague 
 And on his thyme-grown hills he slept at 
 
 night, 
 Close by the dew-pond's green and glimmering 
 
 round, 
 
 While all about him slept the peaceful flock 
 Like white stones under the distant, kindly 
 
 stars. 
 
 But not alone did the tame things increase 
 For man's provision. In the dells and brakes 
 The vines that bear the wild tart fruit grew 
 
 heavy 
 
 Early in summer, and along the ground 
 Trailed with their load, not waving free in 
 
 air. 
 
 And for the maidens there were many flowers, 
 46
 
 Wild orchids rising in the broad-leafed grass 
 And pale wood-lilies lighting all the hills 
 And bells, as plenty as the ocean's fish, 
 That seemed to run in shoals before the 
 
 wind. 
 
 These were the island's wealth and luxury 
 Wherewith gay summer filled her spreaded 
 
 skirts. 
 
 A constant weather shed bright influence 
 
 Upon the life of man, and day by day 
 
 The sea-wind blew unswerving, fresh and 
 
 mild, 
 
 And on his airy billows bore the clouds 
 That sometimes melted in a fruitful shower. 
 But never was the earth with moisture soaked 
 To rot the full-eared corn in ripening month, 
 Nor ever were the maidens from their tasks 
 In field or garden or on tawny beach, 
 Or from the games that followed the light 
 
 task, 
 
 47 D
 
 By storms untimely or long rains withheld. 
 There is in maidenhood a subtle strength 
 Reserved, as if a rift in mountains tall 
 Should catch the waters of a hasty spring 
 And hold them peaceful in her lap of stone 
 One moment, while the sky and leaning 
 
 flowers 
 Are mirrored in the floods and make them 
 
 lovely, 
 
 Before they hurry down the side again, 
 To grow, and take the soilure of their course, 
 Doing the work of water on the earth. 
 These that the island nourished needed not 
 A goddess' blessing on the year to make 
 
 them 
 More beautiful, to round the child's thin 
 
 limbs, 
 
 To ripen the lean side, and the slant breast 
 Curve out in fullness. They were nature's 
 
 foison, 
 The flower on mankind's tree, as brief as 
 
 fair, 
 
 48
 
 The foam-wreath on the restless tide of life, 
 Whose bubbles rise and break and rise again, 
 As fugitive and as eternal they. 
 And who beheld them, youth or graybeard 
 
 worn 
 
 Or child or nursing-mother, felt in them 
 The magic moment when the race of man 
 Poises in gathered strength before fulfilment 
 And turns to beauty. Not least lovely there, 
 The Stranger, tall of limb and bright of eye 
 And proud of carriage, joined them in their 
 
 tasks, 
 
 Willing, and meek in answer when she earned 
 Reproaches of the quicker-handed girls, 
 And friendly in her looks, though on her 
 
 brow 
 
 Cloudlike a constant sadness weighed, as if 
 Knowledge mixed there with wonder. In 
 
 their games 
 
 She was the better player. When they ran 
 With skirts trussed up she outran them easily, 
 And she was quicker with the tossing ball. 
 49
 
 Even their youthful leader she outstripped, 
 
 Deidamia, daughter of the king. 
 
 Their fellow, though the daughter of the king, 
 
 And only by her beauty and her wit 
 
 The chief among them, who, till this the first 
 
 In race and game, was by the Stranger's mien 
 
 Of gentleness and friendliness so pleased 
 
 That earliest among them sprang her joy 
 
 To greet the new companion and to guide 
 
 Her steps unpractised in their well-known 
 
 paths. 
 
 But after they had played one hour away 
 Suddenly fear possessed them, and they 
 
 shrank 
 
 From touching her or being touched by her, 
 Compelled by what strange chastity they 
 
 knew not, 
 
 So that a soberness upon them fell 
 And hushed their laughter, and their lifted 
 
 arms 
 Bound to their sides and darkened their bright 
 
 eyes. 
 
 50
 
 It was as though a wandering god had plunged 
 Deep fathoms from his castle in the sky 
 Into earth's thicker air and flying slow 
 Had paused on shining-feathered vans to 
 
 watch 
 
 So lovely a gathered garland of mortal flowers, 
 Which as the shadow of the hawk afield 
 Frightens the birds to silence so these maids 
 Stilled in their merriment and turned to marble. 
 The game was stayed. The lightly bouncing 
 
 ball 
 
 Bounced into rest upon the sunny ground 
 And lay there motionless. The ring of girls 
 Stared each at other, dumbly asking whence 
 The influence came that thus affrighted them; 
 And none gave answer. Only in mockery 
 Echo among the hills drew slowly away, 
 Breathing soft repetitions of the laughter 
 That long had ceased. A heavy silence lay 
 Upon the plat of grass that late with sound 
 Bubbled and overflowed. Then one by one, 
 Each loosed her still and rigid attitude;
 
 One bent her waist, and one the attentive 
 
 head 
 
 Lowered, and one the stiffly pointing arm 
 Let flex again. But still the silence brooded 
 Over them all, as though they had been in 
 
 truth 
 
 But rooted flowers, which have no other voice 
 Save what the winds and ever-voyaging bees 
 Create among their leaves. Thus from the 
 
 depths 
 
 Of sense unconscious rose an airy thought 
 To warn them of a peril not yet seen 
 And nameless. But the Stranger gazed 
 
 around 
 
 The troubled faces, hers grown darker still, 
 And raised her arms, as if imploring pity, 
 And slowly let them fall again. She saw, 
 One after one, the shadowed glances turn 
 And rest on her in mute distrust. Then she 
 Breathed deep a sigh of melody forlorn, 
 As sigh the woods when over darkening hills 
 Come the first streamers of a storm foreknown, 
 52
 
 And to the nearest, grown within that hour 
 Her friend, who but that moment played 
 
 with her 
 
 And with her made one moving form of grace, 
 Addressed her sole appeal, silent and wan, 
 Already hopeless. Deidamia gazed 
 Down on the grass with veiled, unanswering 
 
 look, 
 
 As though the life and friendliness that played 
 But lately on her lips and in her eyes 
 Like a wild wood-thing to some secret hole 
 At sound of footsteps in the wood were gone. 
 Not to the rest the Stranger raised her eyes 
 But staring downward hid the unusual tears 
 And with a strangled gesture of her hands 
 Turned quick away. They saw her form 
 
 recede 
 
 Among the olives, up the terraced hill, 
 The white skirt fluttering from step to step, 
 Climbing the zigzag path. Then, all con- 
 fused, 
 
 Again they essayed the interrupted game, 
 53
 
 Took up the idle ball and listlessly 
 
 Threw it from hand to hand. But as they 
 
 played 
 
 The unknown influence that frightened them 
 Surged newly bodied from the troubled depths 
 Of maiden sense and trammelled their quick 
 
 wrists 
 And hooded their clear eyes and in their 
 
 thoughts 
 
 Dazzled like summer lightning faint and soft 
 That ripens the green corn on starry nights. 
 
 Meanwhile on furthest mountain out of sight 
 The young Achilles, stripped of maiden's 
 
 dress, 
 
 Ran like a flame. Ant, spider, lizard, snake 
 Paused in their busyness among the rocks 
 To see him go. Along the narrow path, 
 Seldom by any trodden, overgrown 
 With spiky bramble and the stinging nettle 
 And binding trails of many a creeping flower, 
 54
 
 He leapt unheeding and his naked limbs 
 Were coursed by rivulets of sweat and blood. 
 His teeth firm clenched, his nostrils open 
 
 wide, 
 
 His eyes delighted by the wind he made, 
 He ran and ran untiring. Far below 
 The tiny people shrank to insect mould, 
 The sheltered harbour dwindled to a toy, 
 And soon the highest terraces of vines 
 Were left behind, and among burning crags 
 As naked as himself in joy he ran, 
 Till on the topmost rock where the last pine, 
 Scorched by the summer, by the winter gales 
 At every gust unsettled, grimly clings 
 To bare and dismal life, he paused and fell 
 Headlong upon the stone and felt its rough- 
 ness 
 
 Pleasantly hot against his heated flesh. 
 Then he knew nothing but content. His blood, 
 That swept in race through every stretching 
 
 vein, 
 
 Drowned the wild murmur of the lonely heart 
 55
 
 With thunderous echoes in his bursting ears, 
 And the tired muscles of his youthful limbs 
 Ached keener as he lay than did the thoughts 
 That late perplexed his spirit. Soon, too 
 
 soon, 
 
 The gasping breath grew calmer and the blood 
 Ran not so hastily. Thus on a night, 
 When loud gales shake the mountains and 
 
 their shouts 
 
 Ring on in tumult through the echoing arches 
 Of bursting heaven, no voice but theirs is 
 
 heard ; 
 But when they cease, when gradually the 
 
 sky 
 
 Appeases her tempestuous children, then 
 Out of the spreading silence comes a voice 
 To take possession of the empty air, 
 The still complaining brook, from shelf to 
 
 shelf 
 
 Falling in thin-toned misery which seems 
 To fill the listening world as not the storm. 
 Achilles wept. The sudden smarting tears 
 
 56
 
 That sprang into his eyes astonished him; 
 And there, alone or watched by humble things 
 In whose pure spirits reason was not quick 
 To mock at grief, he let them fall unstopped 
 And eased his suffering. But when he looked 
 Down through the mist of olive-leaves and 
 
 boughs 
 That clothed the mountain-side, the sea shone 
 
 soft, 
 
 A smoky blue, whereon the sun's light glinted 
 And waves broke idly round a pointed reef. 
 Then on his knees he raised himself and 
 
 stretched 
 
 Strong arms to the kind ocean, crying aloud, 
 ' Mother, arise! Sweet mother, from the sea, 
 Where with thy flowers the swell is garlanded, 
 Arise and comfort me! Why was I born 
 To suffer thus in exile ? Must I dwell 
 Far from my home among a foreign race 
 And exiled from myself in these false robes, 
 Kept from the emulations of my youth, 
 Its triumphs, sports and dangers, like a girl ? 
 
 57
 
 Truly the oracle has injured me, 
 Not only now in seeing my young death, 
 But first when it ordained that Peleus' son 
 Should have immortal substance in his flesh: 
 For who but one that hath unearthly power 
 Could make that possible which should not be 
 Or deceive any by so gross a trick ? 
 Who but a goddess, moved by immortal 
 
 wishes, 
 Could so mistake the human blood that 
 
 runs 
 
 About my body, and my mortal wish 
 Thus by divine unpitying logic thwart ? ' 
 Thus, thus he cried; and still no answer 
 
 came, 
 
 And still his bosom rose rebelliously, 
 And still with angry glances gazed he out 
 Upon his mother's barren, lovely realm, 
 His mouth awry, his cheeks, 'twixt rage and 
 
 yearning, 
 
 Fiery or wet. At last behind his back 
 The sun dipped underneath a neighbour peak 
 58
 
 And suddenly the air was still and cool. 
 Below him far, a bird on bough unseen 
 Raised a night anthem in sweet jets of sound, 
 And further still, beyond the edge of foam, 
 A little boat, as little as a leaf, 
 Rocked on the falling swell, and from the 
 
 bow 
 
 A kneeling fisherman dipped in the wave 
 His knotted line and watched, with back 
 
 intent, 
 
 While his companion with slow-moving oar 
 Kept equal head against the gentle tide. 
 
 Thereafter, mild and grave and unaroused, 
 In female robes again the Stranger went 
 Among the maidens with averted head 
 And did her tasks with them but not resumed 
 The sweet companionship of race and game. 
 And long long day added to long long day 
 In summer's fragrant count. But all that 
 year 
 
 59
 
 The young in Scyros, like the trodden grass, 
 Which, when the heel is lifted, lifts again 
 A green untamed head towards the sun, 
 Seeing thus by plenty life's oppressive heel 
 Raised for a season, raised themselves in joy 
 And stretched out greedy hands to pick the 
 
 flower 
 
 That might not blow again. But so it was 
 That when the pot of pleasure came to boil 
 Youth turned to maid and with persuasive 
 
 lips 
 
 Demanded what she gave not. She, aloof, 
 Passed by his prayer as though she heard it 
 
 not, 
 
 And held in thought another, dimmer goal 
 Than such embraces as in earlier day 
 Herself and him begot. For each to each, 
 Working in pairs or resting through noon's 
 
 heat 
 
 Or waking double-bedded on airless nights, 
 The maidens owned, stumbling and wanting 
 
 words, 
 
 60
 
 How each was haunted by a misty shade, 
 Real but featureless. And, this confessed, 
 Each from her sister turned, repenting it, 
 To hide the blush that showed but chastity 
 And yet seemed full of shame. And each alone 
 Considered what her sister said, and dreamed 
 That better she could see, although not say, 
 The vision far removed. But in their dances 
 Ringed on the green and in their skipping 
 
 games 
 
 A spirit ghosted them as not before 
 And turned them from the joys of human 
 
 maids 
 
 To bodiless imaginings. They grew 
 All through that summer like a race apart, 
 Yet not the less fulfilled of grace and joy 
 Which unknown longing lit to deeper hue, 
 Like lightning playing in a distant cloud 
 Whose edges still are bright with sunset's 
 
 rose. 
 
 No more by garden, hill or lonely shore 
 Deidamia led a romping train 
 
 61
 
 To do their daily tasks or play or swim; 
 No more on island feast and holiday 
 She loosed them laughing in the happy crowd 
 To find new partners who their supple forms 
 In game or dance with rougher grip might 
 
 hold 
 
 Yet not in arms less loving. When the ship 
 Out of the uncharmed world beyond the rim 
 Of visible ocean glided smoothly in, 
 Unlooked for but most welcome, and the 
 
 people 
 
 Came down rejoicing to the waterside 
 And ringed about the unknown voyagers, 
 The maids, withdrawn behind the shouting 
 
 folk, 
 Like clouds indeed, ranked in the upper 
 
 sky, 
 
 That in their bosoms hold the needed rain, 
 Aloof and lovely, wandered out of reach, 
 And like a summer cloud their shadow 
 
 threw, 
 
 Cool but not dark upon the lively earth. 
 62
 
 But soon to them, mustered beyond the 
 
 throng. 
 
 Half hidden in the melting airs of day 
 That deepened towards night on land and 
 
 sea, 
 
 There came a voice, a strange appealing voice, 
 That moved them inwardly they knew not 
 
 how, 
 And with the rustle and sheen of spreaded 
 
 stuffs 
 
 Thrown on the grass, and many a gem dis- 
 played, 
 Drew them to sidle through the crowd and 
 
 view 
 The vessel's cargo. Long and long they 
 
 gazed, 
 
 Charmed by the tongue that wove an airy web 
 About their spirits; and the Stranger too, 
 Drawn in among them, gazed with empty 
 
 eyes 
 
 On robes and scarves, till on the growing pile 
 With careless hand and half-averted look 
 63 E
 
 The merchant threw a sword. An ancient 
 
 sword 
 
 Sank in a bed of softly yielding silks 
 And lay there darkly gleaming. On the 
 
 blade 
 Old grooves left keen and sharp the shearing 
 
 edge : 
 
 The hilt, by many a hand-grip worn and smooth, 
 Spoke the embrace of battling fingers clenched 
 Often in noble rage or the desperate 
 Frenzy of beaten men who dreaded death 
 Or the cold iron will of slayers set 
 Upon their fellows' end. These, like a 
 
 swarm 
 
 Of ghosts that from the enchanter's eery glass 
 The unwary words call forth, rose from the 
 
 blade 
 And steamed into the Stranger's smarting 
 
 eyes, 
 So that her own stretched hand she could not 
 
 see 
 
 Which the hilt drew towards it. But her flesh 
 64
 
 Felt that compulsion in the tendons fine 
 And in her veins again the blood at war. 
 Desire with resolution, vow with wish, 
 Storming between the unused banks. And 
 
 then, 
 
 Unwilling and regretted, the gesture made 
 Its own completion and an act was born, 
 Not ever from the world to be effaced 
 With all its consequence of deed and thought. 
 The hand that quickly from the hilt fecoiled 
 Could never be the same again, the nerves 
 That henceforth should its fearful power 
 
 direct 
 
 Were in their deep mysterious root trans- 
 formed. 
 Nothing she cared who watched. Herself 
 
 she saw 
 
 In her own spirit something rise and bud, 
 Suddenly swelling, and the sheath of dreams 
 Break into curling up and withered leaves 
 To let that strange flower of the future through, 
 A blossom which with petals sombrely red 
 65
 
 Presaged wild deeds, fruition of desire, 
 And after fruiting done a something else 
 Dark to foresee but heavy with a sense 
 Of weariness and blame and shame and tears. 
 This gloomed in her wide eyes and hid the 
 
 scene, 
 
 Hid her companions, unawakened still, 
 Busy in dream with toy and ornament, 
 And hid the sideways glance that fixed on her 
 In triumph. Hardly, when that voice began 
 Low in her ear, like mutter of a stream 
 Heard by the night-bewildered wanderer 
 Deep in a misty wood, who knows the marsh 
 Deadly to straying feet hardly she knew 
 Whence that doom-heavy soft persuasion 
 
 came, 
 
 From lips without or the unsuspected thought 
 New-wakened in her heart with serpent- 
 tongue, 
 
 Calling the virgin spirit out of childhood 
 To life and death and more than life or 
 death. 
 
 66
 
 Dumbly she listened, but as one who looks, 
 Not listens, with taut sense and straining 
 
 eyes, 
 Then with a muttered word, * To-morrow! ' 
 
 turned 
 Towards the mountain, where the tumbled 
 
 crags 
 And huge still woods seemed in the darkening 
 
 air 
 
 To spread their darker selves and stain the sky 
 With deeper hue about them. As she turned, 
 She saw with outward sight, that nothing sees, 
 Another glance beseeching her. It passed 
 As fades the bird's quick shadow on the field 
 When a cloud overtakes it. Through the 
 
 people 
 With stumbling feet and distant gaze she 
 
 went. 
 
 This day was summer's harshest on the isle: 
 Her breath lay heavy in the stubble field 
 67
 
 And field unreaped where stood the toppling 
 
 ears 
 
 And every vineyard where the clusters gloomed, 
 Full-globed shadows in the still-hung leaves; 
 And every stone upon the shore rayed back 
 Dull months-collected heat in stirless air 
 Among the maidens. They about the show 
 Still packed with swelling whispers and quick 
 
 hands, 
 And felt slow moisture down their bodies 
 
 run, 
 Stand on their foreheads and make lank their 
 
 curls, 
 
 Till one raised up her eyes, and on her cheek 
 A faint breath smote with cold, awakening 
 
 touch. 
 
 Low her voice sounded in the hubbub soft 
 And yet so deep that each her whispering 
 
 ceased 
 And looked, and saw upon the sea's far 
 
 edge 
 
 The sunset like a wavering curtain hung 
 68
 
 To hide the unknown. Soft rose, smoky and 
 
 soft, 
 
 Spread out across the sky a melting scroll 
 And underneath, a cloud, loose-edged and 
 
 dim, 
 Rode on the water. Thence the wind blew 
 
 chill, 
 
 Fingered their faces, pushed their tresses back 
 And laid the airy garments cold and close 
 Against their shivering and reluctant flesh. 
 Away from them, alone, the Stranger paused 
 High on the shoulder of the stony hill, 
 And looking eastward as they west, beheld 
 At vision's limit, poised in crystal air, 
 The phantom of a mountain-range, whose 
 
 base 
 Sprang out of vapour, but whose floating 
 
 peaks 
 Threw back in broken gold the sun's last 
 
 light. 
 
 Dazzled she stood and stared. The moun- 
 tains swam 
 
 69
 
 Like rainbowed ice afloat on Arctic seas, 
 Inpalpable, but sharp of edge and colour, 
 One moment, and the next dissolved in 
 
 shade, 
 
 Gone like a glowing cloud that winds dis- 
 perse ; 
 And darkness from that first drowned point 
 
 came on, 
 Hurrying on to cover all the world. 
 
 Again Achilles laid upon the rock 
 His maiden garments, now with sad contempt 
 Yet something new of sorrow in the touch 
 That needlessly made smooth their tumbled 
 
 folds. 
 
 Then, like the rising of the winter sun, 
 Burning but sullen-hued, out of pale clouds, 
 The hero's body rose, from that eclipse 
 For ever freed. Now up the deep ravines 
 That clove the mountain, and the hollow 
 
 paths 
 
 70
 
 That scaled her flanks, flowed darkness like a 
 
 tide 
 
 And the long grass streamed out invisibly 
 Like seaweed under the slow-swelling wave. 
 Far from the fitful lights and voices loud 
 Achilles came with heavy, lagging step 
 Up the ascent. His feet the pollen brushed 
 From pale, night-waking flowers and mur- 
 mured on 
 Through weeds by summer's heat made harsh 
 
 and dry, 
 As though earth's spirit in the stillness 
 
 breathed 
 
 A nervous deep unrest. Heavy he trod 
 And paused at every turning of the path 
 And took the next step upward with a sigh. 
 And often as he went he looked behind 
 As though in quivering bough and air-tossed 
 
 leaf 
 
 Were whispers of an unknown follower. 
 But closer still thought's dark pursuers came, 
 Spirits new waking and agog to form
 
 Themselves strong bodies from the smoking 
 
 blood 
 
 His hand was now to spill, and from his own 
 That after must be spilt. At last he stayed 
 Under an olive-tree and sinking down 
 Bowed his hot forehead into cramped hands, 
 Feeling a little world whose pulses beat 
 Like earthquakes or annihilating wars. 
 About his seat the creatures of the night 
 Sought each a weaker, and the ancient rocks 
 Saw many a scene of tiny battle and death. 
 After an hour was gone he raised his head, 
 Hearing, he thought, once more below the 
 
 crag 
 
 The quiet water washing on a reef 
 Which in the silence grew, until it seemed, 
 Close in his ear, but in no human tongue, 
 A gentle voice speaking strange words of 
 
 peace. 
 
 ' Mother,' he cried, ' it is your voice. O use 
 The speech I know! ' No answer came to 
 
 him: 
 
 72
 
 But when the echoes of his cry had fallen 
 Like stricken birds from dark crag to dark 
 
 sea, 
 
 He spoke again: ' Mother, was it from this 
 You hid me, not my own longings, my own 
 
 dreams ? 
 These were the deeds I dreamt of to make 
 
 cause 
 
 With the shrill cuckold for the magic harlot 
 And slay innocent men! Now I can see 
 What it is that must die before my death, 
 Eaten at the root before the arrow strikes. 
 I cry to you as not before, for then 
 I accused the kind, unknowing deity 
 That saw the motions of my human heart 
 As I have watched the toad's dull pulsing 
 
 throat 
 
 In ignorance and love. Now I implore 
 Your strength against the thing you feared 
 
 for me! 
 For this dark fate that points out the forked 
 
 way 
 
 73
 
 Loves not nor hates, but knows, and in my 
 
 brain 
 
 Has sown a dreadful guessing. Shall I become 
 An airy bubble, empty, round and gay, 
 That leaves not even a stain upon the earth, 
 Or the gross meat which day by day my 
 
 fellows 
 Pass through dishonouring stomachs for their 
 
 food ? 
 
 How should I choose between them if I must ? 
 Yet as I speak my choice is made.' The sea, 
 Moaning about the eternal base below, 
 Spread through the air a voice of sad assent 
 That gripped his heart and in the grip gave 
 
 peace, 
 The peace of things resolved, not to be changed. 
 
 Deep grew the darkness where he stood. 
 
 The moon, 
 
 Arising softly from a couch of cloud, 
 Lightened the hillside here and there, and cast 
 
 74
 
 On every shadowed place a thicker shade. 
 Within that veil Achilles stood obscured, 
 Numb at the heart, but all Achilles now, 
 For now from him a last enchantment fell, 
 Leaving him strong and sad. Out of the 
 
 world 
 
 Faded at last the semblance he had borne, 
 Vanished as vanishes a happy dream 
 Which at the menace of inbreaking day 
 Still shields the sleeper from the cruel sun. 
 Gone was the Stranger. Whither ? Ask as 
 
 well 
 Where the flower's beauty goes when petals 
 
 fade 
 
 And the rough seed thrusts out. Yet it may be 
 That still a spirit haunts the isle, a ghost 
 Of dew and light and air, revisiting 
 The beach where long ago the maidens played, 
 And finds perhaps in some far, narrow vale 
 The rude grave of a poet, dead too young, 
 Whom death, or life, frustrated of his hope, 
 Presses her faint lips to the soil and breathes 
 
 75
 
 One word of half-remembered sisterhood. 
 But these are dreams. Out of the breathing 
 
 world 
 
 Long, long ago that semblance fled away, 
 Past any summons, even of the sweetest mouth 
 To which it once had answered. Now in 
 
 vain 
 Those patient feet climbed the rough path, 
 
 in vain 
 
 Deidamia through the olive-trees, 
 A slip of white that dimly drifted on 
 Like sunshine pale in sea-abysms drowned, 
 Searched groping and astray. In vain she 
 
 called, 
 
 Bidding the lost companion answer her 
 Too late the summons spoken to a wraith. 
 Yet a receding whisper trembled out 
 As though the air had spoken or the leaves 
 Had lent a voice to the unbodied spirit 
 To breathe an inarticulate farewell. 
 Gladly she answered and again came on 
 And by the darkness where the hero stood, 
 76
 
 Only a shadow paler than the rest, 
 
 Troubled that shadow with her gentle plea: 
 
 ' Why do you shun us. Stranger ? Have we 
 
 not 
 Long since repented, though in looks not 
 
 words, 
 The wrong we did you ? We were cruel and 
 
 strange, 
 
 Knowing not why, not knowing we were so, 
 But moved by something hidden in ourselves 
 That never stirred before. It was not un- 
 
 kindness 
 Turned me from you and soured my friendly 
 
 heart 
 
 But kindness too sudden in my breast. O say, 
 What serpent raised its head 'twixt you and me 
 And stung the hands held out in growing love ?' 
 She paused, and in her voice the tears welled high 
 Like an encroaching wave that fails again 
 Before the brink. ' Why are you strange 
 
 to us ? 
 
 What wakes in us a thing so long unknown 
 
 77
 
 To sudden aching life ? Before you came 
 We lived together, maidens without thought. 
 As though the rolling world its axle stayed 
 And time forebore to trouble us. But now 
 The emblems of our dream grow real and 
 
 harsh, 
 
 Our peace becomes a smarting restless- 
 ness. 
 
 Return to us, return, and we with games 
 And gentle love will woo you to ourselves 
 And all shall be with us as once it was. 
 Will you not come with me ? Can you not 
 
 give 
 
 Again what I at first refused ? ' He stood 
 As rigid as a cypress-tree at noon 
 When all the mountain sleeps and on her 
 
 side 
 The woods are breathless. Then with painful 
 
 cry 
 
 At one step from the thicket he advanced 
 And in the moonlight tall and naked appeared, 
 Saying with harsh, loud voice, * I am Achilles ! ' 
 78
 
 Whereat the girl moaned low, shrinking 
 
 aside, 
 
 And all life's terror flickered in her gaze. 
 He bent his straining body down to her, 
 She winced away still more on powerless 
 
 knees, 
 And thus they stayed unmoving. The night 
 
 stilled 
 
 Her wandering airs and every jigging leaf 
 Hung quiet on the stalk. Nothing was heard, 
 Save from the girl a deep and labouring breath 
 That broke into a sob and died away 
 And left a quivering horror in the darkness 
 When silence rose about the frozen pair. 
 Until at last Achilles spoke again, 
 Like thunder speaking on the cloudy hill 
 To dwellers in the valley far below, 
 Distant, deliberate and dreadful. ' You 
 Shrink now from truth as once from lies. I 
 
 have looked 
 
 Truth in the face and seen a fearful thing, 
 Not what we think yet I am not afraid.' 
 79 F
 
 He ceased. Again the echo died. The girl 
 Raised her sunk face with wrung and question- 
 ing look, 
 As though upon his breast was written a 
 
 word, 
 
 Where the hard answer to all questions lay, 
 Which she spelt slowly out. Upon her 
 
 brow 
 
 The weight of unexpected knowledge grew, 
 As harsh a weight to carry as may be 
 In mortal womb the progeny of a god. 
 Yet never did the proud and stem-straight 
 
 neck 
 
 Sway at the burden; and in those wide eyes 
 Horror gave way to wonder, wonder drew in 
 A sharp and dolorous ecstasy. At last 
 He, bending down, another answer read 
 To his own cry. There was in their embrace 
 No kindness nor no pleasure, but the strength 
 Of floods unloosened, as their spirits rose 
 Dizzy and blind through the void fields of 
 night. 
 
 80
 
 O stars, shine kindly on them, and, dark 
 
 earth, 
 
 Breathe all your thick and friendly odours up 
 About their bed, the smell of well-dunged 
 
 fields 
 
 Ready to bear new harvests and the smell 
 Of cattle stalled in comfortable byres, 
 Mixed with the keener scents of transient 
 
 flowers, 
 
 That drift, a natural incense, on the hills; 
 And you, dim forest on the mountain side, 
 Receive among the noises of the night 
 That cry of bodily pain and let it fall 
 Into the silence with the fox's bark 
 And scarce-heard whimper of the netted 
 
 hare. 
 
 When the slow morning came, the crawling 
 
 sun 
 
 Appeared behind a heavy bank of cloud 
 And threw a gray and level flood of light 
 81
 
 Towards the island; and the hero's arm 
 Threw a distincter shadow on the breast 
 That panted soft beneath it into peace. 
 He raised himself a little, and with voice 
 That dawn's mysterious hush made thin and 
 
 still 
 
 Murmured, ' The night is over, I must go ! ' 
 Then with convulsive grasp of his strong 
 
 arms 
 
 He raised her to him, and his anxious mouth 
 Sought on her quiet lips, cold cheeks, dark 
 
 lids, 
 
 A further tenderness night had not shown. 
 He found not what he sought, or, if he found, 
 Found also in that sweet such bitter taste 
 As checked the crowding kisses. Through 
 
 his tears 
 
 That ached unshed he saw her resting body 
 Blurred with unsteady light. He closed his 
 
 eyes 
 
 And in his heart wild lamentation rose, 
 A jarred and dissonant music that bewailed 
 82
 
 Their two defeated lives. O for the world 
 Of dreams and unawaked enchantment still! 
 Already on her smooth brow and lineless 
 
 cheeks, 
 
 Forewritten in a ghostly character, 
 Age, sorrow and deception and the shame 
 Of hopes forsaken grinned at him. He knew, 
 His loth flesh crawling at the touch, that now 
 The hateful pencil wrote upon his skin 
 Its mocking message not the same, for age 
 Had no part in it. This was truth indeed, 
 Which he had seen, he boasted, without fear, 
 But dim and veiled, not in particular shape. 
 He winced unbearably, his spirit felt, 
 Grinding and harsh, the stirring of that truth, 
 Too like the pangs of motherhood which soon 
 Deidamia's body must convulse, 
 Being to her then, deserted and alone, 
 The sole remembrance of this night, their 
 
 love. 
 He groaned, but at the sound she raised, her 
 
 eyes, , 
 
 83
 
 Answering him only with a long, slow look 
 Deep in his own, which gazed at her and shed 
 Their burning hunger and unrest, until 
 They mirrored pure the mournful peace of 
 
 hers, 
 The peace of things fulfilled, deep beyond 
 
 May Day, Portofino 
 
 Christmas Day, Lewes, 1920. 
 
 84
 
 THIRD PART
 
 THE SKY AT CAMPDEN 
 
 To Eleanor and Alec Miller. 
 
 Tj^OLD after fold, the smoky clouds come over 
 
 The western edge. 
 Sag, lift and sink and at last discover 
 A long thin strip of delicate blue sky. 
 Sharp drawn against it, the thin hedge 
 Upon the hill-top and the high 
 Unstirring groves of trees 
 First catch the sun as the clouds go over, 
 Sailing eastward to uncover 
 The airy width of blue. 
 And all the fields above and here all these 
 Shine green and golden, slowly fade 
 And in the shadow lose their burning hue, 
 Where grass and leaf and corn one hue are made, 
 And faintly, gradually glow again 
 As the sun takes them 
 
 Or shudder, veiled in the darkly gleaming rain, 
 Or ripple over as the wind shakes them, 
 87
 
 Turning a new face to the skeltering air, 
 Lovely in light or rain or shade, 
 In any weather inalterably fair. 
 
 Here the sky hangs so closely overhead, 
 From Dover's Hill to Blockley, a canopy 
 
 spread 
 
 Roofing the valley with a changing light, 
 Where, underneath, long roads, winding and 
 
 white, 
 
 Toil up the hill-sides to approach the sky, 
 Where the small town and all its villages lie, 
 Ruled and completed by the blue above. 
 And here the clouds that elsewhere distantly 
 
 move, 
 
 Aloof, remote from human care or love, 
 Share in our daily life, no further away 
 Than the old elms or the warm ricks of hay, 
 And the sky is scarce stranger than the grass 
 
 we tread, 
 
 And the rain falls softlier, kindlier here 
 Than in other places out of the austere
 
 Hard heavens, wherefrom the traveller bends 
 
 his head. 
 Other skies are strange. We have been 
 
 where 
 
 Earth's friendliness grew thin in the cold air 
 And the small houses clung to the hill-side 
 And the restless wind in gaunt trees muttered 
 
 and cried 
 
 As it fled on. Not so this charmed air 
 That softly steals by thicket and grove 
 With the low voice and the tender hands of love, 
 Or races laughing across the fields and throws 
 Stones and soft grass and flowers lightly 
 
 down 
 
 Where, like the bared heart of a dying rose, 
 In all its golden beauty glows the town. 
 
 And sometimes in the evening all's dove-pale, 
 When the day-weary breezes fail 
 And halt to make the valley a fold 
 For their far-driven flocks of cloud. We see 
 The cloudy edges of the lifted wold 
 89
 
 Melt in the gray and fade in mystery. 
 
 Once rising early we beheld 
 
 Against dawn's pure and quiet western sky, 
 
 Poised in the airless branches of the tree, 
 
 A glowing apple night's thick dews had 
 
 swelled 
 To sudden ripeness, the first, no neighbour 
 
 by. 
 
 And once a burning haystack in the dusk 
 Lit up the valley, and all the people came 
 From the deeper night around, from the sombre 
 
 husk 
 
 That burst to show this crimson fruit of flame ; 
 And the tall fire rose into the sky and cast 
 Reflections and pale twilights far away, 
 And on the passing clouds a mimic day 
 That faded as they passed. 
 
 Draw back the curtain, throw the window 
 
 wide! 
 Midnight. Round love's own dwelling, where 
 
 we dwell, 
 
 90
 
 Silently, softly those great presences glide. 
 
 Nothing their track to tell, 
 
 Save where the staring, pin-point stars go 
 
 out; 
 
 Still overhead they slide 
 In slow benignance folding us about. 
 Love, draw the curtain again and we will 
 
 sleep : 
 Let the friendly sky and the clouds our vigil 
 
 keep.
 
 BOATS AT NIGHT 
 
 "L_f OW lovely is the sound of oars at night 
 And unknown voices, borne through 
 
 windless air, 
 From shadowy vessels floating out of sight 
 
 Beyond the harbour lantern's broken glare 
 To those piled rocks that make on the dark 
 
 wave 
 
 Only a darker stain. The splashing oars 
 Slide softly on as in an echoing cave 
 
 And with the whisper of the unseen shores 
 Mingle their music, till the bell of night 
 Murmurs reverberations low and deep 
 That droop towards the land in swooning 
 
 flight 
 
 Like whispers from the lazy lips of sleep. 
 The oars grow faint. Below the cloud-dim 
 
 hill 
 The shadows fade and now the bay is still 
 
 92
 
 THE HARBOUR 
 
 TNTO your heart as into harbour home, 
 
 A flagging ship with furling sails, I come. 
 There round the haven stand immortal trees, 
 Rank upon rank, in sun-steeped terraces, 
 And in the water, still and blue and deep, 
 Their images and the ship's in quietness sleep; 
 And there the air is calm, is pure and bright, 
 Sweet to the nostrils, full of slumbering light, 
 So crystal-clear that all the shadows stand, 
 Sharp-edged, distinct, alike on sea and land. 
 There peacefully at anchor the ship lies, 
 Dreaming and still, where only change the 
 
 skies 
 From noon's pale glow to night's profounder 
 
 blue, 
 And radiance reigns the day and night-time 
 
 through, 
 Whether the sun's light, or the moon's, or 
 
 star's, 
 
 Falls on the deck and on the quiet spars. 
 
 93
 
 No trouble comes those meeting capes between 
 Where rise the loaded vines in bounty green, 
 No angry water washes on the quays, 
 No querulous high moaning of the seas 
 Distracts the ear there, but a rich and still 
 Whisper drifts seaward from the tranquil hill, 
 Where in the long ravines of grassy land 
 The orchards heavy with their burden stand; 
 And in those sheltered folds the branches bear 
 Bright cherry, glowing apricot, gold pear, 
 Quinces and medlars and dark mulberries, 
 Year after year in generous increase; 
 And on the ground beneath, where apples 
 
 fall, 
 The tangled vines of great-globed melons 
 
 crawl. 
 
 Here is my rest and here at last I come 
 To lie upon your bosom and be dumb, 
 Where the clouds gather not, where no wind 
 
 moves, 
 
 And the light that fills the quiet air is love's. 
 
 94
 
 SONNET 
 
 / T~" S HE dying man, whom all give up for dead, 
 Sees how his world a little circle grows, 
 The fire's warmth falling on the quiet bed, 
 The sunlight on the wall sees not, but 
 
 knows 
 
 How at his window the trees bud and leaf 
 And clouds march in procession through 
 
 the sky, 
 
 Knows, but sees none of these, and his belief 
 
 Fails, and he chides his brain for fantasy. 
 
 But should he rise at length, should he awake 
 
 From that dark sleep and visit once again, 
 
 Feeble and slow as a new-sloughing snake, 
 
 What were before but hill and sky and 
 
 plain, 
 
 He finds and hails, at each revealing turn, 
 Gold plains and skies like gems and hills that 
 burn. 
 
 95
 
 THE NIGHTJARS 
 
 A LL day the cuckoo has sung his double 
 
 cries, 
 Far in the woods and hidden, or close but 
 
 not seen : 
 Once he flew overhead and we heard the sound 
 
 rise 
 
 In the song's space and die in a thicket 
 green. 
 
 All day the blackbird has sung with the thrush 
 And the nightingale, though we heard him 
 
 not clear, 
 And others chirped and murmured from bush 
 
 to bush, 
 Loud, soft, shrill, uncertain, far and near. 
 
 Now on the dark hill, after that tumult of song, 
 
 Silence settles down, a step before night, 
 While on the ground and in the trees and all 
 along 
 
 96
 
 The widespread horizon slowly dies the 
 light, 
 
 Like a rainbowed fish held dying in the net, 
 With last lovely flushes to the final gray; 
 
 And over the black hill a soft wind blows yet, 
 Carrying on wide wings the last light away. 
 
 How immense the silence! So a fountain falls, 
 When the jet fails, with a last scattered 
 
 spray, ^ 
 And the wind goes on, as the settling thrush 
 
 calls, 
 Carrying on soft wings the last echoes away. 
 
 Step by step, slowly, we climb the silent hill, 
 Speechless, almost frightened. As the 
 
 path wheels round 
 Into an open glade where the grass is hushed 
 
 and still, 
 
 Warmth rises sudden and startling from the 
 ground. 
 
 97
 
 The trees merge and melt in the fading gray 
 
 sky, 
 And now from tree or bush, we cannot tell 
 
 where, 
 A thin sound arises, faintly, haltingly, 
 
 Stops to take breath and then fills the quiet 
 air 
 
 With a hoarse, sweet music. Thereon, all 
 
 around, 
 All the other nightjars join in the whirring 
 
 song, 
 And, as we pause to hear, the shadowy trees 
 
 resound 
 
 Till the whole vague hill-side is filled with 
 the throng, 
 
 Singing louder and louder. But all at once 
 
 The chorus gives way to the sweetest voice, 
 
 A single and lonely singer, whose unchanging 
 
 runs 
 
 Charm our ears with magic, monotonous 
 noise.
 
 He pauses. We seek him; but the song once 
 
 gone, 
 There is nothing to show him. We clap 
 
 hands in vain. 
 
 Now over the crest a new faint song is begun, 
 That we can hardly hear. Is it he again ? 
 
 And as we halt, doubtful, in the darkness 
 
 growing 
 Thicker and stranger round us, full of 
 
 mysteries, 
 
 With the first night airs upon our faces blowing, 
 A dark shape flaps out from the invisible 
 trees, 
 
 And slides across our path, a moving clot of 
 
 night, 
 
 His wings knocking loudly as he flies along, 
 Startling the stillness. And he fades out of 
 
 our sight 
 And in his shadowy thicket resumes the song. 
 
 99
 
 DOVER'S HILL 
 
 To F. L, Griggs. 
 Tj^ROM this hill where the air's so clear 
 
 We can see away and away, 
 And the villages, far as near, 
 
 Shine in the lucid day. 
 On rough short grass we tread 
 
 And thistles bend at our feet 
 And a lark sings overhead 
 
 And the clouds are white and fleet. 
 The wind is strong in our faces, 
 
 It drives us, we veer and yield, 
 And a broken thistle-top races 
 
 Over the tossing field; 
 But below, as we look around, 
 
 The deep long plains appear 
 Like a lost country drowned 
 
 In a tranquil flood of air, 
 Whence now and again there rises 
 
 To the listener on this shore 
 The muffled sound of the voices 
 
 Of bells that ring once more. 
 100
 
 THE EMIGRATION 
 
 "DEFORE dawn, under the windless moun- 
 
 tains, the people 
 Came from their villages, assembling clan by 
 
 clan, 
 Through the last hours of night over black 
 
 dusty roads 
 Trailing reluctant feet, driving the slow 
 
 waggons, 
 Men, women and children in the cold dusk 
 
 confounded. 
 Hardly came a ray of light from the muffled 
 
 sky, 
 Hardly in that still dawn a sound from quiet 
 
 air, 
 Only the endless murmur of feet shuffling 
 
 on, 
 The sobbing of tired children, and a woman's 
 
 tears 
 Held in her bosom like a stream trickling in 
 
 darkness, 
 
 101
 
 And a young man's quickened breath that 
 
 made no more 
 Than a puff of white on the chill air. Night 
 
 was long, 
 That night in the valley, and all the winds 
 
 were still. 
 Slow and unseen came the first ascent of the 
 
 road 
 
 That led to the hidden pass and another world. 
 Here first the way grew stony, here first the 
 
 feet 
 Of the weaker stumbled and were bruised, 
 
 here the pebbles 
 Slipped under aching soles and wrenched the 
 
 careless ankle; 
 And now from summits yet in darkness 
 
 unknown, 
 
 From snowy slopes and dizzy ice-belted peaks, 
 Stole, with the louder sounding of the water- 
 fall, 
 A still wind hardly moving whose gentle 
 
 breath 
 
 102
 
 Crept through woollen cloaks like the trickling 
 of water. 
 
 The king, their leader, daunted his stout 
 
 stallion 
 
 And drew into a rocky cleft whence he watched 
 The sad procession winding upward in silence, 
 Marked every drooping shoulder that bore 
 
 a spear 
 
 And every woman that held in cramped arms 
 A child to her breast and every walking child 
 That whimpered and stumbled. He saw them 
 
 all 
 Though gray through the gray night they 
 
 drooped and stumbled. 
 When the last had gone he turned and rode 
 
 downwards, 
 
 Carefully, leaning back on his horse's haunches, 
 And before him unseen, like messengers in 
 
 haste, 
 Plunged the rattling stones dislodged by the 
 
 hooves. 
 
 103
 
 On the flat land he first saw the growing light 
 That hovered on the swift stream rustling 
 
 beside him, 
 
 Ice-cold, ice-gray, endlessly tossed and heaved 
 In small blunt waves, as down from the glacier, 
 Hung aloft still in night, it fled to the valley, 
 There to grow calm, to grow smooth and 
 
 peaceable, 
 
 Spreading in reedy brooks through the water- 
 meadows 
 Where the tadpoles thicken the stream and 
 
 the dragon-flies 
 
 Mate in late spring on their dizzy flights. 
 Here the king paused as the twilight brightened. 
 Light swelledas into an aching head comes sleep, 
 Thus unknown, unperceived, but steadily 
 
 growing 
 Till the near fields were distinct and the 
 
 nearest farm 
 
 Plainly to be seen, with byre, barn and sheds, 
 And there on the dung-heap a lazy cock 
 Moving sluggish wings and lifting his head. 
 104
 
 And the light grew. And, beyond, the land 
 
 was revealed, 
 
 Pastures and grain and the scattered houses 
 Over which the elms spread out their broad 
 
 branches ; 
 
 And further beyond rose the desolate hills 
 Covered with stubborn bushes, bracken and 
 
 wiry grass, 
 And the poisonous green marshes that lay in 
 
 their hollows, 
 Bounding the narrow valley with an iron wall. 
 
 So, since the valley was narrow and close- 
 bounded, 
 
 A circle of fruitfulness hemmed in by the 
 unfruitful, 
 
 Since the quiet race brought forth ever more 
 children, 
 
 Sons must leave their fathers, daughters their 
 mothers, 
 
 The quiet be the unquiet and stay-at-homes 
 be wanderers. 
 
 105
 
 No words came to the king's lips. He gazed 
 
 around him, 
 Dumbly regarding the land where his brother 
 
 to-day 
 
 Ruled in his place. Far away his eyes travelled 
 Seeing the first smoke rising from a farm- 
 house 
 
 Twenty feet untroubled in the motionless air. 
 They are rising, he whispered, the wife has 
 
 lighted 
 
 Their fire and the husband pauses in the door 
 To look at his cattle grazing in the meadows. 
 So have we all ; and when we are gone 
 Still every morning the fires will be lighted, 
 Men will go to the fields and bring in the 
 
 crops. 
 In the cool dark barn where my oats were 
 
 gathered, 
 Where I rested on the heap and took soft 
 
 handfuls 
 Of the smooth hard grain that ran through 
 
 my fingers, 
 
 106
 
 This year my brother will gather his oats 
 And coming in tired from walking his fields, 
 Dazed with summer's glare, will throw 
 
 himself down 
 
 On the yielding heap and hear the whispering 
 Of the flowing grain that trickles round his 
 
 body 
 Next year as well, and many, many years. 
 
 The light grew strong: it was now full 
 
 morning. 
 
 He turned his horse and rode like a storm 
 After the marching people. Up the steep track 
 The horse's strong shoulders forced the 
 
 ground behind him, 
 
 Plunging and pulling. The blue sky above 
 Grew brighter and colder: with a rush of 
 
 cold waters 
 The torrent hurled downwards in its narrow 
 
 channel. 
 On the high shoulder of the wind-swept 
 
 mountain 
 
 107
 
 The track turned round and beyond the 
 
 corner 
 The king in his haste found the people 
 
 halted, 
 Below them the abyss and the shelving 
 
 path 
 Stretched narrow and treacherous into the 
 
 distance. 
 
 Strung out along it, huddled and comfortless, 
 They made their poor breakfast. Their 
 
 sullen eyes 
 Looked only at the hard stone beneath 
 
 their feet, 
 Not backwards or forwards. But a group of 
 
 women 
 Clustered at the edge with gestures and sad 
 
 cries, 
 
 And in the midst of them a silent woman 
 Stared into the gulf. For she was the mother 
 Of the first that died, of the child whose foot 
 Had turned on a pebble, throwing him 
 
 over, 
 
 108
 
 Down, down, down, bouncing from ledge to 
 
 ledge. 
 There now his body, spread-eagled on the 
 
 rubble, 
 
 Alone, abandoned, waited vultures and wolves. 
 The king rode past, saying nothing. His 
 
 grim lips 
 Were frozen hard by pain and love of his 
 
 people. 
 His hard bleak eyes stared onward where the 
 
 ribbon-path 
 Vanished in the waste of the tumbled snowy 
 
 mountains, 
 
 Peak after peak and chasm after chasm, 
 Mercilessly lighted by the cold lucid sun. 
 
 109
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN 
 DEJECTION 
 
 TLJOW then, my dark and empty spirit, 
 
 Wouldst thou employ these brooding days? 
 The senses lose their trivial merit, 
 
 The sky grows chill, the rose decays; 
 We see no more what we have seen, 
 We are not now what we have been. 
 
 Thus in the middle of her season 
 
 Sometimes the flowering may doth fade. 
 
 Who knoweth by what inner treason 
 Her rich adornment is betrayed ? 
 
 Now as the blossom from the tree 
 
 So falls my old content from me. 
 
 I cannot tell what saps me so 
 
 And takes enjoyment from my mind: 
 
 I only see the bright months grow 
 Duller or my weak eyes more blind. 
 
 This year hath ousted from my breast 
 
 Joy for a dark and vague unrest, 
 no
 
 I read in some forgotten story 
 
 How in the mountains of the west, 
 
 Where the calm sea in sun-flecked glory 
 Under the snow-peaks lies at rest, 
 
 The dying eagle seeks a place 
 
 Where a great wind drives up in space; 
 
 And there though from his failing wings 
 Motion has gone with joy and strength, 
 
 On the ascending stream he swings 
 Into the sky and sees at length 
 
 On the warm current soaring high 
 
 The ledge where first he learnt to fly, 
 
 The valleys where of old he preyed, 
 The eyries where he dwelt and loved, 
 
 That eyrie where his nest was made, 
 
 Which long the tempest hath removed 
 
 In his ascent he sees these things 
 
 And needs no motion of his wings. 
 
 And still up-borne he rises higher 
 
 And fades from his companions' sight, 
 
 III H
 
 Lost in the sun's descending fire, 
 Floating amid a sea of light 
 Would that we too, when pleasures fail, 
 Could find at last that mighty gale! 
 
 Would that we too, no effort making, 
 
 On such a current could aspire, 
 Through the thick air and cloud-wreaths 
 breaking 
 
 Into the heights that we desire, 
 There in a lonely still delight 
 To float upon a sea of light ! 
 
 112
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 "P\EATH, would I feared not thee, 
 
 "^"^ But ever can I see 
 
 Thy mutable shadow thrown 
 Upon the walls of Life's warm, cheerful room. 
 
 Companioned or alone, 
 I feel the presence of that following gloom, 
 
 Like one who vaguely knows 
 Behind his back the shade his body throws 
 'Tis not thy shadow only, 'tis my own! 
 
 I face towards the light 
 
 That rises fair and bright 
 
 Over wide fields asleep, 
 But still I know that stealthy darkness there 
 
 Close at my heels doth creep, 
 My ghostly company, my haunting care; 
 
 And if the light be strong 
 Before my eyes, through pleasant hours and long, 
 Then, then, the shadow is most black and 
 deep.
 
 A HOLLOW ELM 
 
 TX7HAT hast thou not withstood, 
 
 Tempest-despising tree. 
 Whose bloat and riven wood 
 
 Gapes now so hollowly, 
 What rains have beaten thee through many 
 
 years, 
 
 What snows from off thy boughs have dripped 
 like tears ? 
 
 Calmly thou standest now 
 
 Upon thy sunny mound; 
 The first spring breezes flow 
 
 Past with sweet dizzy sound; 
 Yet on thy pollard top the branches few 
 Stand stiffly out, disdain to murmur too. 
 
 The children at thy foot 
 
 Open new-lighted eyes 
 Where on gnarled bark and root 
 
 The soft warm sunshine lies 
 114
 
 Dost thou upon thine ancient sides resent 
 The touch of youth, quick and impermanent ? 
 
 These at the beck of spring 
 Live in the moment still ; 
 Thy boughs unquivering, 
 
 Remembering winter's chill 
 And many other winters past and gone, 
 Are mocked, not cheated, by the transient 
 sun. 
 
 Hast thou so much withstood, 
 Dumb and unmoving tree, 
 That now thy hollow wood 
 
 Stiffens disdainfully 
 Against the soft spring airs and soft spring 
 
 rain, 
 Knowing too well that winter comes again ?
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE 
 
 I suddenly realise that the ambition of my 
 life has been since I was two to go on a 
 military expedition against Constantinople. 
 . . . This is nonsense. Letters of Rupert Brooke. 
 
 Still it waits redeeming. James Elroy 
 Flecker. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 N 
 
 O more, they say, the Host is raised in 
 that Cathedral which was mine. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 Like you I too beneath that dome have eat 
 
 the bread and drunk the wine 
 That's banished thence, but not like yours 
 
 my empire shook at last and fell 
 And then I died upon the walls built by 
 
 another Constantine. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 All's changed, they say, all's changed within 
 that lovely and most sacred shell, 
 116
 
 And where dark unbelievers pray no more 
 the holy eikons shine. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 I do not know. I do not know. When I 
 
 went out to fight that day 
 My starving people filled the streets and 
 
 cheered me thinly on my way. 
 Behind me lay the Christian town, before me 
 
 stood the infidel; 
 And they were many, we were few I know 
 
 no more but that I fell. 
 I could not see or hear or ask, my face being 
 
 masked with blood and clay. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 Byzantium was proud and strong. When war 
 
 and fire had struck and ceased, 
 To build her lovelier than before I took the 
 
 treasures of the east. 
 
 A thousand cunning artists worked on floor 
 and pillar, porch and dome, 
 117
 
 In marble and in precious stones to make the 
 
 Holy Wisdom's home; 
 And there when all the toil was done I knelt 
 
 and prayed, I bowed my head, 
 Knowing that now Byzantium was royal as 
 
 the elder Rome. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 And is the Holy Wisdom fled since that fierce 
 creed rolled o'er my head ? 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 The heathen prays where once we prayed, 
 
 now that both you and I are dead. 
 Poor fallen king, nine hundred years from 
 
 me to you the city stood 
 And seven centuries her walls were washed 
 
 in vain with Moslem blood, 
 An angry tide that rose to flood and boiled 
 
 and stormed and ebbed again, 
 Where like a torrent in the sea the blood of 
 
 our own Greeks was shed. 
 118
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 So deep I fell in my defeat, the centuries that 
 
 wax and wane 
 Have passed like shadows on the grave 
 
 wherein I lie and do not know 
 How many years are gone since then, how 
 
 fares it with your sacred fane. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 I am a shade no less than you thin rumours 
 
 reach us here below. 
 How should I tell what falls on earth and how 
 
 the tides of battle flow ? 
 Yet it is said the Christians go against the 
 
 heathen ih our seat 
 Though four long sullen centuries have left 
 
 unanswered your defeat. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 There were young men who fought with me, 
 who stood with me upon the walls - 
 
 Would in this waste of empty time that some- 
 where they and I could meet! 
 119
 
 They were my brothers and my friends who 
 
 fought to keep the city free, 
 And I would take their hands again . . . 
 
 something within me stirs and calls . . . 
 O God, Whose house I fought to save, send 
 
 back my ancient friends to me, 
 They who were bound by the same bond and 
 
 died in armour as I died ! 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 Who is it comes ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 In this lone place what younger shadow wavers 
 
 near ? 
 None of my friends could find me here, the 
 
 wastes of hell are dark and wide, 
 And yet . . . and yet . . . 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 Who are you ? Speak! We are two shades 
 and nought to fear. 
 
 120
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 
 I died a soldier. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 I as well. Come, brother, closer to my side. 
 How come you, from what battlefield, what 
 banners had your enemy ? 
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 I was a poet, I was young, a northern island 
 
 gave me birth, 
 I knew and loved my fellow-men, I knew and 
 
 loved the lovely earth, 
 Yet in my youth I married death and gave my 
 
 life without a sigh, 
 Gave all the love I bore and had, came to the 
 
 eastern sea to die. 
 My foes were yours. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 The tale is .true! Still they oppose the infidel! 
 121
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 God's mercy hath designed an end speak 
 on, young soldier, you speak well. 
 
 Tell us how Christian arms again were carried 
 up the Golden Horn 
 
 And how again the Christian cross was 
 planted on our citadel. 
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 I died before, I lay alone, my comrades 
 
 stormed the beach and hill, 
 But where the earth was red and torn, my 
 
 wistful spirit followed still. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 I heard the thunder of that war, an unknown 
 
 thunder strange to hear, 
 Beat like a wave on Islam's shore, like doom 
 
 within the Sultan's ear. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 O brother, speak 1 You died before, but still 
 you saw the army go 
 
 122
 
 Between the city's holy walls and drive the 
 
 heathen from our throne. 
 Brother, upon those walls I fell, I fell four 
 
 hundred years ago, 
 Tell me 
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 Within my valley-grave I felt a peace till then 
 
 unknown, 
 Happy I had not died in vain nor those who 
 
 died away from me . . . 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 He pauses and his voice is lost, the fire of 
 speech is drowned with tears. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 O new companion, speak again, we have 
 waited here so many years ! 
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 
 In life I had loved earth so well, the ties of 
 earth and flesh were strong, 
 123
 
 And after I was laid in earth Scyros the 
 
 island held me long, 
 Till on a day the rumour came that sent me 
 
 here below to you, 
 Sickened of earth by grief and shame to know 
 
 my childish dream untrue. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 What is the news you strive to tell ? Has the 
 
 first Mass not yet been said 
 Beneath the dome where once I knelt and 
 
 bowed a proud imperial head ? 
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 
 No Christian stands beneath that dome to eat 
 
 the bread or drink the wine, 
 No Mass has there been said or sung, but 
 
 praises in a heathen tongue 
 To those who gave the Turk again the sacred 
 
 walls of Constantine. 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 We died in vain, my friends and I. 
 124
 
 THIRD VOICE 
 
 My friends and I have died in vain. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 Nought given in the city's cause is wholly 
 
 lost. The walls remain. 
 O raise your heads, my friends, and know 
 
 that while the soaring dome shall stand. 
 Though heathens hold it for a space the city 
 
 still is Christian land, 
 And though the years we wait be long and 
 
 black the deed and deep the shame, 
 Yet still shall hope burn like a flame while 
 
 Christian hearts and swords are strong. 
 O youngest friend, have peace awhile: though 
 
 you should wait as long as we, 
 The life you gave was not in vain and you shall 
 
 see the city free. 
 
 Note. This poem was written in February, 
 1920, on reading the announcement that 
 Constantinople was to be handed back to the 
 125
 
 Turk. The three speakers are Justinian, 
 Constantine Palaeologus and Rupert Brooke. 
 The verbal reminiscences of Flecker are, of 
 course, deliberate. 
 
 126
 
 CHORUS FROM A TRAGEDY 
 
 t_T O W wonderful the world, how wonderful 
 
 the race 
 That binds with rails her savage earth, 
 
 that rides her skies, 
 That in the sun's inflamed or the moon's 
 
 tranquil face 
 
 Wets her wild soil with tears and lives and 
 loves and dies! 
 
 Men have not ceased from toil since first they 
 
 went upright, 
 Their ships traverse the seas, their bridges 
 
 span the streams, 
 They harness fire and water and create power 
 
 and light, 
 
 They have overcome the earth in the 
 intervals of dreams. 
 
 Long has their struggle been, diverse the deeds 
 they do, 
 
 127 i
 
 Harsh is their enemy, bitter the wounds 
 
 they bear; 
 How many of their sons the merciless water 
 
 slew, 
 How many died by fire or tumbled from 
 
 the air ? 
 
 Still inch by painful inch the reluctant world 
 
 is won, 
 The mountain's entrails pierced, the highest 
 
 summit trod, 
 
 And against deadly rain and the uncertain sun 
 Each year the crops are wrenched from 
 the unwilling sod, 
 
 And houses piled on high that from earth's 
 
 flesh are made, 
 Beasts bound and tamed and taught to be 
 
 the slaves of man ; 
 And men arise and burn with lofty hope and 
 
 fade, 
 
 Leaving their sons advanced towards 
 heaven a little span. 
 128
 
 Yea, were not this enough, to have struggled 
 
 with the earth, 
 To have seen their fellows die by famine, 
 
 fire, and plague, 
 To have seen their women anguish in the pangs 
 
 of birth, 
 
 To have known all these brave souls lost 
 in the lightless vague ? 
 
 But man aspires past death, hungers beyond 
 
 the flesh, 
 Dreams of he knows not what, a vast and 
 
 shadowy thing, 
 Forgets his fight with earth and strives to 
 
 break the mesh 
 Even of his own desires, and spread a huger 
 
 wing, 
 
 \ 
 
 Forgets his fight with earth, turns from the 
 
 sullen foe, 
 
 Leaves the far seas uncrossed, the forest 
 still unpathed, 
 
 129
 
 Lays by his spade and gazes where the high 
 
 clouds go 
 
 Or idly broods above the sea by moonlight 
 bathed. 
 
 And strange new longings rise and vaguer 
 
 mightier dreams 
 Well in his boundless heart as now through 
 
 timeless hours 
 He hears the murmur of the bridged or un- 
 
 bridged streams 
 
 And sees the fields alight with a million 
 burning flowers. 
 
 Yea, were not this enough ? O banded 
 
 heavens, say, 
 To have added pain to pain, to have added 
 
 dreams to toil, 
 To have slaved in dreams by night as with 
 
 his hands by day, 
 
 To have wakened in his breast the soul's 
 dark serpent-coil ? 
 130
 
 But dream breeds dream apace and covers all 
 
 the world 
 With a fair image prophesying things to 
 
 be, 
 And while through heaving time his fragile 
 
 life is hurled 
 
 Audacious man hath paused and dreamt 
 he may be free, 
 
 And pondering greatly thus, leapt on his 
 
 fellow-man ; 
 And wars have scored the earth and the sea 
 
 drunk her fill, 
 And marching, ruining armies laid their 
 
 d\isty ban 
 
 On harbour, field, and barn, and lofty- 
 palaced hill. 
 
 If earth had had a heart, surely that heart were 
 
 glad 
 
 To see her pygmy foes squander their blood 
 in vain
 
 To see her hills again in her own loose weeds 
 
 clad, 
 
 To see the dams and dykes yield to her 
 high-piled rain. 
 
 And still the contest grew, still the dream 
 
 huger swelled 
 And with its wings obscured the opening 
 
 vast abyss, 
 
 Till at the last mankind, in noblest fury held, 
 Swayed like two wrestlers locked close to 
 a precipice! 
 
 October, 1918. 
 
 132
 
 THE END 
 
 T DREAMT that I was standing in a wood 
 
 Where the trees parted and a ride came 
 
 through, 
 
 Not used by many, for the undergrowth, 
 Saplings five inches high and nettles, spread 
 Across the ruts even to the middle. And 
 On either side the tall trees rose and brambles 
 Looped round the heavy boles their thorny 
 
 ropes. 
 Down the long track came slowly a weary 
 
 rider. 
 His horse's hooves made no sound in the 
 
 wood, 
 They moved so slowly. The horse was bony 
 
 and old, 
 
 With ragged mane and tail and gnarled thin legs 
 And head that drooped from the loose-hanging 
 
 reins. 
 The rider was old and thin, his clothes were 
 
 shabby, 
 
 133
 
 His saddle scratched and worn, his stirrups 
 
 dull 
 And pitted with rust. He held between his 
 
 hands 
 
 Upon the saddle-bow a cup wrapped loosely 
 In old discoloured rags. I could not see 
 What shape it was, or whether of metal or 
 
 glass, 
 
 But as I looked I saw the rider's eyes 
 Bent burning on it. Never on the road 
 He turned his gaze but still upon the cup 
 He stared and still the horse walked slowly on, 
 Reins hanging on its scraggy neck. I saw 
 Those eyes, so fiercely still, burn on the cup 
 And round them all the lines of the thin face 
 Grooved by despair and shame that made a 
 
 victory 
 
 Seem like defeat as joyless. Then behind 
 The rider came a crowd of men and women 
 Who walked the track as soundlessly as he. 
 Behind the brambles dizzily I stared 
 And half saw some and others not at all, 
 134
 
 But all I saw were such as every day 
 
 Walk about city streets. There were rich 
 
 men 
 
 Glossily dressed, and women in stale rags, 
 Children with smeary faces, dowdy women, 
 Fussily proper, clerks, workmen, and tramps, 
 And young girls proud still of their pretty 
 
 bodies 
 And young men thinking of their games and 
 
 schoolboys 
 Carrying books. Thus through the wood 
 
 they went, 
 
 Following the rider, and their trampling boots 
 Fell soundless on the thick-grown track, 
 
 their breathing 
 
 Never disturbed the dust that in the air 
 Rose from the full-blown meadowsweet. 
 
 They marched 
 
 On and on unending, rank after rank, 
 And still the long grass waved about their 
 * feet 
 
 Unbroken. In their various faces I 
 135
 
 Could read nothing. Willing, uneager eyes 
 Followed the rider, fading now from sight. 
 After them in like procession came 
 A cavalcade of beasts, the homely animals 
 That live about our houses, dogs and cats 
 And horses, and the small beasts of the fields, 
 And mixed with them strange unknown 
 
 tropical things, 
 Flaming tigers and quaint-shaped burrowing 
 
 brutes, 
 Hopping, leaping, and crawling, and snakes 
 
 and birds 
 That hovered in flocks above the track and 
 
 alighted 
 
 And flew again, cuckoo and eagle and dove 
 Mixing together. I gazed between the leaves 
 And still a mist hung heavy on my eyes 
 Blurring these shapes. And when they all 
 
 were gone 
 Time paused an instant. Then the trees 
 
 seemed 
 
 To drag their long roots slowly from the ground 
 136
 
 And follow after, and the bushes too, 
 And like a swarm of bees the smaller plants, 
 Slender-stalked and starry-leafed, arose 
 And from my face the screen of bramble 
 
 boughs 
 
 Suddenly fell; and all in that strange train 
 Swept onward and the earth was black and 
 
 bare 
 
 And I was left alone, unsheltered, unshaded. 
 I looked around and there was nothing left, 
 No living thing, man, animal or plant 
 But bleak dead earth where no wind moved, 
 
 rain fell, 
 Fire burnt. And still I stood. Then there 
 
 came slowly 
 
 On the same way a figure mountain-high 
 Whose bright horns in the clouds, had there 
 
 been clouds, 
 Would have projected. In his hands before 
 
 him 
 He held a book, open, which he studied 
 
 closely, 
 
 137
 
 Walking on soundless feet, with downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 And as he reached the spot where not my body 
 
 But now my fleshless spirit stood in terror 
 
 He paused and raised his head. The thunder- 
 cloud eyes 
 
 Stared up into the blank and colourless 
 heaven 
 
 Then down again upon the fatal page. 
 
 He closed the volume up. Then there was 
 nothing. 
 
 138
 
 GLASGOW I W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.
 
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