1 1 I 9 FHERN REGION/! / ( J3 13 > < Tl > i WIND IN t. U DM UNI) JdltK •' r i>-iy THE WIND IN THE TEMPLE BY THE SAME AUTHOR: "THE FLUTE OF SARDONYX" (For Press appreciations see pp. 55 — 58.) THE WIND IN THE TEMPLE/ POEMS BY EDMUND JOHN AUTHOR OF " THE FLUTE OF SARDONYX " LONDON : erskine macdonald MCMXV PRINTEE/ BY •W. MATE AND SONS, LIMITED, BOURNEMOUTH To MAUD CHURTON BRABY NOTE Several of the following poems have already appeared in various periodicals, and they are included in the present volume by the courteous permission of the editors of " The English Review," " The British Review," " Colour," " The Gypsy," and - *' The Anthology of Trees." CONIENTS PAGE 1. Autumn _ _ - - - 11 2. Phantasy - - - . - 13 3. In the Wood - _ _ - 16 4. ICHABOD - - - - - 19 5. Litany of the Seven Devils - 22 6. Lux Perpetua - - _ - 25 7. Aftermath - - - - - 28 8. Death-Song - - - - - 29 9. On Debussey's " Shepherd-Boy " - 32 10. Ballade of Farewell - 34 11. Carpe Diem - - - - - 39 12. A Song of Life - - - - 45 13. In Memoriam - - - « 46 POEMS OF THE WAR 1. The Huns. 1914 2. Ave Indi 3. In Memoriam - 51 - 52 - 53 (9) AUTUMN (To T. J.) ... A broken blossom, a dead rose enshrined In odours of the wood, brown briers twined About an ancient stone . . . A leaf of withered amber in the wind Drifts on alone. In the still hollows the curled vapours seem To mourn ; and on dim grass sunk to a dream Of shrouded amethyst, Like fallen stars white scattered petals gleam Through the blue mist. The wood IS soundless, save where gems are shed From dripping branches, soft like laughter sped Away from eyes that weep On the pine-carpet and the dead leaves spread By hands of Sleep. Singing is fled, frail music of the merle Is lost like Love ; and like a dead child's curl A curved gold rose-leaf rests. E!ach needle of the pines has its own pearl Of vanished quests. (11) Autumn — continued The last sad fires of purple heather set In a grey pall of mist, seem like Regret, Whose blood, fallen and proud. Traces strange crimson symbols even yet Upon its shroud. ... A yellow fern ; a mystic silent sea Of bracken, pale, breast-high ; a fallen tree Half-veiled by the moist breath Of the dim forest, calm as though there be Content in death . . . Black ancient pines v^atch round a pool of glass Set in the forest's heart ; the ashen grass Dreams deathlike on the slope Where Autumn crept last night to see Love pass. And buried Hope. (12) PHANTASY (To C. H. S. J.) Silence as of eternity, a halt of breath, As unseen eyes that watch in sleep, that wake at death; Hath fallen on the plain : Only the pollard willows comprehend its spell, The pollards, and the little hills where the sun fell With crinnson stain. The pale pool mirrors motionless the amber sky. The air is dust of burnished bronze, a purple dye Hath changed the white wild rose From peace to passion, and rich sombre colours creep On vervain where the dew hath strung strange gems of sleep And no breeze blows. There is a dreamless twilight in this mystic place Of low dwarf-myrtles where the creepers Interlace, Where gorse hath aureoled Its stars with moon-wove gossamer, and all around A faint unearthly light is rising from the ground Like pallid gold. Then wakes a subtle sense of something strange and bright ; Lo, by the tall white lilies a mellow mist of light. As of some old stained glass. Clings round the shining form of one whom men call Love, Whose wings are folded, and whose frail feet float above The unreal grass. (13) Phantasy — continued His body is like milk edged with rose-colour rare. With vine and lure of hemlock in his red-gold hair. Night-kissed, that burns and gleams ; His grave sweet scarlet lips are parted voicelessly. His eyes like stars reflected in a violet sea Of dawn and dreams. And in his hand he clasps a chalice wrought by Death, A cup that he withholdeth not nor offereth. With wine of wondrous blend Of sweet and bitter, pressed by youthful pagan feet And crowned with foam from where the tides of Lethe beat. At last, for end. With limbs of ivory and curved mouth made for song, Past the phantasmal shrubs the glory drifts along. Over illusive green And copper of the grass, past the still pool of sleep Bound by red poppies, and through odours sad and deep. Half-felt, half-seen. Between the ashen pollards, set like minor notes In some strange symphony, the shining wonder floats Held in nocturnal frame Of lucent shadow on the hill of sunset's sighs. Where stands a marble sepulchre against the skies Of fading flame. (14) Phantasy— continued Above the white cold columns hangs the ghostly moon. And the dark spectral dead rise up for bitter boon Of sight of Love's closed wmgs. And beat their pitiful dead breasts and die again, Unshrived, of their old longing and the old hot pain Of far-off things. (15) IN THE WOOD (To S. L.) . . . Night, and the amber moon, And the vast dreamy hyacinthine sky ; And deep below, the valley and the sigh Of sleeping lakes in June . . . Upon the silent hill Dream through the luminous dark the mystic trees, And in the vales they break through misty seas Like islands dim and still. The hills are crowned with sleep, Yet here within this lonely wood moon-girt There seems a vivid consciousness alert. Subtle and still and deep. The scents of night are thrown Over my hair ; the shadowy boughs enlace Themselves like arms that dream of some embrace The years have turned to stone. And as I lean my cheek Against the rough bark of this sycamore. Like surf that sobs on some forgotten shore, I hear dead voices speak. (16) In the Wood — continued The wind creeps up the slope, And calls from out the leaves and moonlit bowers The whispers of lost children like frail flowers Upon the grave of Hope. The murmunng branches sway With gestunng hands ; the subtle voices speak Of all the sweet lost thmgs men used to seek Before the world grew gray. And each tree seems to be Itself an mcarnation of the past, Some swift slain moment captured and held fast By the wood's sorcery. The glade sighs, and I see Dim faun-like forms, and through the parted fan Of moonlit leaves there peers the face of Pan Set in night's phantasy. The odour warm and sweet Of the nocturnal pines dream-clad. Is all the perfume of Love's body, sad As laughter over-fleet. (17) In the Wood — continued And in the scented hollow. By the rhododendrons, Hyacinthus lies ; Blood on his slim kissed limbs, and in his eyes The bright tears of Apollo. Aye, touch my lips, O leaves. And brush against my brow, for I would learn To sing these dreams in gold words that shall burn To Spring the Winter eves. Strange pictures on the moon The branches trace ; the flickering foliage sings, Like some far-off Greek chorus, of bright things From some once brighter June. Wind, wind in the leaves — No more ? And do the sighs of night delude With whisperings of some long-dead multitude Whose robes the moonlight weaves ? (18) ICHABOD (To W. R. S. J.) Visions and autumn mists, and the strange hush Born of unbroken endless dreaming, dwell In this deserted garden with its spell Of sighs, Its crumbling dial, its dying flush Upon the leaves where once Youth's sunlight fell. The moist breath of the faint October wind Sighs through the solitary trees ; Lost petals line the emptied treasuries Of June, and the neglected tendrils bind To the lone gates only dim memories. The birds have fled ; the mournful branches droop Over the weed-clad paths ; the briers hold Dead blossoms in their weary arms, and old And desolate the wistful willows stoop Over the rose-trees* deepening brown and gold. An alley of chrysanthemums forlorn Leads to an empty seat of wind-worn stone. Scarred deep by many years, and overgrown With clinging moss ; the rhododendrons mourn Above its ruin, sombre and alone. (19) ICHABOD — continued And everywhere the fallen leaves are strev^rn, In mellowred heaps and like a scattered chain, — Dead leaves, lost hopes, with tears of quiet rain, That fell from the grey drifting clouds at noon, Filling their withered lifeless hearts in vain. Within encircling melancholy trees The old house rises desolate and still, And round the empty porch and on each sill Clings clematis m faded fantasies. Half-veiled by dreaming vapours wan and chill. Upon the lintels the pale lichens creep. And wind and rain have stained the grey stone green The bloomless climbing roses pine and lean Their dying leaves against the wall ; and sleep Has stolen on the gloomy pond unseen. Unlifted silence like a dream m death. Dwells here. Behind the blackened windows drear Dim ghostly faces seem to move and peer Into the ruined garden where the breath Of the moist earth rises from Autumn's bier. (20) IcHABOD — continued There is a room whose windows face the east, Where, in the far-off days, the early Hght Of summer dawns fell on a bed all white And stainless, and the joyous sun released Life and the songs of childhood from the night. And through the open casement came the scent Of summer flowers and the clean morning air. Ah, sweet awakenings of youth ! How fair The future smiled ; with what high hopes he went ! What changed return, with dreams become despair. Ghosts, ghosts ! How empty are the shadowy rooms, How black the windows ! Through the stillness beat Echoes of youth and summer over-fleet. The flowers are dead, the rose no longer blooms. The brown leaves rustle underneath one's feet. Wild brambles wreathe the lonely steps untrod. And on the darkened door that keeps its tryst With shadows that the lips of Sleep have kist. Is writ in pallid letters—" ICHABOD," Decked with dead pearls by fingers of the mist. (21) UTANY OF THE SEVEN DEVILS (To M. C. B.) There are Seven Devils in my heart, That sleep through wintry days, but in the nights of June Pour forth their vials before the half-veiled violet moon. And lave their limbs with mcense sweet and curious, And fling red roses where white lilies had been strewn. There are Seven Devils m my heart ; And when one stirs and wakes, I start, and feel soft-pressed The delicate satin body slide upwards o'er my breast. Veiling my eyes and lips with perfume sensuous. Full of elusive music and a strange unrest. There are Seven Devils m my heart ; And one is lithe and dark and warm, with shinmg eyes Of deep imaginings, and subtle hands like sighs That fall upon my skin, and poignant finger-tips That touch my soul to madness bright that crucifies. There are Seven Devils in my heart ; One has a voice like flutes entwined with jessamine, That haunts the lotus-paths my strange thoughts wander in. And stirs the summer aisles of moonlit odorous flowers. Which lead to the pale temple of forbidden sin. (22) Litany of the Seven Devils — continued There are Seven Devils in my heart ; And one is young and agile, v^ith limbs slim and bare And scented with the lure of youth, and eyes that snare With the frail call of dawn, and wayward heart wound round By delicate wickedness like some half-wanton prayer. There are Seven Devils in my heart ; One with the burning hands of God, and words that beat With lordship o'er men's souls and bodies — power sweet And terrible, evil and good, that can call forth Children and flowers of Spring from Winter's windmg-sheet. There are Seven Devils in my heart ; And one, with my own eyes and voice from the lost years, Holds up an opal mirror set with pearls like tears. And dreams my own dead dreams ; and my maimed hopes he knows. And sees each deed, and all the words I say he hears. There are Seven Devils in my heart ; And one, upon whose forehead gleams a wondrous name, With ivory limbs and kissed feet shod with lambent flame. Calls with gold v^^ngs toward the unattainable, And bids me trample heaven and hell, honour and shame. (23) Litany of the Seven Devils — continued There are Seven Devils in my heart ; And one there is who stands upon the eastern slope At davs^n, when Day flings off Night's purple cope. Him most of all I fear ; master of pam is he ; His eyes are sad, his path a circle, and his name is Hope. There are Seven Devils in my heart. With strange elusive eyes. And sensuous lips, and sighs Of night, and tears which rise From bitter memories that smart. Are they Seven Devils set apart — Or is it some disguise Of Angels who shall soon depart ? (24) LUX PERPETUA (To R. R. W.) (On a fragment, preserved in AlHENitUS, OF AN ANCIENT LEGEND OF SaMOs) The white sand stretches ghostly to the sea, — The tranquil sea that sombrely Circles the shore in a dark line inset With leaping pools of liquid silvery fire — The great moon floats above, and all desire Seems twined around the dead it would forget. Diaphanous black curtains of the night. Like some Plutonic breath beneath the moon's still light. Trail o'er the edges of the smooth wide shore ; The shadowy land curves down, mystic and sweet With tufts of samphire where the lost sun's heat Shall lave the hero's dead calm limbs no more. The perfume of the rhododendron caves Mingles with cool salt odours of the waves. Colours the still nocturne of sea and land. And dreams beneath the slanting trees that grow Upon the overhanging cliffs and throw Deep purple shadows on the shining sand. (25) Lux Perpetua — continued A sea-bird circles darkly round the moon ; The air is tender with the youth of June ; There is no sound save hquid music clear Of the small rippling waves that break and die And fade away in foam, and fadmg sigh Soft songs come back awhile from yester-year. He lies there restful by the summer sea, Dumb and immobile as carved ivory — This young dead hero Sleep hath set apart — What unstirred ashes of a golden fire 1 How stilled the passionate hopes of his desire. How quiet now the throbbing of his heart. He is anointed for some festal rite. His lids are closed, and on his lips the night Hath laid her perfumes and her seal of dreams And every limpid glittering ripple calls To dead ears, and lifts itself to gaze, and falls Into the sliding foam that breaks and gleams. At head and feet four slender lamps are set. That throw swift shadows of strange violet ; The flames gleam steady in the windless night, With amber haloes swaying to and fro, And cast on the dead limbs a subtle glow That mingles with the cold moon's silver light. (26) Lux Perpetua — continued Silent from the dim shadowy purple land, A youth comes forth across the moonlit sand. More beautiful than Love, more calm than Death, With deep eyes that shall ever seek in vain. And tragic lips stained with the lees of pain. And memories of piteous words unsaid. He waits a space by the dead hero's side. And on his slim fair body falls the tide Of mingled light that shines upon the dead ; He bends, and by the couch of rue and vine Places two costly cups of bubbling wine. Amidst the splendid feast that he has spread. He scatters scarlet roses on the sand, A rum of red petals from his hand Falls on the little waves that sigh and beat ; He twines his flowers dreaming of some old vow. And wreathes a garland round the dead man's brow. Then sits serene at those still, icy feet. The flames are flickering in the restless air, A famt breeze lifts his hyacinthine hair. Freeing its perfumes like the ghosts of joy. The minutes fall ; the tide creeps up, its hymns Sound like an elegy ; it laps the limbs Of the dead hero and the watching boy, (27) AFTERMATH (To W. G. F.) Lo, thou hast taken all ! My sight IS gone with the lost gold Of thy wild hair, kissed, aureoled Like fire where my tears fall. My ears are sealed to song, Save of thy voice ; and on my mouth Dream of thy breath from the veiled South Is lying the pale night long. Thy feet are on the throne Of my dead soul ; thy strange eyes gaze Far off ; and rain of ruined days Falls on my lids alone. (28) DEATH-SONG (To S. S.) I have done sweet things, though I go down to die, Sipped honey, though I drink from Lethe now. Danced to the viols, however still I lie, Wreathed garlands gay, though grim shall be my brow. Along the path of pomegranates I passed, And followed the fair flower-flung way of flutes, And in the orchard where sprmg scents were cast, Culled, over-carelessly, Youth's first flushed fruits. I did dream with the lotus on my lips Beneath the sensuous oleander tree. And heard Pan's music where the river slips Like some slim maid into the sapphire sea. I have poured out the spikenard of my soul Upon the altars of strange gods, set round With vials of myrrh, and mystic perfumes that unroll Themselves like incense-smoke upon the ground. And at the feast I flung pale pearls of hope Mid scarlet roses scattered on the floor. And saw the lithe young gilded wine-boys grope For gems their own feet crushed for evermore. (29) Death-Song — continued The sensuous music shook, the cymbals clashed, The dancing-maidens with strange perfumed breath And vine-wreathed bodies and white limbs that flashed. Danced marvellously, hotly . . , into death. Have I forgot these things ? — A memory swims Of some I dreamed I loved, of my mouth bruised By passion of young restless ivory limbs. And soul and body m one mad fire fused. Your name is darkened ; but ofttimes it seems Your clinging lips and body I still hold Against me, fierce and passionate, in my dreams. Your satin skin hot like a flame of gold. And your young wayward naked heart throbs yet On mine, and your lithe youthful limbs entwine My own ; and the faint vein so frailly set In your slim neck makes mad my mouth like wine. I bartered the to-morrows for your kiss, I was less wise than tender with your youth. You were content to slay me with brief bliss, — Then bitterness of one more barren truth. (30) Death-Song — continued These things I knew, and they were swift and sweet, Aye, sweet their shame — but sweet so long ago ! For pain and passion both are fair and fleet ; Death only is eternal, dreaming slow. And though tears jewel Love and spring from Laughter, And joy comes but to teach us how to weep, And each kiss has red wounds that follow after. The quiet end of it is always sleep. I have done sweet thmgs, though I go down to die. If I missed the best, and have bleeding heart and feet. Yet in the dark on my still lips shall lie Some smile of triumph in my last defeat. (31) ON DEBUSSEY'S "SHEPHERD-BOY" (To R. A. H.) . . . Breath of the early dawn. And cool sweet odours of the dew-washed leaves. And hope that wakes at daybreak after eves Forlorn. The vales are amethyst, The sky is pearl ; the wild grass on the hill Just stirs, and in the hollows slumbers still The mist. And half-real as a dream. The little shepherd sits upon a mound. With body white, a goatskin flung around Its gleam. He IS lifting to his lips His pipe of reed ; he raises violet eyes To the mist-wreaths that cross the mellowing skies Like ships. He is playing the song of dawn. And cool and clear the notes are like pale pearls And moonstones falling in a pool where swirls A faun. (32) On Debussey's " Shepherd-Boy " — continued And as he plays he dreams Of gods, and woods, and peacock-coloured seas. And hears the liquid whispering prophecies Of streams. His boy's song drifts away ; Behind the opal mists the copper sun Mounts up ; for warm and sleepy, has begun The day. (33) BALLADE OF FAREWELL (To V ) The path parts here ; your road is fresh with dew ; 'Tis time to turn your eyes away From mine. To-morrow you shall say, " He was my friend " ; and I shall answer you, Far off, " I am your friend alway." The perfumed East, the warm winds from the South, Chant round your virginal white throne With voice and lure of things unknown : Life laughs and calls you with his young red mouth. And lo, you must go forth alone. You must stand naked in the wind that blows About your brow your soft, child's hair. And brave and lonely make your prayer. And weep sometimes, and smile, and pluck your rose. With not a comrade anywhere. For none can help you read the secret scroll Of life ; nor is there rest nor rod To aid you on the path Love trod ; But all alone, if you would find your soul. You must gaze in the eyes of God. (34) Ballade of Farewell — continued On some lone hill, or by the spreading fan Of palm or pine on summer days, Or by the winding watery ways That dream in Delphic woods, you shall hear Pan, And learn, at last, the song he plays. Oh sing it once before you must depart ! And laugh, and be not over-wise — I have seen these thmgs in your eyes, And read deep secrets in your shy young heart, And heard Pain's laughter in your sighs. Already you have seen upon the hills The ancient gods move joyously. As I once saw them wondrously ; And touched, in odours of young daffodils. Lips of Narcissus suddenly. The Unattainable shall call you on With wide eyes lit by hope and pain. To fail and fall and hope again, Until one day the Vision shall be gone. And you must sleep or wake in vain. (35) JUllade of Farewell — continued Where beauty is most fleet as some soft song The veiled Ideal bids us pray, And strange and swiftly fades away, Because we have not strength to hold it long And live until the close of day. Vision Beautiful, beyond the shore Of dreams ! how far it is, and sweet As dymg odours frail and fleet Of lilies locked behind Death's faithless door, — Sought eyes our own shall never meet. And ever must we follow it in vain, Nor shall our hope nor pain avail. Nor eager eyes, nor lips grown pale : And death there is for him who shall attain, And dreamless sleep for those who fail. In places where he lingers least of all You shall find Love and make your cry To him and Death, and say good-bye With his bright kiss on your closed lids for pall — It is the fairest way to die. (36) Ballade of Farewell— continued For you the ancient temple doors stand wide ; Open your arms, be brave and strong Although the way seem over-long : The great gods call you on the green hillside. Open your lips to them m song. Eros shall lay young passion on your mouth, Apollo teach you notes divine. And Dionysus give you wine Of life pressed out from the hot E^st and South Where children tread the purple vine. And you shall teach your own soul how to weep. Shall steal from Syrinx piping near, Strange lyric music cool and clear, •And learn of Proserpine the way to sleep — Some day, at end of the dead year. Great gifts the gods shall give — Oh fail them not When falls the hour of your despair. When sorrow strips your garden bare. Lost is your lute and all your song forgot, — Fail not, for then the gods are there. (37) Ballade of Farewell — continued Fail not, but with your eyes towards the sky Gaze steadfast though your heart may break ; Fad not, even for my poor sake. That I may hear your singing where I He, Through music that the wan winds make. So shall your voice rise to Apollo's throne. So shall the prophecy I read Cling laurel-wise about your head. And scent of hours we spent — how swiftly flown ! Shall find us out amongst the dead. Kiss my brow once, for there farewell is writ- A moment's pang while Love floats by, A catching of the breath, a cry . . . Oh turn away, this is the end of it, This IS the way all sweet things die. This is the end of it ; for seal a tear Upon half-uttered thoughts to-day Is set. To-morrow you shall say, " He was my friend " ; and I will answer clear. Far off, " I am your friend alway." (38) CARPE DIEM (To OLD Omar, in his grave of withered vine-leaves) Introibo ad altare Dei : Ad Deum, qui latificat juventutem meam. Hear us, veiled Oracle of Truth, Hear us who kneel at the fleet feet of Spring ; Hear, and shew forth for our awakening The mystery and the joy and pain of Youth ! "... A candle glimmering between two palls, A kiss between Life's lips and mouth of Death — Lo, even as these is Youth," Love answereth, " As hope of summer while the rose-leaf falls." Oh stay thy dreammg, open thy deep eyes — The star of Youth is falling through Life's night Of roofless sapphire to the ebonite Silent unplumbed Abyss where Nothing lies. Wilt thou for ever yearn for Joys that beat Their passionate wild Wings in some Far Land? Nor ever wake nor stretch out thine hot hand, When lo ! thy Joy lies longing at thy feet ? And though thou tramplest it ere June be past. And kiss its dying lips in thy despair. And wipe its red torn breast with thy wild hair, — Shalt bear away its perfume at the last ! (39) CarPE Diem — continued Wilt thou for ever dream and lose To-day For sake of some To-morrow fruitlessly ? For Pageant of July thou shalt not see, Crush the frail Flowers of far more perfect May? Set not thine eyes towards the unrisen Dawn, — For thee the Day may never break . . . who knows ?- Nor weep for memory of some slain Rose, Nor thy Dead Self — for dead things do not mourn. Thou shalt grow old with gazing through the dark At some vain world beyond the bounds of this : And thy Reward, for lips thou didst not kiss. Will profit little when thou liest stark. Lo, here beneath the Moonlight and the Sun, Lo, Here and Now, with Summer ambient. Thou shalt find both Reward and Punishment Enough for every Deed — THOU HAST NOT DONE. Though there be poison in the Fruit we clutched Athirst for Life — and our own souls the price — From the Forbidden Trees of Paradise, Yet sin we most to leave one Fruit untouched. (40) Carpe Diem — continued All that we seek, the Dream we idolize. The Distant Vision our sad souls beseech, Are close at hand all day within our reach, But hidden by the Longing in our eyes. Stretch forth thine arms and give thy lips to Youth, For lo, the Blossom of his Mouth shall call Thee once and vanish, and its Petals fall . . . Wouldst lose thy Spring for a false Dream of Truth? Wouldst sleep away the Hour most exquisite That strikes but Once, when lo, that Sleep is near Which wakes not ? Wouldst crush Life to Death for fear Of the Unknown that cometh after it ? Oh grasp thy Moment ere it be too late. Death's Tide, Love's Wine, shall drown Regret for thee. There is no Past, the Future shall not be, — Only To-day, perfumed and passionate ! Seize thy swift Youth with its lithe loveliness. Though thine own Blood shall colour it like Wine, And thy Tears jewel it — hold it, 'tis thine. Although the End is loss and bitterness. (41) Carpe Diem — continued And with those Tears and Blood shalt celebrate Thy sacrifice to Love, make sacrament Of Wine and Water thine own veins have blent, With thine own Youth as Priest immaculate. . . . — Thy Youth, Love's priest ! Yet know, may flit away Ere thou canst grasp it — Oh seize it, though in sooth Thou shalt not keep this strange sweet scent of Youth Enduring for a Night and dead at Day. Oh tarry not ! The Hour thou shalt depart Creeps near — let not June's Roses bloom in vain. Nor veil thine eyes because of Beauty's pain. Nor let Love's limbs lie cold on thy faint heart. Leave Rest and Sleep till Love and Life be ceased ; — Thou and thy vivid youth one day shall lie Quiet enough beneath some moonlit sky. Nor heed nor hear the Laughter at the Feast. . . . Spring and the falling days, and a swift cloud Upon one's eyes at last ! 'Tis well with thee — A pictured tapestry of Memory Shall wrap thee round for thy eternal shroud. (42) Carpe Diem — continued Hardly canst thou believe thy fragrant breath And hot kissed heart and throbbing Hps shall be Silenced, shut out — Beyond we cannot see, We only know that all things die save Death. Yet even so thyself shalt lie at last. Thy white still lids shut out the Summer Skies, The Worms creep in the sockets of thme eyes, And Dust heaped o'er the Ruin of the Past. I shall await thee cold and passionless. Though 1 shall see thee not, though sense be fled, Though I wake not to greet thee newly-dead, I will await thee, stark and motionless. And ye yet left — still beautiful with Bloom And Joy of Youth — will ye have thought of me Who sang my songs awhile beneath Youth's Tree ? Shall my voice reach you from the quiet tomb ? And will ye hear my music round the Bough, And in the Flowers the flaming Summer flaunts . . And laugh with the pale ghost of me that haunts Even this song that I am singing now ? (43) Carpe Diem — continued Let be, let be, these things touch not the Dead — Love nor Forgetfulness nor Memory — Bring Roses to the mound that covers me, — But wreathe them laughmg round thine own live head ! And where I lie, 'neath the wild grass without, On my dead mouth a Kiss shall find re-birth That the slow rain which soaks through the grey earth About my silent lips shall not wash out, (44) A SONG OF UFE (To M. J.) As the youth of dawn's sweet breath As Love's strange sad voice, though Death Come after, for its hour must sing ; Even as grass that withereth, — So is Sprmg. As a Spring of lazuli And jade, and pain of Love's reply. More wise than God, more deep than Truth, Even as scent of flowers that die, — So IS Youth. As altar-fire which Night hath lain On lips that their own blood shall stain. As lily-leaves that float above Quiet waters that shall still thy pain, — So is Love. As that silence calm and deep The white untrodden mountains keep For ever ; even as the breath Of poppies round the pool of Sleep, — So is Death. (45) IN MEMORIAM (To E S , obilt April 11th, 1913) Shadow of Sleep lies on you ; ended the high quest, The bright hope, the vain courage. All the cry has passed From your unanswering lips and from your quiet breast, Where your still hands lie cross-wise in the night. Oh rest. With calm closed lids. Oh rest at last. With eyes that cannot see my tears. With ears tiiat cannot hear me weep. Nor heed the dirge of the dead years. Nor sobbing from the deep Abyss of my distress : Lie still at last and sleep, Though I am comfortless, For you at leeist shall keep Gift of forgetfulness. Shadow of that sweet sleep which seals the weary breath Has fallen like the benediction of a bell From some old tower, rung by the gentle hands of Death, All sad and peaceful with the dream he offereth. And mingling with unspoken words of your farewell. Bexhill, April llth, 1913. (46) Poems of the War THE HUNS, 1914 Only the bent ghosts of pain, the grey phantoms of fear Inhabit the desolate streets in the silence, and peer Out from the charred, blackened windows. No more than the breath Of the fresh fields shall stir the drawn lips of the dead whose blood dyes Their own hearths, where from out the spent ashes dim spirals yet rise Like the smoke of dark incense that burns on the Altars of Death. All the prayers are stilled ; there is blood in the holy place. And over the lintels, and splashed on the pale, lined old face Of the dead peasant woman who lies where the hollyhock blows. And blood on the breasts of the maiden who yesterday smiled. And blood on the white broken body of each flower-like child. Like red wme that is spilled on a petal of some fallen rose. And blood there shall be on the throats of the devilish throng. And an eye for an eye, and for every unnameable wrong Anguish and death and despair shall find out a reward. Lo, the clamour of battle is calling to all who are men To succour the helpless, and vanquish and drive to their den The murdering Huns who have drawn and shall die by the sword. (51) AVE INDI The West is grey, and pale with sweat of pain, Save where the flicker of a funeral pyre Stabs the dull pallor with fine jets of fire. And ashen cheeks are grim with some dark stain. Gold is the East, and bright the Indian sea ; And princes of a race that knows no fears Pour out their treasures of a thousand years, And call to battle all their chivalry. For lo, at last the East and West have met, In splendid friendship sealed by splendid blood ; So shall they conquer death and stem the flood That seethes from hell — and heaven shall not forget ! For every tortured child, and all the shame Of women slain, the Indian hosts shall bring Bitter reward ; and through God's halls shall ring Their mighty vengeance and eternal fame. (52) IN MEMORIAM (To Field-Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar, obiit November, 1914) Rest, though the clamorous surge of war Follow thy peace to the great doors of Death ; As in thy fearless life, so now, the cannons' roar. The roll of drums, at thy last breath Proclaim thee Conqueror ! The prophets and the warriors who have passed That way before thy coming, welcome thee ; The Angel's trumpet sounds a nobler blast, And kings and knights of the old chivalry Now hail thee at the last. Thy days, thy deeds, thy words of proven gold. Thy son, and last of all, thyself didst give For Country's sake ; and now the tale is told Thy splendid memory shall breathe and live Till all men's hearts lie cold. (53) Extracts from Press Notices on " The Flute of Sardonyx," by Edmund John. " The Standard," September 2nd, 191 3. ^Ir. John . . . revels in those beauties which the sight reveals, but he is also somewhat of a philosopher. . . . Many of his lines have a strong fascination, and to say the least of it, he is an extremely clever artist. His abundant talent is shown in " Salome." " The Times," August 2Sth, 1913. Mr. John . . . has a luscious imagination and a faculty for rich colour in words. " The New York Times," November ^oth, 1913/ The very first line of the very first poem in Mr. John's new book . . . simple and plain to bareness as it is, has something about it that warns us of magic to follow. And it does follow ; not the particular magic it prepares us for, perhaps, but the indubitable magic that has now and then risen through English poetry. . . . Mr. John's remarkable gift of weaving words to the similitude of colours and fragrances ... at its best brings an illusion Uttle short of magical. In " Rain," for instance, we get an almost physical sense of space and mystery, and of a solution of mystery eternally grasped at and eternally eluding. . . . We cannot have too much poetry of this sort. " The Sunday Times," August 17th, 191 3. There is no doubt about Mr. John having high poetic gifts ; his verse has melody and fire and colour and sometimes even magic ... as you read on the languor and the perfumes and the colours of the South seem to steal out on you from the poet's verses. He is singularly happy, indeed, at most times in creating the illusions of place and " atmosphere." " The Morning Post," September 1st, 1913. Mr. John's artistry in the use of words as gems and enamels is at its best in his barbaric and opulent " Salome "... the setting is sumptuous. ... But we prefer him in a milder and more mellifluous mood ; in such stanzas as the following we find lines . . . that are truly poetical and " of their own arduous fullness reverent." . . . ( 55 ) Press Notices — continued " The Outlook," August ^oth, 1913. It is a first volume, and yet it places Mr. John in the very- front rank of present-day poets. Here is no imitative suggestion. His work, as Mr. Phillips very truly says, is " not only distinctive but distinguished." He has the true marvel and colour and splendour of verse. His use of words is unusual, his extent of vocabulary astonishing. Inevitably does that overworked word atmosphere " thrust itself forward, so magically does Mr. John depict a scene. " The English Review," September, 1913. He (Mr. John) is sensuous, no doubt . . . there is a haze of Christian imagery, and flowers, and death, and pain floating through these love-poems . . . the reader will find much of fine workmanship to be admired in them, of courage and veracious feehng ; above all, a promise of still better things. . . . His verse is musical and harmonious beyond the common measure ; in short, he is a refreshing phenomenon amid our herd of cold-blooded, hopelessly conventional songsters. The Bookman," Christmas Number, 191 3. Among these poets Mr. John is the one whose grasp equals his aim . . . every poem, every verse, every line, is visibly the work of one who has mastered his trade. The AthencBum," May 7th, 191 3. There can be no doubt that Mr. John is a sweet, and at times a powerful, singer. The Taller," September loth, 1913. It is seldom that one comes across a new poet whose achieve- ment is already so fine, whose future is so big with promise. The World," August 26th, 1913. There is a haunting beauty in many of his lyrics. Mr. James Douglas in " The Star," May i6th, 1913. Mr. John . . . has a touch of genius. He is a lordUng, if not a lord of language. His verses are bright with jewelled felicities. " The Literary World," March, 191 3. His artistry shows itself in word-magic. " The Daily Citizen," July 2gth, 1913. " Salome " is an Aubrey Beardsley picture in words. . . . The verse is gorgeous, Oriental and rich ... it has a wondrous magic in it. (56) Press Notices— continued He has a delightful gift for pictorial language and words. I am sure that beauty-lovers and most aesthetic lovers of Art will find much to dehght them iu " The Flute of Sardonyx." " The Scotsman," July 2^th, 1913. Mr. John is a poet. He writes lines which nobody but a poet could write. " The Yovkshire Observer," August zgth, 191 3. Mr. John's poetry is full of life, light and colour. ... It is fvill of the glow of youth and beauty. It has music, too, and many of the lines have magic. . . . This book is one of rare promise, if not of entire fulfilment, and it stands boldly above most contemporary verse. "Dublin Daily Express," August [i^th, 1913. It is easy to prophesy a fine future for Mr. John from the ability and insight displayed in this present volume. The Southport Guardian," September loth, 1913. Mr. Edmund John is one of our new singers. His first book on its first appearance made a great stir. ..." The Flute of Sardonyx " contains much of performance and even more of promise. . . . He has a rare sense of colour and a strong sense of words ; his verse pulsates with passion and with life. With him to live is to love ; and to love is alternately to smile and to sorrow — and he expresses the joy and the pain with equal feUcity and fervour. . . . Here in these poems is the spirit of song, the passion of youth, the seductive colour of life, and all the throbbings of hope and desire . . . this book will ensure a critical welcome to Mr. John's future work. Here, at any rate, is a singer — and a singer who is not afraid to sing his own songs in his own way. The Scots Pictorial," September 20th, 1913. We hardly anticipated being whirled so passionately along. At first we rather resented the exotic emotionalism of Mr. John ; but the colour and the " fine frenzy " of his verses batfied our resentment and entangled us into appreciation. He is a pantheistic Francis Thompson, a Francis Thompson who has torn the rosary from his breast, let fall the cloak from his shoulders, and leapt into the revels of love with a leopard skin around his loins ! Mr. Edmund John is undoubtedly a poet. There are lines here and there that thriU the ear with their sheer beauty, lines that mark him to be more than a minor singer. (57 ) Press Notices — continued The Birmingham Daily Post," September 6th, 191 3. Mr. Stephen Phillips, who contributes an introduction to " The Flute of Sardonyx," hits exactly the right nail upon the head when he praises Mr. John's verses because they cannot be appraised at once and ticketed without hesitation . . . the impossibihty of assigning Mr. John off-hand to any of the numerous " schools " of the day, does mean that he has courage and ability enough to stand by himself and work in his own way ; and he has the talent that makes it worth while to retain that independence. The creation of beauty, we take it, is his one conscious aim. And he can write lines that remain in the memory, while he has a delicate sense of rhythm ... he inspires one with the desire to see more of his work. " Nottingham Guardian," October 7.8th, 1913. The verse in " The Flute of Sardonyx," by Edmund John, is good enough to stand on its own merits ... he has a distinctive note. . . . His poetry has its own fire, sense of colour, and exaltation. The Sheffield Daily Telegraph," August jth, 191 3. There is an originality about these poems, and an Oriental warmth and luxury of imagery, which parts them off from the rank and file of much modern verse, and gives them a distinction of their own. Then Mr. John's muse is inspired, and surely he has eyes to see, and sees for himself. There are some memorable Unes. The Dundee Advertiser," August i^th, 1913. Edmund John is of the school of Keats, though no slavish pupil . . . and his poetry comes to one with the impact of poignant experience. Its unescapable beauty promises to live in the memory. Aberdeen Free Press," September i8th, 1913. Mr. John is a poet, and when he finds a subject, as in "Salome," which is in harmony with his rich sensuous imagery, he can be exceedingly powerful. . . . The opening lines of " Salome " strike the keynote of a poem that reproduces with wonderful power the atmosphere of the East. " The Glasgow Herald," August iSth, 191 3. Mr. John is unquestionably a poet. ..." Salome," the most important poem, is a purely realistic study. It is a verbal tour dc force, with brilliant description and a cunningly ordered rhythm. . . . The writer has undoubted gifts. ( ^8) "A BRAVE ADVENTURE" " Here is a brave new publishing adventure which I know will take your fancy. Mr. Erskine IMacDonald, one of the most alive and enterprising of our younger publishers, has just issued the first volumes in a series of " Little Books of Georgian Verse," under the capable editorship of Miss S. Gertrude Ford."^ — From ■' \Vhat to Read " in The Bookm.^n. ■■ The Little Georgian Books of a publisher who deserves commendation." — New Wit.n'e.ss. " Compels by its very audacity some admiration. . . . The little collections of verse are uniformly tuneful and happily phrased. The writers are touched readUy by beautiful things in nature or by fairy fancies, and sing of tliem easily and aptly." — The Times. ■■ \Vc are glad to welcome a new endeavour to popularize the work of present- day poets. The editor and publisher of this definite series of contemporary verse hope that by judicious and sympatlietic selection of the volumes tlie con- fidence of the discriminating public interested in new poetry will be gained ; that ■ each little volume of authentic promise or distinctive achievement will be found to contain sometliing really notable and precious in the best sense of the term . . . that they will pro\-e that new verse as well as more utilitarian books can be published successfully at a low price.' It is all to the good that the promoters of this interesting undertxiking have placed before themselves so definite an ideal ; and they may be sure that if, as they think, the present genera- tion is more responsive now than at any previous tiine to the spirit of poetry, the enterprise will not be allowed to fail." — The Bookseller. THE QUALITY OF THE LITTLE BOOKS OF GEORGIAN VERSE " It is a bold and interesting experiment that Mr. Ersldne MacDonald is making witlr the Cieorgian series of daintily produced volumes of verse by writers of the neo-Georgian era ; it is bold because there is a tradition — it has been refuted again and again — that ' poetry doesn't pay,' a saying which is paral- leled by the old theatre tag that " Shakespeare spells bankruptcy.' There have, fortunately both for writers of poetry and for readers thereof, always been publishers who have flown in the face of tradition, and has-e proved it wrong. . . . Now Mr. MacDonald is following the same admirable course, and is, in slang parlance, going even one better than his contemporaries, and producing his latest renderings of the age in song in a perfectly tasteful way at the price of a shilling a volume. Judging by the first four volumes of the series, the new venture assuredly deserves success, for it can safely be said that in the matter of beautiful paper and tv[)e and neat covers the publisher has done his best to that end. The general editor of the series is Miss S. Gertrude Ford, who may be warmly congratulated upon the ' finds ' represented in the first quartet of her poets. In ' Manx Song and Maiden Song,' b}' Mona Douglas, we have, to use Miss Ford's words, " tlie unforced product of a young girl's heart and mind ; the reflex of spontaneous tJiought and inborn feeling lor coimtrj-, for nature and for art ' ; we have it in such ever-new old lyric forms as will, it may confidently be predicted, lo;ig outlive the eccentricities of versification in which some writers have sought to give self-conscious utterance to tlie thoughts of the new era. Miss Douglas finds her inspiration in tlie scenes and memories of tlie Isle of Man, and gives it expression in simple, sweet verse tliat has a haunting charm. . . . The ' Poems ' of Lieutenant C. Macartney strike another note : they reflect, as it were, something of deeper feeling, more of musing, and include echoes from tlie undying classics not unexpected in a young Wj^cehamist. . . . A wiUful note of sadness rings through many of Mrs. Nora Tynan O'Mahony's poems in ' The Fields of Heaven,' yet all are instinct with appreciation of the beauty of nature, of flowers, trees and streams, though that beauty Irtqutntly but wakens thoughts of tlie loved and lost. There is indeed in many of tliese pieces a tender sincerity which m.ikes the reader feel almost ashamed, as though at overhearing the intimate communings of private sorrow, but tliat sjinie sincerity informing Mrs. O'Mahony's song wiU often strike an answering cliord and make of li-r book of verses something of a loved companion. The ' Heatlier Ways ■ of Miss Ilylda C. Cole is a collection of bright open-air pieces mostly on themes sh-:;s;est .-d by th* Scottish hills. Miss Cole's work has mostly an air of merry spontaneity which will commend it to many readers. These Little Books of Georgian Verse are all so good that they should have a considerable success as small greeting-gifts on birthdays and other occasions. — D.mly Telegr.\ph. At all Booksellers. Crown 8vo. Maize-paper wrappers, Is. net ; art linen, 2s. Qd. net. The Little Books of Georgian Verse MANX SONG AND IMAIDEN SONG. By Mona Douglas. With a General Introduction. POEMS. By L,ieut. C. A. Macartney. HEATHER WAYS. By Hylda C. Cole. THE FIELDS OF HEAVEN. By Nora Tynan O'Mahony. ROAD OF LIFE. By Ianthe Jerrold. DREAMS O' MINE. By G. W. Buli