THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE DARK FIRE
 
 the same ^Author 
 
 The Hunter, and Other Poems
 
 THE DARK FIRE 
 
 By 
 
 W. J. Turner 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 
 
 3 Adam Street, Adclphi 
 1918
 
 First published in 1918 
 All rights reserved
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 824028
 
 Several of these poems have appeared 
 
 in the New Statesman, and are here 
 
 reprinted by the kind permission of 
 
 the Editor.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Haystacks 9 
 
 The Music of a Tree u 
 
 The Shepherd goes to War 12 
 A Ritual Dance 
 
 1 The Dance 18 
 
 2 Sleep 21 
 
 In the Caves of Auvergne 23 
 
 Song 26 
 
 The Robber 27 
 
 Kent in War 28 
 
 Death's Men 30 
 
 Sunflowers 32 
 
 Recollecting a Visit to W. B. Yeats 33 
 
 Music 34 
 
 The Voyage 35 
 
 Epithalamium for a Modern Wedding 36 
 
 Farewell ! 38 
 
 Soldiers in a Small Camp 39 
 
 Song 41 
 
 Silence 42 
 
 Soldiers 44 
 
 Talking with Soldiers 47 
 
 Despair 49 
 
 Illusion 51 
 
 Peace 52 
 
 Harp, Flute and Viol 54
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mid-day 5 6 
 
 Solitude 58 
 
 The Dark Fire of Sorrow 60 
 
 Mirage 62 
 
 On the Roof of the World 63 
 
 On Persian Hills 64 
 
 The Princess 65 
 The Pompadour in Art 
 
 1 Would 'st thou go back 66 
 
 2 Because thou knowest 67 
 
 3 As for myself 68 
 
 4 The flesh has no expression 69 
 
 5 But Beauty is more delicate 70 
 
 8
 
 HAYSTACKS 
 
 WINDING across a highland on a wild 
 October day, 
 By small and yellow haystacks the road crept 
 
 humbly on, 
 Blue herds of dark-maned stallions tossed 
 
 madly in the sky, 
 
 And raced across the blots of woods and fields 
 of wind-quiet stone. 
 
 Purple and gold and violet greys and gleaming 
 
 shades unknown 
 Leaped up and flashed and faded out within 
 
 the marvelling soul 
 That, creeping on that narrow road, passed 
 
 brooding squat and still 
 Those small dim stacks as dreams heaped up 
 
 by men in bitter toil : 
 
 As dreams heaped up, as memoried hills, as 
 generations gone 
 
 Into the ground, and here arisen as quiet as 
 hills of stone ; 
 
 But linked along the roads they built to catch 
 each human sound 
 
 That quavering in the cold wind-light is sink- 
 ing to its doom.
 
 And still the dark blue stallions race and toss 
 white flakes of foam, 
 
 And still the dark fields lie as quiet as wind- 
 forsaken stone, 
 
 And still along that humble road the silent 
 soul plods on, 
 
 And still the small dim stacks lie there, the 
 dreams of men unknown. 
 
 10
 
 THE MUSIC OF A TREE 
 
 ONCE, walking home, I passed beneath a 
 Tree, 
 
 It filled the air like dark stone statuary, 
 It was so quiet and still, 
 Its thick green leaves a hill 
 Of strange and faint earth-branching melody : 
 
 Over a wall it hung its leaf-starred wood, 
 And as I lonely there beneath it stood, 
 
 In that sky-hollow street 
 
 Where rang no human feet, 
 Sweet music flowed and filled me with its 
 flood ; 
 
 And all my weariness then fell away, 
 
 The houses were more lovely than by day ; 
 
 The Moon and that old Tree 
 
 Sang there, and secretly, 
 With throbbing heart, tip-toe I stole away. 
 
 ii
 
 THE SHEPHERD GOES TO WAR 
 
 WHEN Dawn drew near and tree or hill 
 Stood slowly bright, and clear, and still, 
 It lit the Shepherd, a dark rock 
 Amid his wide, grey, tumbling flock : 
 
 He stands as stand great ancient trees 
 When streams leap loud about their knees ; 
 And he moves slow and tranquilly 
 As clouds across a peaceful sky. 
 
 There is no voice for him to hear, 
 Save from men coming once a year 
 Beyond that haze-blue mountain bar, 
 Where the eastern cities are. 
 
 In still repose his features sleep, 
 He grows to look like his own sheep ; 
 And priestlike at each dawn he stands, 
 An ancient blessing on those lands. 
 
 The days, the years, half life slips by 
 Under that bright Australian sky : 
 The gum trees are a rustling dream 
 Upon the sunshine's golden stream : 
 
 12
 
 The whip-bird and the cockatoo, 
 They are the cries of dream-birds too, 
 And more unearthly and unreal 
 Grows Kookaburra's mocking peal. 
 
 Still magic is the country round, 
 
 Dead branches strew the snake-bright ground 
 
 In luminous transparency 
 
 Quivers each thin-leafed, blue-green tree : 
 
 There is an esctasy of light, 
 
 And Silence is as lightning bright : 
 
 The earthflower, air, a still, blue blaze 
 
 Springs from earth's pot those rainless days. 
 
 The Shepherd sees as in a glass 
 The flitting lyre-birds soundless pass, 
 The Trees in sunlight standing deep, 
 A world in an enchanted sleep, 
 
 Nor ice, nor snow, nor rough winds come 
 Unto him from his father's home, 
 Old and remote in that grey sea 
 Of cold, mist-haunted memory. 
 
 But the men coming once a year 
 
 Tell tales incredible to hear, 
 
 Tales that sound legendary and dim, 
 
 From long-dead camp fires brought to him.
 
 And, brooding when the men have done 
 How fifty happy years are gone, 
 Not knowing how, not knowing why, 
 He turns toward the eastern sky : 
 
 There, clasped with towns, meet land and sea, 
 
 Thence sail the ships of destiny 
 
 They also sail those ships on high, 
 
 Winged with deep purpose, through the sky : 
 
 He gazed at that immenser sea, 
 
 And those travelling worlds gleamed steadily ; 
 
 Then, shouting faintly from a star, 
 
 A voice called that old man to war. 
 
 The Shepherd reached the coast, amazed 
 On Sydney's crowded streets he gazed ; 
 On Circular Quay, with parted lips, 
 He stared upon the thronging ships. 
 
 But he soon sailed across the sea, 
 And, fighting through Gallipoli, 
 He often hungered and thirsted till 
 Nought stirred in him save human will. 
 
 To France from Suvla they were brought, 
 Time faded from them as they fought 
 
 14
 
 And scratched and dug with only the sky 
 To stare at as they fall and die. 
 
 For long he bore an armoured life, 
 
 While chums went West in that ceaseless strife, 
 
 Then on the Somme was hit, and lay 
 
 At Denmark Hill for many a day. 
 
 One of his countrywomen found 
 Him there, and twice a week came round 
 But he spake little, and 'twould mostly be 
 About their own far-off country : 
 
 And in a silence 'twould appear 
 Glittering with light and ghostly clear ; 
 And she secretly wondered it snould seem 
 So strange, so beautiful a dream. 
 
 And Winter passed and Spring returned, 
 When the Shepherd one day learned 
 His fighting strength for good was spent 
 And homewards he would soon be sent : 
 
 And when she came again next day 
 He said : " In a month I shall sail away, 
 These cities and armies then shall seem 
 More far, more faint than any dream : 
 
 15
 
 And I shall stand amid my sheep, 
 In that still light I shall sink deep, 
 The shouting of nations clashed in war 
 Shall not a leaf or feather jar ; 
 
 But as the days pass I shall stand 
 Lost between dream and dream ; no land, 
 No thing at all shall solid be, 
 But cries of joy and mystery : 
 
 For I shall see behind my sheep 
 Tall ships on death-pale oceans leap ; 
 Dark hulls with armed men's faces white, 
 Crowded beneath the star's cold light. 
 
 And ships that gape and shudder down, 
 And soft, bright bubbles of men that drown, 
 And the same calm, watching Moon o'erhead 
 My sheep and those wide-eyed, drifting dead : 
 
 And the dim hordes of men that sigh 
 Moon-tossed, sun-cracked, uneasily, 
 Shall move amid my sightless sheep 
 When women long have ceased to weep ; 
 
 And this vast city's terrible roar 
 Shall be silent there as it was before, 
 Though dark among the summer's flowers 
 Hang its streets, its steeples and its towers ; 
 
 16
 
 And faces that were torn from speech 
 And in a dream the soul beseech, 
 My comrades of a month or day, 
 With me a little while shall stay. 
 
 And that still place shall be the cup 
 Where this world's spirit gathered up 
 Will be lifted silently 
 Day by day unto the sky : 
 
 Until the brightness of the stars 
 Is gone from me, and all the w r ars 
 Of earth cannot refill my eyes 
 Again with sheep and trees and skies."
 
 A RITUAL DANCE 
 (i) THE DANCE 
 
 IN the black glitter of night the grey vapour 
 forest 
 Lies a dark Ghost in the water, motionless, 
 
 dark, 
 Like a corpse by the bank fallen, and hopelessly 
 
 rotting 
 
 Where the thin silver soul of the stars silently 
 dances. 
 
 The flowers are closed, the birds are carved on 
 
 the trees, 
 When out of the forest glide hundreds of 
 
 spear-holding shadows, 
 In smooth dark ivory bodies their eyeballs 
 
 gleaming. 
 Forming a gesturing circle beneath the Moon. 
 
 The bright-eyed shadows, the tribe in ritual 
 
 gathered, 
 Are dancing and howling, the embryo soul of 
 
 a nation : 
 In loud drum-beating monotonous the tightly 
 
 stretched skins 
 Of oxen that stared at the stars are singing wild 
 
 paeans : 
 
 18
 
 Wild paeans for food that magically grew in 
 the clearings 
 
 When he that was slain was buried and is resur- 
 rected, 
 
 And a green mist arose from the mud and shone 
 in the Moon, 
 
 A great delirium of faces, a new generation. 
 
 The thin wafer Moon it is there, it is there in 
 
 the sky, 
 The hand -linked circle raise faces of mad 
 
 exaltation 
 Dance, O you Hunters, leap madly upon the 
 
 flung shields, 
 Shoot arrows into the sky, thin moon-seeking 
 
 needles : 
 
 Now you shall have a harvest, a belly-full rap- 
 ture, 
 
 There shall be many fat women, full grown, 
 and smoother than honey, 
 
 Their limbs like ivory rounded, and firm as a 
 berry, 
 
 Their lips full of food and their eyes full of 
 hunger for men ! 
 
 The heat of the earth arises, a faint love mist 
 Wan with over-desiring, and in the marshes 
 
 19
 
 Blindly the mud stirs, clouding the dark shining 
 
 water, 
 And troubling the still soft swarms of fallen 
 
 stars. 
 
 There is bright sweat upon the bodies of cattle, 
 
 Great vials of life motionless in the moon- 
 light, 
 
 Breathing faint mists over the warm, damp 
 ground ; 
 
 And the cry of a dancer rings through the 
 shadowy forest. 
 
 The tiger is seeking his mate and his glassy 
 
 eyes 
 Are purple and shot with starlight in the grass 
 
 shining, 
 The fiery grass tortured out of the mud and 
 
 writhing 
 Under the sun, now shivering and pale in the 
 
 Moon. 
 
 The shadows are dancing, dancing, dancing, 
 dancing : 
 
 The grey vapour arms of the forest lie dream- 
 ing around them ; 
 
 The cold, shining moonlight falls from their 
 bodies and faces, 
 
 But caught in their eyes lies prisoned and 
 faintly gleaming : 
 
 20
 
 And they return to their dwellings within the 
 grey forest, 
 
 Into their dark huts, burying the moonlight 
 with them, 
 
 Burying the trees and the stars and the flowing 
 river, 
 
 And the glittering spears, and their dark, evo- 
 cative gestures. 
 
 (2) SLEEP 
 
 Hollow the world in the moonlit hour when 
 
 the birds are shadows small, 
 Lost in the awarm of giant leaves and myriad 
 
 branches tall ; 
 When vast thick boughs hang across the sky 
 
 like solid limbs of night, 
 Dug from still quarries of grey-black air by 
 
 the pale transparent light, 
 And the purple and golden blooms of the sun, 
 
 each crimson and spotted flower, 
 Are folded up or have faded away, as that still 
 
 intangible power 
 Floats out of the sky, falls shimmering down, 
 
 a silver-shadowy bloom, 
 On the spear-pointed forest a fragile crown, in 
 
 the soul a soft, bright gloom ; 
 Hollow the world when the shadow of man 
 
 lies prone and still on its floor, 
 
 21
 
 And the moonlight shut from his empty heart 
 
 weeps softly against his door, 
 And his terror and joy but a little dream in the 
 
 corner of his house, 
 And his voice dead in the darkness 'mid the 
 
 twittering of a mouse. 
 
 (3) 
 
 Hollow the world I hollow the world I 
 
 And its dancers shadow-grey ; 
 And tlie Moon a silver-shadowy bloom 
 
 Fading and fading away ; 
 And the forest's grey vapour, and all the trees 
 
 Shadows against the sky ; 
 And the soul of man and his ecstasies 
 
 A night-forgotten cry. 
 Hollow the world ! hollow the world I 
 
 22
 
 IN THE CAVES OF AUVERGNE 
 
 HE carved the red deer and the bull 
 Upon the smooth cave rock, 
 Returned from war, with belly full, 
 And scarred with many a knock, 
 He carved the red deer and the bull 
 Upon the smooth cave rock. 
 
 The stars flew by the cave's wide door, 
 The clouds wild trumpets blew, 
 
 Trees rose in wild dreams from the floor, 
 Flowers with dream faces grew 
 
 Up to the sky, and softly hung 
 Golden and white and blue. 
 
 The woman ground her heap of corn, 
 
 Her heart a guarded fire ; 
 The wind played in his trembling soul 
 
 Like a hand upon a lyre, 
 The wind drew faintly on the stone 
 
 Symbols of his desire : 
 
 The red deer of the forests dark, 
 
 Whose antlers cut the sky, 
 That vanishes into the mirk 
 
 And like a dream flits by, 
 And by an arrow slain at last 
 
 Is but the wind's dark body. 
 
 23
 
 The bull that stands in marshy lakes 
 
 As motionless and still 
 As a dark rock jutting from a plain 
 
 Without a tree or hill, 
 The bull that is the sign of life, 
 
 Its sombre, phallic will. 
 
 And from the dead, white eyes of them 
 
 The wind springs up anew, 
 It blows upon the trembling heart, 
 
 And bull and deer renew 
 Their flitting life in the dim past 
 
 When that dead Hunter drew. 
 
 I sit beside him in the night, 
 
 And, fingering his red stone, 
 I chase through endless forests dark 
 
 Seeking that thing unknown, 
 That which is not red deer or bull, 
 
 But which by them was shown. 
 
 By those stiff shapes in which he drew 
 
 His soul's exalted cry. 
 When flying down the forest dark 
 
 He slew and knew not why, 
 When he was filled with song, and strength 
 
 Flowed to him from the sky.
 
 The wind blows from red deer and bull, 
 The clouds wild trumpets blare, 
 
 Trees rise in wild dreams from the earth, 
 Flowers with dream faces stare 
 
 O Hunter, your own shadow stands 
 Within your forest lair.
 
 SONG 
 
 THE Sun has come I know, 
 But yesterday I stood 
 Beside it in the wood 
 But O how pale, how softly it did glow. 
 
 I stooped to warm my hands 
 
 Before its rain- washed gold, 
 
 But it was pebbly-cold, 
 Startled to find itself in these dark lands 
 
 26
 
 THE ROBBER 
 
 THE Trees were taller than the night, 
 And through my window square, 
 Earth-stupefied, great oranges 
 Drowsed in the leaf-carved air. 
 
 Into that tree-top crowded dream 
 A white arm stretched, and soon 
 
 Those green-gold oranges were plucked, 
 Were sucked pale by the Moon. 
 
 And white and still that robber lay 
 
 On the frail boughs asleep, 
 Eating the solid substance through 
 
 In silence clear and deep. 
 
 Suddenly he went, and then 
 
 The wood was dark as death : 
 Come back, O robber ; robber, come ; 
 
 These grey trees are but breath : 
 
 These grey trees are but breath, the Night 
 Is a wind-walled, dream-filled Hall ! 
 
 But on the mirror of the air 
 
 The wood wreathed dark and tall. 
 
 No movement and no sound there was 
 
 Within that silent House, 
 Behind a cloud the Robber laughed 
 
 In a mad white carouse. 
 
 27
 
 KENT IN WAR 
 
 THE pebbly brook is cold to-night, 
 Its water soft as air, 
 A clear, cold, crystal-bodied wind 
 
 Shadowless and bare, 
 Leaping and running in this world 
 Where dark-horned cattle stare : 
 
 Where dark-horned cattle stare, hoof-firm 
 On the dark pavements of the sky, 
 
 And trees are mummies swathed in sleep, 
 And small dark hills crowd wearily : 
 
 Soft multitudes of snow-grey clouds 
 Without a sound march by. 
 
 Down at the bottom of the road 
 
 I smell the woody damp 
 Of that cold spirit in the grass, 
 
 And leave my hill -top camp 
 With its long gun pointing in the sky 
 
 I take the Moon for lamp. 
 
 I stop beside the bright cold glint 
 Of that thin spirit in the grass, 
 
 So gay it is, so innocent ! 
 
 I watch its sparkling footsteps pass 
 
 Lightly from smooth round stone to stone, 
 Hid in the dew-hung grass. 
 
 28
 
 My lamp shines in the globes of dew, 
 
 And leaps into that crystal wind 
 Running along the shaken grass 
 
 To each dark hole that it can find 
 The crystal wind, the Moon my lamp, 
 
 Have vanished in a wood that's blind. 
 
 High lies my small, my shadowy camp, 
 Crowded about by small dark hills ; 
 
 With sudden small white flowers the sky 
 Above the woods' dark greenness fills ; 
 
 And hosts of dark-browed, muttering trees 
 In trance the white Moon stills. 
 
 I move among their tall grey forms, 
 A thin moon-glimmering, wandering Ghost, 
 
 Who takes his lantern through the world 
 In search of life that he has lost, 
 
 While watching by that long lean gun 
 Up on his small hill post. 
 
 29
 
 DEATH'S MEN 
 
 UNDER a grey October sky 
 The little squads that drill 
 Click arms and legs mechanically, 
 Emptied of ragged will : 
 
 Of ragged will that frets the sky 
 
 From crags juts ragged Pines, 
 A wayward immortality, 
 
 That flies from Death's trim lines. 
 
 The men of Death stand trim and neat, 
 
 Their faces stiff as stone, 
 Click, clack, go four and twenty feet 
 
 From twelve machines of bone. 
 
 " Click, clack, left ! right ! form fours ! incline 1 s 
 
 The jack-box sergeant cries ; 
 For twelve erect and wooden dolls 
 
 One clockwork doll replies. 
 
 And twelve souls wander 'mid still clouds 
 
 In a land of snow-drooped trees, 
 Faint, foaming streams fall in grey hills 
 
 Like beards in old men's knees. 
 
 Old men, old hills, old kings, their beards 
 Cold stone-grey, still cascades 
 
 30
 
 Hung high above this shuddering earth 
 Where the red blood sinks and fades. 
 
 Then the quietness of all ancient things. 
 
 Their round and full repose 
 As balm upon twelve wandering souls 
 
 Down from the grey sky flows. 
 
 The rooks from out the tall, gaunt trees 
 
 In shrieking circles pass ; 
 Click, clack, click, clack go Death's trim men 
 
 Across the Autumn grass.
 
 SUNFLOWERS 
 
 IN Erith's streets I saw them come, 
 I saw them come ; 
 They stood against a villa wall, 
 They were as strangers mournful all, 
 
 Far from their home ; 
 With dust blew down the dirty streets, 
 The eager children's call. 
 
 In Erith's streets where hovels lie, 
 
 Close packed and trim 
 They came, feeling the unseen sky, 
 In that sad street where a child's bright cry 
 
 Grows quickly dim, 
 And slatternly women sit and stare, 
 
 And then go in and die. 
 
 I saw their faces when they woke 
 
 In Erith's streets ; 
 It was a wonder men could see 
 Those golden sons of misery 
 
 In Erith's streets, 
 In Erith's streets and marvel not 
 
 At such a mystery !
 
 RECOLLECTING A VISIT TO 
 W. B. YEATS 
 
 IT is most pitiful to watch men go 
 In search of beauty with despairing eyes, 
 And what it is they lack as this world lies 
 Open before their gaze they do not know. 
 These porcelain skies with billows of graven 
 
 snow 
 They paint on cold, thin cups, and draw from 
 
 strings 
 
 Voices of mourning winds and sense of wings ; 
 From w r oods rob sad-faced flowers and bid 
 
 them grow 
 
 Nearer their souls ; ay, creep out in the night 
 And steal the stars and the bright Moon from 
 
 Heaven, 
 
 And bring them home to decorate their dreams 
 My God it is a strange and pitiful sight 
 To see the treasury of a poet's room 
 And him alone there shrouded in beauty's 
 
 gloom ! 
 
 33
 
 MUSIC 
 
 WHEN the last note is played and void the 
 hall 
 
 I sometimes think that then music begins, 
 Scattered on chairs lie horns and violins, 
 The Harp droops silent, standing by the wall ; 
 On the live ear no sounds of music fall, 
 The organ sleeps, coiled in its branching wood ; 
 But this deep soundlessness is music's food, 
 This quiet is big with thunder, if I call 
 At once a thousand spirits rave and cry, 
 Those instruments gape, quivering helplessly, 
 With strangled voices vibrant and wild they 
 
 lie ; 
 
 And I can hear in that great solitude 
 Madness and grief, not the smooth harmony 
 That presently, subdued, they'll sing to me. 
 
 34
 
 THE VOYAGE 
 
 WHEN I remember how the bark of Youth 
 Left port invited by the smooth bright 
 
 sea, 
 With white wings stretched, to find the goddess 
 
 Truth 
 
 Rise from deep waters shining magically ; 
 And how his eyes dimmed with the ache of 
 
 staring, 
 
 And how his ears deafened by roaring spray 
 Seek still a track dark water-hills o'er-faring, 
 Still strain to catch her music in some bay : 
 And his bright years all sunk in the cold wave, 
 And love's most fair soft-glinting armoury 
 Lying salt-rusted in a watery grave ; 
 His voyage but an arabesque upon the sea 
 I think, rinding such beauty is in this, 
 That, loving Truth, Truth had been always his. 
 
 35
 
 EPITHALAMIUM FOR A MODERN 
 WEDDING 
 
 that so long have held each other dear, 
 oin hands, Beloved ; purposing to be 
 One hand and life, one effort and career, 
 One soul and Self, into eternity" 
 
 Can the lover share his soul, 
 
 Or the mistress show her mind ; 
 Can the body beauty share, 
 
 Or lust satisfaction find ? 
 
 Marriage is but keeping house, 
 
 Sharing food and company, 
 What has this to do with love 
 
 Or the body's beauty ? 
 
 If love means affection, I 
 
 Love old trees, hats, coats andjthings, 
 Anything that's been with me 
 
 In my daily sufferings. 
 
 That is how one loves a wife 
 
 There's a human interest too, 
 And a pity for the days 
 
 We so soon live through.
 
 What has this to do with love, 
 
 The anguish and the sharp despair, 
 
 The madness roving in the blood 
 Because a girl or hill is fair ? 
 
 I have stared upon a dawn 
 And trembled like a man in love, 
 
 A man in love I was, and I 
 
 Could not speak and could not move. 
 
 I no longer seek to hold 
 
 Beauty with enchanted eyes ; 
 
 'Tis vain for beauty dies, I know, 
 I know beauty dies. 
 
 Ring the merry marriage bells, 
 That most melancholy sound ! 
 
 When the bridegroom and the bride 
 Go to find what none has found. 
 
 All the old wives grimly there 
 Pleased to see love's sudden end, 
 
 Beauty's last wild wood-note blown, 
 Death the solitary friend. 
 
 Ay ! Death sitting in the church, 
 
 Busy getting breath anew, 
 Tuning up the magic horn 
 
 That the old lust blew. 
 
 37
 
 FAREWELL ! 
 
 THE warm flesh speaks against my hand 
 and then 
 
 My friend is but a shadow down the street, 
 The air is very still, the houses seem 
 On either hand aloof and desolate : 
 
 And now the street is empty, but I stand 
 As though my soul had left my body here, 
 And I was one with this stiff furniture, 
 These lamp-posts and these rows of faceless 
 brick .
 
 SOLDIERS IN A SMALL CAMP 
 
 THERE is a camp upon a rounded hill 
 Where men do sleep more closely to the 
 stars, 
 
 And tree-like shapes stand at its entrances, 
 Beside the small, dark, shadow-soldiery. 
 
 Deep in the gloom of days of isolation, 
 Withdrawn, high up from the low, murmuring 
 
 town, 
 
 Those shadows sit, drooping around their fires, 
 Or move as winds dark-waving in a wood : 
 
 Staring at cattle on a neighbouring hill 
 They are oblivious as is stone or grass 
 The clouds passed voiceless over, and the sun 
 Rose, and lit trees, and vanished utterly. 
 
 Then in the awful beauty of the world, 
 When stars are singing in dark ecstasy, 
 Those ox-like soldiers sit collected round 
 A thin, metallic echo of human song : 
 
 And click their feet and clap their hands in 
 
 time, 
 And wag their heads, and make the white ghost 
 
 owl 
 Flit from its branch but still those tree-like 
 
 shapes 
 Stand like archangels dark- winged in the sky. 
 
 39
 
 And presently the soldiers cease to stir ; 
 The thin voice sinks and all at once is dead ; 
 They lie down on their planks and hear the 
 
 wind, 
 And feel the darkness fumbling at their souls. 
 
 They lie in rows as stiff as tombs or trees, 
 Their eyeballs imageless, like marble still ; 
 And secretly they feel that roof and walls 
 Are gone and that they stare into the sky. 
 
 It is so black, so black, so black, so black, 
 Those black-winged shapes have stretched 
 
 across the world, 
 
 Have swallowed up the stars, and if the sun 
 Rises again, it will be black, black, BLACK. 
 
 40
 
 SONG 
 
 GENTLY, sorrowfully sang the maid 
 Sowing the ploughed field over, 
 And her song was only : 
 " Come ! O my lover ! " 
 
 Strangely, strangely shone the light, 
 
 Stilly wound the river : 
 " Thy love is a dead man, 
 
 He'll come back never." 
 
 Sadly, sadly passed the maid 
 
 The fading dark hills over ; 
 Still her song far, far away said : 
 
 "Come! O my lover!"
 
 SILENCE 
 
 IT was bright day and all the trees were still 
 In the deep valley, and the dim Sun glowed ; 
 The clay in hard-baked fire along the hill 
 Leapt through dark trunks to apples green and 
 
 gold, 
 
 Smooth, hard and cold, they shone like lamps 
 of stone : 
 
 They were bright bubbles bursting from the 
 
 trees, 
 
 Swollen and still among the dark green boughs; 
 On their bright skins the shadows of the leaves 
 Seemed the faint ghosts of summers long since 
 
 gone, 
 Faint ghosts of ghosts, the dreams of ghostly 
 
 eyes. 
 
 There was no sound between those breathless 
 
 hills, 
 
 Only the dim Sun hung there, nothing moved ; 
 The thronged, massed, crowded multitude of 
 
 leaves 
 Hung like dumb tongues that loll and gasp for 
 
 air : 
 The grass was thick and still, between the 
 
 trees. 
 
 42
 
 There were big apples lying on the ground, 
 Shining, quite still, as though they had been 
 
 stunned 
 
 By some great violent spirit stalking through, 
 Leaving a deep and supernatural calm 
 Round a dead beetle upturned in a furrow. 
 
 A valley filled with dark, quiet, leaf-thick trees, 
 Loaded with green, cold, faintly shining suns ; 
 And in the sky a great dim burning disc ! 
 Madness it is to watch these twisted trunks 
 And to see nothing move and hear no sound ! 
 
 Let's make a noise, Hey ! . . . Hey ! . . . Hullo 1 
 Hullo ! 
 
 43
 
 SOLDIERS 
 
 TREES struggling fiercely to the sky, and 
 winds that leap and cry, 
 Are soldiers of the spinning earth, and images 
 
 of beauty, 
 They are the songs of maddened clay, the wild 
 
 delirious dreams, 
 
 That, clothed in khaki, storm a hill, and melt 
 away in blood. 
 
 Like rocks and crags, their limbs are torn from 
 depths of outward calm, 
 
 Let them embrace their agony, and weep, and 
 kiss their hands, 
 
 And gaily seize what rapture lies in banners 
 and in drums, 
 
 For youth was meant to bleed and die, or sorrow- 
 fully grow old. 
 
 They are but common anguished men, waked 
 
 from an opiate dream 
 To see the lightning flash of life, ere they sink 
 
 down again, 
 Securer from its misery, its beauty and its 
 
 grief 
 They are like ancient songs that speak and 
 
 then lie long unsung. 
 
 44
 
 It matters not what symbols are inscribed upon 
 their van, 
 
 They are the symbols and the songs. Gesticu- 
 lating trees 
 
 Thus stand upon the hills and rave towards 
 the speechless sky, 
 
 But in the end sink feebly down and fade into 
 the ground. 
 
 And from the bodies of sweet girls as fair and 
 
 white as flowers, 
 The soldiers rise to storm foul hills, in search 
 
 of words and dreams, 
 And ebb a\vay among the stones to feed the 
 
 gleaming corn, 
 That with their beauty shall arise and quiver 
 
 in the wind. 
 
 O you wise stones that lie and soak the beau- 
 teous blood of men, 
 
 The loveliness of all earth's crops, the soft 
 entreating eyes 
 
 Of fawn-like girls, have you no tale, no sweet 
 consoling hope 
 
 To utter as we stand in pain, and gaze upon the 
 dead ? 
 
 45
 
 Exultantly you seem to stare, and wilder wave 
 
 the trees, 
 There is some joy in this fierce earth that echoes 
 
 in my soul. 
 Soldiers arise ! stand up you slain ! stand up, 
 
 the silence fills ! 
 The trumpet of immortal Death rings in the 
 
 crumbling hills.
 
 TALKING WITH SOLDIERS 
 
 THE mind of the people is like mud, 
 From which arise strange and beautiful 
 
 things, 
 
 But mud is none the less mud, 
 Though it bear orchids and prophesying Kings, 
 Dreams, trees, and water's bright babblings. 
 
 It has found form and colour and light, 
 The cold whiteness of the Arctic Pole ; 
 It has called a far-off glow Arcturus, 
 And some pale weeds, lilies of the valley. 
 
 It has imagined Virgil, Helen and Cassandra ; 
 The sack of Troy, and the w r eeping for Hector 
 Rearing stark up 'mid all this beauty 
 In the thick, dull neck of Ajax. 
 
 There is a dark Pine in Lapland, 
 
 And the great, figured Horn of the Reindeer 
 
 Moving soundlessly across the snow, 
 
 Is its twin brother, double-dreamed, 
 
 In the mind of a far-off people. 
 
 Aristocrat and democrat ! 
 
 It is strange that a little mud 
 
 Should echo with sounds, syllables, and letters, 
 
 47
 
 Should rise up and call a mountain Popoca- 
 
 tapetl, 
 And a green-leafed wood Oleander. 
 
 These are the ghosts' of invisible things ; 
 There is no Lapland, no Helen and no Hector, 
 And the Reindeer is a darkening of the brain, 
 And Oleander is but Oleander. 
 
 Mary Magdalena and the vine Lachrymae 
 
 Christi , 
 
 Were like ghosts up the ghost of Vesuvius, 
 As I sat and drank wine with the soldiers, 
 As I sat in the Inn on the mountain, 
 Watching the shadows in my mind. 
 
 The mind of the people is like mud : 
 Where are the imperishable things, 
 The ghosts that flicker in the brain 
 Silent women, orchids, and prophesying Kings, 
 Dreams, trees, and water's bright babblings I
 
 DESPAIR 
 
 THE girl that I shall marry stands waiting 
 in the hall, 
 She's tall and, oh ! she's pretty, but my eyes 
 
 are far away ; 
 We'll go to tea and chatter, and her hands are 
 
 white and small, 
 
 They remind me of the butterflies I saw in 
 Quaya's bay. 
 
 But if I hold or kiss them, darkness falls upon 
 
 that scene, 
 Its beauty fades for ever as the day fades 
 
 under rain ; 
 And her hair's a faint, faint memory of the soft 
 
 night in the trees, 
 
 Of the beauty that I sought for but shall 
 never see again. 
 
 And I listen to her talking, and I dream of 
 
 winds that came, 
 About those hills at morning ringing cold 
 
 enchanted bells, 
 And I tremble to go to them and to leave this 
 
 fluttering soul 
 
 That gaily sits beside me breaking beauty's 
 cobweb spells. 
 
 49
 
 And as I sit beside her after kissing her red 
 
 mouth 
 I step back, vainly wishing that I stood on 
 
 Quaya's shore, 
 When I saw such hills of beauty, such strange 
 
 flowers and shapes of death 
 That a nameless grief pierced through me, 
 ay, pierced through me to the core. 
 
 Here I sit, and here my voice sounds like the 
 
 droning of a fly, 
 
 And no doubt I'll often come here, half- 
 forgetting and half gay ; 
 You'll say the place is stuffy, or complain the 
 
 cakes are dry 
 
 But then I'll never see you or hear the words 
 you say. 
 
 O how and why was it I left that far-off Quaya 
 
 bay ! 
 O do not let me touch your hands but let 
 
 them flutter by, 
 For I would hunt those butterflies that droop 
 
 down from the hills, 
 
 And I would hear the singing sea on Quaya's 
 margin cry !
 
 ILLUSION 
 
 SHE stood like Spring before my Winter 
 door, 
 
 Paler than dawn, wind-swept and delicate ; 
 And her small hands, clasped like twin fragile 
 
 shells, 
 
 Were white as Spring skies faintly veined with 
 blue. 
 
 Years had she flown upon the moorland's edge, 
 Graven upon some sleeping ploughland scene ; 
 And I with parted lips would stand and gaze, 
 While clouds breathed huge still outlines in the 
 sky : 
 
 And she was not on moor or field or hill ; 
 Perhaps a plough was dark against the air ; 
 And night would come, and the pale blossom- 
 ing moon 
 Shining upon that carven, furrowed sea. 
 
 Yet once she stood, thin, pale, a rain-clear 
 
 dream, 
 
 With skyey white arms at my Winter door; 
 But when I rose the air was desolate, 
 With thin tree-fingers frozen in the sky.
 
 PEACE 
 
 IN low chalk hills the great King's body lay, 
 And bright streams fell, tinkling like polished 
 
 tin, 
 
 As though they carried off his armoury, 
 And spread it glinting through his wide domain. 
 
 Old bearded soldiers sat and gazed dim-eyed 
 At the strange brightness flowing under trees, 
 And saw his sword flashing in ancient battles, 
 And drank, and swore, and trembled help- 
 lessly. 
 
 And bright-haired maidens dipped their cold 
 
 white arms, 
 
 And drew them glittering colder, whiter, still ; 
 The sky sparkled like the dead King's blue eye 
 Upon the sentries that were dead as trees. 
 
 His shining shield lay in an old grey town, 
 And white swans sailed so still and dreamfully ; 
 They seemed the thoughts of those white, 
 
 peaceful hills 
 Mirrored that day within his glazing eyes. 
 
 And in the square the pale cool butter sold, 
 Cropped from the daisies sprinkled on the 
 downs, 
 
 52
 
 And old wives cried their wares, like queer day 
 
 owls, 
 Piercing the old men's sad and foolish dreams. 
 
 And Time flowed on till all the realm forgot 
 The great King lying in the low chalk hills ; 
 Only the busy water dripping through 
 His hard white bones knew of him lying there. 
 
 53
 
 HARP, FLUTE AND VIOL 
 
 THE Harp was silent in the chamber 
 Where there danced the wavering shadow, 
 Shadow of the flute-player, 
 Fitful as the fall of water 
 Dreaming 
 
 Then the shadow of the viol 
 Stole upon the people's faces, 
 Played with fainter, fainter shadows 
 Of the day beyond, the day of sky and street, 
 Of illimitable airy shining, 
 Walls and Pinnacles and Clouds 
 Dreaming on the pavement. 
 
 ***** 
 
 No wind but only light reflected 
 On the ivory walls and ceiling, 
 And the globes of porphyry 
 Silently and softly shining, 
 And the shadow-fountain flute, 
 Rippling, murmuring and lolling 
 There amid white dreamy faces ^ 
 
 ***** 
 
 Gazing on the scenery 
 
 Of the viol, 
 
 In a land enchanted, weary, 
 
 In a land of beauty disillusioned 
 
 54
 
 The Harp began. 
 
 Its music was as is the song of jasmine 
 
 Slender and faint among the dark of trees, 
 
 Winding a stair 
 
 From the dark earth towards the cold white 
 
 stars. 
 
 And whiter than the stars the arms of her 
 That plucked the strings and gazed into her 
 
 soul, 
 Where all the Trees of the round earth were 
 
 clustered, 
 Whose Foliage, 
 
 Heavy and calm leaf-hammered thunder, rilled 
 That silver mirror lying in the world ! 
 
 75* TT *3r TT* 53F 
 
 Gaze on into your soul, O Harp-player, 
 
 Those Trees that weep, 
 
 Those flowers that twining hang 
 
 Dream-faces vapour-crumbling in blind woods 
 
 Are mirrored there and in that land we gaze ! 
 
 O bright thy soul that Moon of quicksilver ! 
 Lovely the falling shadow of the flute, 
 Amid the viol's quiet scenery !
 
 MID-DAY 
 
 THE lilac blows in my heart ; 
 Deep within the park 
 The trees drip soft and dark 
 The lilac blows, the lilac blows 
 Within my heart. 
 
 It is mid-day, no Sun 
 
 Is shining in this place, 
 
 Lit with grey dove-soft grace 
 Of Water, Cloud, and dripping, drooping 
 
 Trees ; 
 No Moon, no Sun. 
 
 Silence, a willow bough 
 
 Hangs in the moving stream ; 
 
 Bend low my Soul, a Dream 
 On visionary banks of life, 
 Art standing now ! 
 
 As water dark with Trees 
 
 I see Time flowing by, 
 
 The woods flower up and die, 
 Faint shadowy water-blooms that fade away, 
 Lovelier than these.
 
 Art thou, O Spirit, mirrored like a Bough 
 
 In the dark tide, 
 
 The Spring thy white, white bride ; 
 The lilac in her heart that blows 
 Thy vow ! 
 
 57
 
 SOLITUDE 
 
 WHEN the sun is sunk and the woods wave 
 Their dark boughs to the sky, 
 And the sea leaps sullen and quiet, 
 
 And the birds sit silently, 
 Jewel-eyed and carved on the dreamlike 
 
 boughs, 
 My heart beats restlessly. 
 
 O, in the quiet of the dove -grey sky 
 
 Some holy land there may be, 
 Where a man may ride in solitude, 
 
 Yet not unhappily 
 
 But to ride through this shadow-crowded 
 world 
 
 God it is lonely ! 
 
 The singing, the laughter, men's clear eyes, 
 
 Hollow as elfin bells, 
 Slim girls, falling rain, friends drinking 
 
 But air-linked syllables 
 They are more wandering than any voice 
 
 Of cuckoo in hill-heaped dells. 
 
 And even this dove-grey sea and sky 
 
 Is so quiet a mystery, 
 That I feel it may suddenly fade away 
 
 With its carved mountain imagery ; 
 
 58
 
 And I close my eyes and it disappears 
 And chill it is and airy ! 
 
 And the shadows flock to my ears and touch 
 
 In soft and populous cries, 
 My heart is beleaguered in the dark ; 
 
 A crowd pushes close and sighs 
 Very still, wide-awake and watchful, 
 
 The lonely sentinel dies. 
 
 59
 
 THE DARK FIRE OF SORROW 
 
 THE dark fire of Sorrow is burning in my 
 brain, 
 
 And its glow dwells softly on the hills 
 The amber hills, the hills translucent, hills of 
 
 mellow light 
 Guaya's still, lake-reflected hills. 
 
 There love is like a golden bird that leaps 
 
 among dead trees, 
 
 The old and withered thoughts of men ; 
 Dark scenery of passion in the land of the ideal, 
 
 Dark like a little mad glen. 
 
 And in that calmer, magic light I see the bright 
 
 wild bird 
 
 Flitting through the peace of Guaya's hills ; 
 And could I leave this narrow glen branched 
 
 thick with tortured thought, 
 And wander in those plains the dark fire 
 fills. 
 
 Yes, wander to those hills of peace that glow 
 
 like strange sad jewels, 
 And enter their calm supernatural day, 
 That fire would die, that glow depart, and that 
 
 bright, bright bird love 
 Would have quietly and for ever flown away. 
 
 " 60
 
 For the dark fire of Sorrow burns not upon 
 
 those hills, 
 
 There's but peace there and loveliness afar ; 
 And the radiance of that country is the sad, 
 
 still light that fills 
 This glen of human sorrow where we are. 
 
 61
 
 MIRAGE 
 
 WHOSE was the melody 
 In the still wood? 
 From a small bell it rang 
 
 Close where I stood, 
 Windlessly trembling 
 Its bright blue hood. 
 
 Blue in the green of leaves, 
 
 Blue in the grass 
 The dark sea flashes 
 
 In memory's glass, 
 In the still wood its foam 
 
 White as I pass. 
 
 Through the still trees it rolled 
 
 Once long ago, 
 Great sea-bells are tolling 
 
 Hidden below, 
 Ringing clear bells in summer, 
 
 Muffled bells in snow. 
 
 62
 
 ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD 
 
 ON Chagola the air was full of butterflies, 
 They fluttered down the valleys of bright 
 
 blue ; 
 White they were, snow-tinted, soft as the soft 
 
 sea-foam 
 That far inland breaks in mysterious bloom : 
 
 Invisibly, as Spring lapping dark hills, 
 It breaks into a billow pale as snow ; 
 From Chagola there rolls a shadowy tide 
 Of harebell drops of brightly quivering blue. 
 
 The sky it had not rained its azure down 
 But hoarded still its deep soft purple air ; 
 A glacier shone, a cold, a cold white bride 
 From some dark home of earth there raptly 
 flown : 
 
 O Chagola, Chagola come ! descend ! 
 Into the lowlands, the dark and windy plains 
 Where my house is, my fireside and my home, 
 My harbour and the net about my soul !
 
 ON PERSIAN HILLS 
 
 ON Persian hills the Moonlights shadowed 
 roses 
 Still as the stone walls ; their pale dream-swept 
 
 faces 
 Hang in soft clusters weary and dusty grey. 
 
 A lattice lies wide open on those hills : 
 
 Who looks upon that carven soundless scene 
 
 The Tree, the Peacock and the shining Moon ? 
 
 It is jet dark that small high window square ; 
 The shadowed roses dream, the Moon is still ; 
 Without a sound the Peacock now has flown.
 
 THE PRINCESS 
 
 THE stone-grey roses by the desert's rim 
 Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand, 
 Grey are the broken walls of Conchubar 
 That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are 
 Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon. 
 
 Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright 
 
 feet 
 
 Entering the vanished gardens sniff the air 
 Some scent may linger of that ancient time, 
 Musician's song, or poet's passionate rhyme, 
 The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick 
 
 there. 
 
 A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow, 
 In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun, 
 With long dark lashes and small delicate hands: 
 All Persia sighed to kiss her small red mouth 
 Until they buried her in shifting sand. 
 
 And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon 
 And never shake the frail Tree's lightest leaves, 
 And moonlight roses perfume the pale Dawn 
 Until the scarlet life that left her lips 
 Gathers its shattered beauty in the sky.
 
 THE POMPADOUR IN ART 
 
 (Vide an article in ( The Times " Literary 
 Supplemen t of 9 th August, 1917.) 
 
 (0 
 
 WOULD'ST thou go back to that white 
 nakedness 
 
 Among the dark trees glinting in the sun, 
 Their feet white marble where the cool brooks 
 
 run, 
 
 Their frail, light ringers flushed with happi- 
 ness ? 
 
 A white dream in the hot day's breathlessness 
 Would 'st thou enfold in thy hot, lustful arms ? 
 Or would 'st thou have no traffic with these 
 
 charms, 
 
 Dost then indeed love primitive ugliness ? 
 " To Nature " is thy cry, " abandon all 
 Voluptuous ornament and toilet tricks 1 " 
 Back to the healthy days before the fall 
 When mother Eve her food-foul fingers licks 
 And recks not of her heavy shapelessness, 
 Her dirty nails, her dark skin's hairiness ? 
 
 66
 
 (2) 
 
 Because thou knowest well that Grecian dream 
 Of white Fauns in a wood, and slender girls, 
 Frail, laughing lilies shaking their bright curls 
 Among the trees, is an unnatural dream ; 
 The soft, white skin which has so bright a 
 
 gleam, 
 Those slender limbs and delicate, manicured 
 
 hands 
 
 Have they not been desired in ancient lands 
 A part of that strange lure, that mystical beam 
 Of beauty, which on many a drab old tower 
 At sunset casts a fairy artifice, 
 Lending rough bricks a sudden magic power 
 So that dead clay becomes beauty's device 
 For coquetry in clothes and hair and hands 
 Is the quick spirit loosening matter's bands !
 
 (3) 
 
 As for myself, proudly I confess 
 I love not matter lumped and unadorned, 
 Five feet of flesh is but a cow unhorned ?. 
 If the quick spirit shew not in the dress ; 
 Blushes are roses in a wilderness, 
 And pencilled eyebrows are the soul's delight ; 
 The Moon is not more lovely in the night 
 Than are white shoulders in a shadowy dress : 
 And in silk stockings frailly gleam white limbs 
 Like candles drawing painted butterflies ; 
 And dressed hair gives the soul an earthless 
 
 flower 
 
 That shines into our eager, seeking eyes 
 For now she speaks and moves beyond all 
 
 dreams 
 A Focus where some wild world radiance 
 
 streams. 
 
 68
 
 (4) 
 
 The flesh has no expression in the mind 
 Unless it be shot through with subtle thought. 
 An honest wife is all too easily bought, 
 A ten-stone animal that's deaf and blind, 
 Who dresses plainly, plainly cooks, is kind 
 And knows her husband's income to a nought ; 
 Wears calico, flat shoes, is heard to snort 
 At vice, but knows not virtue or mankind ; 
 A cow, a bitch, a sense-dulled lump of clay 
 Were virtuous as she, for art as ripe ; 
 And in her sense's flesh-dimmed, feeble ray 
 Her husband is a thing who smokes a pipe 
 Such is the wife, das Weib, die deutsche Frau, 
 Formed to stir clay, but only with the plough.
 
 (5) 
 
 But Beauty is more delicate than the wind, 
 
 Trackless and as intangible as light ; 
 
 It cannot be pinned down for common sight ; 
 
 Like violets in a wood it haunts us blind, 
 
 Though scentless trees are mirrored in our mind. 
 
 A girl's dress is a lovely wood, a night 
 
 Of flowing clouds and shattered, shaken light ; 
 
 An arabesque of dust to dust resigned, 
 
 With cloud and wood and star, and her bright 
 
 love : 
 
 And in these rags, and in the dust of worlds, 
 Beauty departed lies as lies the dove 
 In a few feathers bleaching in the sun 
 As the form crumbles so the spirit wanes 
 And we'll not find it more for all our pains. 
 
 70
 
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 The 
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 Fire 
 
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 Ltd.
 
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