602.9 M757c M^K Monro Children of love THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^^ ChUilretv of Love TVic Tbelrg T&ooksKoy O Mcl, »< CHILDREN OF LOVE BY HAROLD MONRO LONDON THE POETRY BOOKSHOP 35 DEVONSHIRE ST., THEOBALDS ROAD, W.C. 1914 pk: CONTENTS. Children of Love. 5 Overheard on a Saltmarsh. 7 The Rebellious Vine. S Great City. 9 London Interior. 10 Hearthstone. 12 'Snburb 14 Appointment. 16 Milk/or the Cat. 18 The Departure. 20 The Poets are Waiting. 21 Youth in Arms, T '?'» 1 . 2. Soldier. 24 J. Retreat. 26 4.. Carrion. 27 The Strange Companion. (A Fragment). 29 7S8054 CHILDREN OF LOVE. 'yHE holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the olives shining green and shining grey. There was no sound, No smallest voice of any shivering stream. Poor sinless little boy, He desired to play, and to sing ; he could only sigh and dream. Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare. The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know. Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow. (Will you not play ? Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy. Is he not holy, like you ? Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy ?) And now they stand Watching one another with timid gaze ; Youth has met youth in the wood, But holiness will not change its melancholy ways. Cupid at last Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart. Smile for a moment, sad world ! — It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart. Now, for delight, Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near ; But the child that was born to the cross Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear. Marvellous dream ! Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try; He has offered his bow for the game. But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why. OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH. 'NJYMPH, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them ? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then J will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so ? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter. Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush I stole them out of the moon. Give me your beads, I desire them. No. I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. No. 8 THE REBELLIOUS VINE. (^NE day, the vine ^^ That clomb on God's own house Cried, " I will not grow,'' And, " I will not grow," And " I will not grow," And, " / will not grow." So God leaned out his head, And said : " You need not." Then the vine Fluttered its leaves, and cried to all the winds : " Oh, have I not permission from the Lord ? And may I not begin to cease to grow?" But that wise God had pondered on the vine Before he made it. And, all the while it laboured not to grow, It grew ; it grew ; And all the time God knew. GREAT CITY. WHEN I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twihght had entered hke a moonray. Time was so dead I could not understand The meaning of midday or of midnight. But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling, Silence seemed an everlasting sound. I sat in my dark room. And watched sunset. And saw starlight. I heard the tramp of homing men, And the last call of the last child ; Then a lone bird twittered, And suddenly, beyond the housetops, I imagined dew in the country, In the hay, on the buttercups ; The rising moon. The scent of early night, The songs, the echoes, lO Dogs barking, Day closing, Gradual slumber, Sweet rest. When all the lamps were lighted in the town I passed into the streetways, and I watched. Wakeful, almost happy, And half the night I wandered in the street. LONDON INTERIOR. AUTUMN is in the air, The children are playing everywhere. One dare not open this old door too wide ; It is so dark inside. The hall smells of dust ; A narrow squirt of sunlight enters high, Cold, yellow. The floor creaks, and I hear a sigh. Rise in the gloom and die. II Through the hall, far away, I just can see The dingy garden with its wall and tree. A yellow cat is sitting on the wall Blinking, toward the leaves that fall. And now I hear a woman call Some child from play. Then all is still. Time must go Ticking slow, glooming slow. The evening will turn grey. It is sad in London after two. All, all the afternoon,^ What can old men, old women do ? It is sad in London when the gloom Thickens, like wool. In the corners of the room ; The sky is shot with steel, Shot with blue. The bells ring the slow time ; The chairs creak, the hours climb ; The sunlight lays a streak upon the floor. 12 HEARTHSTONE. T WANT nothing but your fireside now. Friend, you are sitting there alone I know, And the quiet flames are licking up the soot, Or crackling out of some enormous root : All the logs on your hearth are four feet long. Everything in your room is wide and strong According to the breed of your hard thought. Now you are leaning forward ; you have caught That great dog by his paw and are holding it, And he looks sidelong at you, stretching a bit, Drowsing with open eyes, huge warm and wide, The full hearth-length on his slow-breathing side. Your book has dropped unnoticed : 3^ou have read So long you cannot send you brain to bed. The low quiet room and all its things are caught And linger in the meshes of your thought. (Some people think they know time cannot pause.) Your eyes are closing now though not because Of sleep. You are searching something with your brain ; You have let the old dog's paw drop down again . . . Now suddenly you hum a little catch, And pick up the book. The wind rattles the latch ; There's a patter of light cool rain and the curtain shakes ; The silly dog growls, moves, and almost wakes. 13 The kettle near the fire one moment hums. Then a long peace upon the whole room comes. So the sweet evening will draw to its bedtime end. I want nothing now but your fireside, friend. SUBURB. "TJULL and hard the low wind creaks Among the rusthng pampas plumes. Drearily the year consumes Its fifty-two insipid weeks. Most of the grey-green meadow land Was sold in parsimonious lots ; The dingy houses stand Pressed by some stout contractor's hand Tightly together in their plots. Through builded banks the sullen river Gropes, where its houses crouch and shiver. Over the bridge the tyrant train Shrieks, and emerges on the plain. In all the better gardens you may pass, (Product of many careful Saturdays), Large red geraniums and tall pampas grass Adorn the plots and mark the gravelled ways. Sometimes in the background may be seen A private summer-house in white or green. 15 Here on warm nights the daughter brings Her vacillating clerk, To talk of small exciting things And touch his fingers through the dark. He, in the uncomfortable breach Between her trilling laughters, Promises, in halting speech^ Hopeless immense Hereafters. She trembles like the pampas plumes. Her strained lips haggle. He assumes The serious quest. . . Now as the train is whistling past He takes her in his arms at last. It's done. She blushes at his side Across the lawn — a bride, a bride. ***** The stout contractor will design, The lazy labourers will prepare, Another villa on the line ; In the little garden-square Pampas grass will rustle there. i6 APPOINTMENT. I SAID seven o'clock : You are there, O you fool. The floating air of the summer is cool ; You delight in the drift of your white frock. And I am secure in the gloom. Your waiting thoughts are remembering my face — Which reclines in a secret contented grimace In my lonely room. I am thinking so hard of you. How I prefer To imagine you here, without trouble or stir. Anger is now beginning to tinge Your temples below that careful fringe. You were tolerant always. Your female control Was designed and expressed In every gasping sign of soul You ever confessed. I followed for long like a dog on the leather. I knew all the time all the tricks of your plot. We wandered the ways of the summer together. I knew what you were — and what you are not. 17 Now walk in the twilight. I'm here Contented. Your hour Is finished. I am without fear Of your beauty or hopeless power. Come to me, if you dare ! Come ! Who Is knocking? Who's there? Come in. I'm alone you see. Oh, it's you. I was reading a book. I was not Thinking. It's late. I forgot. Are you ill ? You are thin. I am sorry. What ? Well . . . Sit down. We've heaps to tell Each other. Let's begin. I am glad you have come. Let me fold You close in my arms. You are cold. 3 i8 MILK FOR THE CAT. WHEN the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there. At first she pretends, having nothing to do, She has come in merely to blink by the grate, But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour, She is never late. And presently her agate eyes Take a soft large milky haze, And her independent casual glance Becomes a stiff" hard gaze. Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears Or twists her tail and begins to stir. Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes One breathing trembling purr. The children eat and wriggle and laugh ; The two old ladies stroke their silk : But the cat is grown small and thin with desire. Transformed to a creeping lust for milk. '9 The white saucer Hke some full moon descends At last from the clouds of the table above ; She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, Transfigured with love. She nestles over the shining rim, Buries her chin in the creamy sea; Her tail hangs loose ; each drowsy paw Is doubled under each bending knee. A long dim ecstasy holds her life ; Rer world is an infinite shapeless white, Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop, Then she sinks back into the night. Draws and dips her body to heap Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair. Lies defeated and buried deep Three or four hours unconscious there. 20 THE DEPARTURE. (^OD, I've stayed, thy hated guest, In thy tavern far too long. I desire a httle rest From thy sermon and thy song. Frown no more to me of sin : Evil for the evil heart. To the tavern of my kin I am ready to depart. We have found a stronger wine, (For most bibulous are we.) Every vineyard is not thine Over all eternity. God, thou melancholy host. Greybeard without any jest. Make it never more thy boast That I linger like a ghost In thy tavern as thy guest. 21 THE POETS ARE WAITING. nrO what God Shall we chant Our songs of Battle ? The professional poets Are measuring their thoughts For felicitous sonnets; They try them and fit them Like honest tailors Cutting materials For fashion-plate suits. The unprofessional Little singers, Most intellectual, Merry with gossip, Heavy with cunning, Whose tedious brains are draped In sultry palls of hair, Reclining as usual On armchairs and sofas. Are grinning and gossiping, Cake at their elbows — They will not write us verses for the time ; 22 Their storms are brewed in teacups and their wars Are fought in sneers or Httle blots of ink. To what God Shall we chant Our songs of Battle ? Hefty barbarians, Roaring for war, Are breaking upon us ; Clouds of their cavalry, Waves of their infantry. Mountains of guns. Winged they are coming. Plated and mailed, Snorting their jargon. Oh to whom shall a song of battle be chanted ? Not to our lord of the hosts on his ancient throne, Drowsing the ages out in Heaven alone. The celestial choirs are mute, the angels have fled : Word is gone forth abroad that our lord is dead. To what God Shall we chant Our songs of Battle ? 23 YOUTH IN ARMS. I. f^APPY boy, happy boy, David the immortal-willed, Youth a thousand thousand times Slain, but not once killed. Swaggering again to-day In the old contemptuous way ; Leaning backward from your thigh Up against the tinselled bar — Dust and ashes ! is it you ? Laughing, boasting, there you are ! First we hardly recognised you In your modern avatar. Soldier, rifle, brown khaki — Is your blood as happy so? Where's your sling, or painted shiel , Helmet, pike, or bow? Well, you're going to the wars — That is all you need to know. Greybeards plotted. They were sad. Death was in their wrinkled eyes. At their tables, with their maps SOLDIER. 24 Plans and calculations, wise They all seemed ; for well they knew How ungrudgingly Youth dies. At their green official baize They debated all the night Plans for your adventurous days Which you followed with delight, Youth in all your wanderings, David of a thousand slings. II. A RE you going? To-night we must all hear your laughter; We shall need to remember it in the quiet days after. Lift your rough hands, grained like unpolished oak. Drink, call, lean forward, tell us some happy joke. Let us know every whim of your brain and innocent soul. Your speech is let loose ; your great loafing words roll Like hill-waters, But every syllable said as Brings you nearer the time you'll be found lying dead In a ditch, or rolled stiff on the stones of a plain. (Thought ! Thought go back into your kennel again : Hound, back !) Drink your glass, happy soldier, to-night. Death is quick ; you will laugh as you march to the fight. We are wrong. Dreaming ever, we falter and pause : You go forward unharmed without Why or Because. Spring does not question. The war is like rain ; You will fall in the field like a flower without pain ; And who shall have noticed one sweet flower that dies ? The rain comes ; the leaves open, and other flowers rise. The old clock tolls. Now all our words are said. We drift apart and wander away to bed. We dream of War. Your closing eyelids keep Quiet watch upon your heavy dreamless sleep. You do not wonder if you shall, nor why, If you must, by whom, for whom, you will die. You are snoring. (The hound of thought by every breath Brings you nearer for us to your foreign death.) Are you going? Good-bye, then, to that last word you spoke. We must try to remember you best by some happy joke. 26 III. RETREAT. 'HAT is not war — oh it hurts ! I am lame. A thorn is burning me. We are going back to the place from which we came. I remember the old song now : — Soldier, soldier, going to war, When will you come back? Mind that rut. It is very deep. All these ways are parched and raw. Where are we going? How we creep ! Are you there ? I never saw — Damn this jingle in my brain. I'm full of old songs — Have you ever heard this ? All the roads to victory Are flooded as we go. There's so much blood to paddle through, Thais why were marching slow. Yes sir; I'm here. Are you an officer? I can't see. Are we running away ? How long have we done it? One whole year, A month, a week, or since yesterday ? 27 Damn the jingle. My brain Is scragged and banged — Fellows, these are happy times ; Tramp and tramp with open eyes. Yet, try however much you will, You cannot see a tree, a hill, Moon, stars, or even skies. I won't be quiet. Sing too, you fool. \ had a dog I used to beat. Don't try it on me. Say that again. Who said it? Halt! Why? Who can halt? We're marching now. Who fired ? Well. Well. I'll lie down too. I'm tired enough. CARRION. TT is plain now what you are. Your head has dropped Into a furrow. And the lovely curve Of your strong leg has wasted and is propped Against a ridge of the ploughed land's watery swerve. You are swayed on waves of the silent ground ; You clutch and claim with passionate grasp of your fingers 28 The dip of earth in which your body hngers ; If you are not found, In a Httle while your limbs will fall apart ; The birds will take some, but the earth will take most of your heart. You are fuel for a coming spring if they leave you here ; The crop that will rise from your bones is healthy bread. You died — we know you — without a word of fear, And as they loved you living I love you dead. No girl would kiss you. But then No girls would ever kiss the earth In the manner they hug the lips of men : You are not known to them in this, your second birth. No coffin-cover now will cram Your body in a shell of lead ; Earth will not fall on you from the spade with a slam, But will fold and enclose you slowly, you living dead. Hush, I hear the guns. Are you still asleep ? Surely I saw you a little heave to reply. I can hardly think you will not turn over and creep Along the furrows trenchward as if to die. 29 THE STRANGE COMPANION (A FRAGMENT). T^HAT strange companion came on shuffling feet, Passed me, then turned, and touched my arm. He said (and he was melancholy, And both of us looked fretfully, And slowly we advanced together) He said : " I bring you your inheritance." I watched his eyes ; they were dim. I doubted him, watched him, doubted him . . . But, in a ceremonious way, He said : " You are too grey : Come, you must be merry for a day." And I, because my heart was dumb. Because the life in me was numb, Cried : " I will come. I will come." So, without another word. We two jaunted on the street. I had heard, often heard, The shuffling of those feet of his. The shuffle of his feet. 30 And he muttered in my ear Such a wheezy jest As a man may often hear — Not the worst, not the best That a man may hear. Then he murmured in my face Something that was true. He said : " I have known this long, long while, All there is to know of you." And the light of the lamp cut a strange smile On his face, and we muttered along the street, Good enough friends, on the usual beat. We lived together long, long. We were always alone, he and I. We never smiled with each other ; We were like brother and brother, Dimly accustomed. Can a man know Why he must live, or where he should go ? He brought me that joke or two, And we roared with laughter, for want of a smile. As every man in the world might do. 31 He who lies all night in bed Is a fool, and midnight will crush his head. When he threw a glass of wine in my face One night, I hit him, and we parted ; But in a short space We came back to each other melancholy-hearted, Told our pain, Swore we would not part again. One night we turned a table over The body of some slain fool to cover, And all the company clapped their hands; So we spat in their faces, Andytravelled away to other lands. I wish for every man he find A strange companion so Completely to his mind With whom he everywhere may go. By the Same Author. Judas : A Poem (Sampson Low, i/- net) 1908. Before Dawn : Poems and Impressions (Constable, 5/- net) 191 1 GEORGIAN POETRY, 1911-12. Edited by E.M. Tenth Edition. 3/6 net (postage 3d.). ANTHOLOGY DES IMAGISTES. 2/6 net (postage 2d.). POEMS. By John Alford. 2/- net (postage 2d.). THE POETRY REVIEW, 1912. Bound in brown paper boards, buckram back, with Index and Title-page. Originally ^10/6 net. Reduced to 5/- to clear. POETRY AND DRAMA, 1913 & 1914. Bound in brown paper boards, buckram back, with Index and Title-page. Two Volumes, four numbers in each. 12/6 each, net. Separate num- bers, 2/6 net (postage 3d.). Index and Title-page to ** Poetry and Drama," separately, 4d., post free. Ballad of »*The Gloster" and "The Qoeben." A Broadside. By Maurice Hewlett. 2d. net (postage id.). SINGSONGS OF THE WAR. By Maurice Hewlett. 6d. net (postage id.). THE RHYME SHEET. Nos. i, 4 & 5, coloured, 2d. each net. Nos. 2 & ^, plain, id. each net (postage id. the set). IFurther theets *" *^ ' \r & / ,„ preparation. FLYING FAME PUBLICATIONS. By Ralph Hodgson and Others. Chapbooks : Small, 6d. ; Large Paper, Hand Coloured, a/6. Broadsides : 2d. plain, 4d. coloured. Also Garlands, etc. Postage id. up to any three Items. All Decorations and Drawings by Lovat Fraser. Full sets, including Large Paper Coloured Edition, 21/- (post free). 35, Devonshire St., Theobalds Road, London, W.C. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 9.T 1 I 1 f i 1 • s J > 1 1 1 i ■i 1 1 r i Form L9-100m-0;52(:A3105 )444 THE liBaABY aKIVEKSITY OF CAUFORNIA LOS ANGELES PR__ __MQnroL_- 6025 ■ hildren of :z757c_love _ AA 000 371 137