London Sonnets

Name: London Sonnets
Author: Humbert Wolfe

Whole book · 5 sections

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LONDON SONNETS — DEDICATION. — CONTENTS.

“ADVENTURERS ALL” SERIES
No. XXVII.

LONDON SONNETS

Adventurers
All.

A SERIES OF YOUNG POETS
UNKNOWN
TO FAME.

Come my friends.... ’Tis not too late to seek a
newer world. It may be that the gulfs will wash
us down.... It may be we shall touch the happy isles.
Yet our purpose holds ... to sail beyond the sunset.
Ulysses

BY

HUMBERT WOLFE

Oxford
Basil Blackwell, Broad Street,
1920

These were the first anemones—
God only in his heaven sees
How moving on their small green feet
They blossomed in a London street,
From a cool valley, as I guess,
Beneath a hill in Lyonesse.

London Pseudo-Sonnets:
	Page
Dedication	4
The Old Clothes Dealer	9
Coves at Hampton Court	10
One Man Returns	11
The Bun-Shop	12
The Fried Fish-Shop	13
The Streets Behind the Tottenham Court Road	14
The Yorkshire Grey	15
Wardour Street	16
The Suburbs	17
The Last London Sonnet	18
Other Verse:
“Sometimes when I Think of Love”	21
Old	26
The Song of the Gambucinos	28
February 14	29
Pierrot	30
The Dead Man in the Pool	32
Dead Lover	35
The Gods of the Copy-Book Headings	36
Wheels 1919	38
The Well	41
Judas	43
The Night	44
Other Sonnets:
Three Sonnets of Love	49
The Reply	52
God Gave us Bodies	53
Ronsard and Hélène	54
The Drift of the Lute	55
Love and Beauty	56
War Verse:
V. D. F.	59
England	60
The Moon in Flanders	61
The Soldier Speaks	62
Flowers at Hampton Court	63

TO J.

LONDON PSEUDO-SONNETS. — THE OLD CLOTHES DEALER. — COVES AT HAMPTON COURT. — ONE MAN RETURNS. — THE BUN-SHOP. — THE FRIED FISH-SHOP. — THE STREETS BEHIND THE TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD. — THE YORKSHIRE GREY. — WARDOUR STREET. — THE SUBURBS. — THE LAST LONDON SONNET.

Some of these verses have appeared in The Saturday Review, The Spectator, The Westminster Gazette, and are republished by the courtesy of the editors of these journals.

IT’S not my fault, now is it? I’m a Jew.
I’d a been born a Christian quick enough
If only so I could have sold my stuff
Double the price, and not be called a screw.
There’s half-day Saturday at Synagogue,
And when Atonement comes a whole day lost.
O, I don’t grumble; still one counts the cost
When on the top I’m treated like a dog.
And, though a Jew should’nt by rights complain
Bein’ the chosen, can’t a man have dreams?
Clothes’ dealing’s not the desert, still it seems
We all of us are wandering again.
I often think when the Shemah begins
“O God o’ Jacob ain’t we paid our sins?”

YOU go by motor-bus from Hammersmith
And come back loud and cheerful after dark
Adorned with twigs you’ve plucked in Bushey Park,
Eating the sandwiches you started with.
And you don’t care, why should you? when you’re brought
Into the grimy streets out of the green,
That, if you’d had the luck, you might have been
The sort of cove who lives at Hampton Court.

You’ve got the murders and the betting news,
And slums to bake in and the picture shows.
Why should you care if somewhere a red rose
Burns all night through, and the great avenues
Are lit as though with candles. What’s the odds?
London’s for you; the summer’s for the gods.

HE wanted me to tear me ’ands to bits
Along o’ the box-makers, ’stead of which
I took and bought a basket, struck a pitch
To sell me flowers by the Hotel Ritz.
I like ’is cheek. It isn’t ’im wot sits
Working in darkness till your fingers itch
And ’arf your side is broken with a stitch—
’Im swanking in ’is blessed epaulittes!
Nor I don’t care, not what you might say care
If ’e’s gone orf. Not that I’d reely mind
If, ’earing that I’d got a bit to spare,
He come back sudden. I should act refined,
Pin ’im ’is flower in with me ’and quite steady
And then say proud-like, “Why if it ain’t Freddy.”

O DAMN those marble tables: makes me larf
To think I’ve finished with them. I believe
If you rubbed hard on each one with your sleeve,
You’d find cut on them some gel’s epitaph.
They look like tombstones, don’t they? in a row
Quietly waiting in a mason’s yard.
Seein’ them there cruel and white and hard
One might ha’ guessed, I think, how things would go.
But we don’t heed no warning, gels like me,
And so I stayed, and now they’ve got my name
Carved deep, with something written about shame
For the next gel (when her turn comes) to see.
One comfort though, if God damns us who fell
He can’t find worse to ’urt us, not in ’Ell.

THE upper clawses they don’t like the smell
Nor they don’t need to. They can pay for food,
But we who sometimes cawn’t, it does us good.
Lord, what a life to ’ave fried fish to sell!
Warm all day long and nuthin’ much to do
And always a hot bit if you’re inclined.
Shut all day Sundays and if you’ve a mind
Always go out and pitch into a Jew.
But wanting won’t mend ’oles up in your socks
Nor cure that ’ungry feeling when you stands
Clappin’ your stummick with your empty ’ands
And thinking gently of a wooden box
Where they will lay you at the parish charge
Straight if you’re small and doubled if you’re large.

THE quiet folk who live in Kensington
Mothers of pleasant girls and worthy wives
Living at ease their comfortable lives
Don’t think what roots their homes are built upon,
Don’t think, or wouldn’t listen if you shewed
That beyond cure by love or change by hate
Like hooded lepers at each corner wait,
The streets behind the Tottenham Court Road.
Row upon row the phantom houses stain
The sweetness of the air and not a day
Dies, but some woman’s child turns down that way
Along those streets and is not seen again.
And only God can in his mercy say
Which is more cruel, Kensington or they.

THE Yorkshire Grey like any other pub,
Quietly blazes till the final shout
“Time’s-up” sends the companions tumbling out,
Giving their lips a last reluctant rub.
And if you’re passing by on any day
You’ll hear a woman with a barrel organ,
Sing in a high cracked voice what sounds like “Morgen,
Morgen kommt nie und heute is mir weh,”
And every day whether its rain or shine
She holds an old umbrella with a handle
Of curiously carved silver. Whether scandal
Or tragedy, its no affair of mine.
Why should I care then when some drunken feller
Sends her to blazes, her and her umbrella.

THERE’S a small cafe off the Avenue
Where Alphonse, that old sinner, used to fix
A five-course dinner up at one and six,
And trust to luck and youth to pull him through.
I can’t remember much about the wine
Except that it was ninepence for the quart
Called claret and was nothing of the sort,
Cheap like the rest and like the rest divine.
But Alphonse, I suppose, is long since sped
And madame’s knitting needles rusted through
And even Marguerite, like us she flew
To wait on, waited on by death instead.
Well Alphonse, well Madame, well Marguerite
They’ve no more use for us in Wardour Street.

BECAUSE they are so many and the same,
The little houses row on weary row;
Because they are so loveless and so lame
It were a bitter thing to tell them so.
And ill to laugh at those who hither came
Not without hope and not without a glow,
And who, perchance, by sorrow struck or shame
Not without tears look back before they go.

Here is no place for laughter nor for blame,
And not for tears, since none shall ever know
What here is done and suffered, nor proclaim
The end to which these myriad spirits grow.
He understands, whose heart remembereth
That here is all the tale of life and death.

ALL roads in London lead the one last way,
Like little streams that find a flowing river
They find the one great road that runs for ever,
Yet has no London name. They know it, they
Who when the lamps in Oxford Street are lighted
And star-strewn Thames through all his bridges moving,
Velvet assumes, see not for all their loving
These things they loved, hear not, as uninvited,
To London revel calling Piccadilly.
They have gone over to the bitter stranger
Light-foot and heavy, hug-the-hearth and ranger
Our streets desert. And under rose and lily
(Even through Kew were unto lilac setting)
Sleeping they pass forgotten and forgetting.

OTHER VERSE. — “SOMETIMES WHEN I THINK OF LOVE.” — I. — II. — III. — IV. — OLD. — THE SONG OF THE GAMBUCINOS. — FEBRUARY 14. — PIERROT. — THE DEAD MAN IN THE POOL. — DEAD LOVER. — THE GODS OF THE COPY-BOOK HEADINGS. A REPLY. — WHEELS 1919. — THE WELL. — JUDAS. — THE NIGHT.

SOMETIMES when I think of love
I think of Mimi singing in Boheme,
Just as the tune across the footlights came
When we were young, my dear, at Covent Garden!
Poor music, but before the senses harden
Puccini’s made for boys and girls to wear
Spite of sham passion and a poitrinaire.
For if they looked and didn’t find the key
At least they found the hearts of you and me.
That sort of love age thinks of with a smile
How innocent it was of truth and guile,
How young perhaps and yet how half-divine
And how imperishably yours and mine.
You will not wonder nor will you reprove
My thoughts of Mimi when I think of love.

SOMETIMES when I think of love
I see a boat upon a river,
And the rushes suddenly shiver,
Because of a perilous foot that treads
The reeds and the flowers into their beds.
Because of a music that shakes and begins
A different music and conscious of sins
A tune was old at the birth of the river
A tune is asleep in the blood for ever
Asleep in the blood and loving and hating
The time and the hour for which it is waiting.
Puccini yields to a sob in the throat
A hand round the heart as note answers note
With the music that wrenches and melts and grips
The hands hot on hands, the lips close on lips
Cruelly volleying clearer and stronger
Till we are a boy and a girl no longer.
And we struggle in vain as long as we can
Hating and loving and welcoming Pan,
And you are a woman and I am a man.
And you will not wonder and cannot reprove
If I hear Pan’s pipes when I think of love.

SOMETIMES when I think of love
I hear a heavy voice repeat
“There’s a good doctor up the street.”
And either it seems I am hard at hearing
Or stupid perhaps or terribly fearing.
For its late of a winter night and raining
With cry of wind; or is something complaining?
One lamp in the street and a leafless tree
And a thing is moving that frightens me,
With fingers that hover about my nape
A shape like a hand and yet not a shape.
Now all that we had in the past is over
Each lover’s alone, the love from the lover.
No comforting hand for me in the gloom,
No voice of mine in the darkened room.
Where is the music and where are the songs?
For love has crept off ashamed of his wrongs.
Poor love has gone off to rail at passion,
And he will not wait for the night to fashion
Out of pain and fear and anguish and danger,
A lover strange with his love a stranger,
And yet, as they were at the opera
Incredibly close and familiar,
Incredibly close as once on the river
When each is a gift and each is a giver.
Incredibly close and all they have hoarded
Of life and of love in this moment rewarded.
Rewarded! Has love in the darkness heard
Of the little lost shadow, the small lost third?
Love is returning—to find them alone,
And if love be a sinner, who casts a stone?
Shattered and beaten and blindingly sure
Of love and themselves and strong to endure
He finds them, by pain more lastingly crowned
Than ever by joy and by laughter were bound
Happier lovers and lovers untaunted
By the shameful cries these lovers have haunted.
If this be their love, who out of the pit
Being a devil challenges it?
In heaven assayed, in hell-fire priced
Who casts the first stone? Not I, says Christ.
You will not wonder nor will you reprove
If I think of this, when I think of love.

SOMETIMES when I think of love
I remember how you stooped down from heaven,
Because they had told you I was unforgiven,
To take half of the storm, and share the stripe
An angel in hell with her guttersnipe.
I am thinking then of your lighted face
And your hands and the way your fingers lace
As you sit quietly reading a book.
Perhaps I move and you suddenly look
Across the room and the soul in your eyes
Is bright as it looks with the old surprise
Changing for ever, for ever the same
And you break my heart as you speak my name.
You must not wonder, you will not reprove
If sometimes I dare not think of love.

SO old, so changed, and odd
Even as God,
I am, so odd and old,
That I am bitter cold
In heart and limb
Like him.

I might in heaven be,
Even as He.
So lonely and so rare
Beyond the utmost prayer
My spirit weighs,
Dead days.

Or I might work in hell
His miracle.
Changing from joy to tears,
To quiet all the years,
With icy rod,
Like God.

I might immortal be
Even as He.
Saying, as heaven saith,
What Victory, Oh death,
What sting can save,
Oh grave?

As I, alone and dumb,
What doth not come
Ever, He waits to see
And surely, waiting, he
Must pray ah pray! to die
Even as I.

THE little houses in the street
And the warm blinds at night,
Outside the copper on his beat
And the moon so white, so white.

They know what we shall never know,
See what we cannot see,
The steady lamplit ways that go
To the quiet cemetery.

They have not any fear at all
Of life and of its end.
They hear church bells, their children call,
Their wife and death their friend.

But for us the moon is white, so white
It drowns us and it stings,
And we must fly throughout the night
Because of dangerous things.

LET’S be done with talking,
Words are half a snare,
That fools use for stalking
What was never there.

Let’s be done with weeping,
Tears are but a sign
That a doom is creeping
On what was divine.

Why be broken-hearted?
Time to break the heart
If we should be parted
And not care we part.

Dear, the wind is over
In the world outside.
I was once your lover,
You were once my bride.

Let’s go out together.
In the quiet air,
We may find each other
Waiting as we were.

MY friend Pierrot your sleeves are far too long.
Look! I can hardly find at all your hands.
And all your cotton tunic is cut wrong,
And what your eyes mean no one understands.

Ah yes, Pierrette, my sleeves are far too long.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot find my hands,
But better so than Pierrot did you wrong
By telling you what no one understands.

My friend Pierrot you fear to take the light,
Look! I can hardly see at all your face.
And what I see, Pierrot is very white.
Are you afraid? Ashamed? or in disgrace?

Ah yes, Pierrette, I dare not take the light.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot see my face.
My candle died with love, and in the night
Oh! Harlequin, Pierrette, is my disgrace.

My friend Pierrot it seems that things go ill
With you. Look! I can hardly hear your word,
And the dark shadow round grows darker still,
And a new voice which is not yours is heard.

Ah yes, Pierrette, it seems that things go ill.
Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot hear my word.
And the dark shadow which grows darker still
Is death, Pierrette, of which you have not heard.

ONLY a glance it was,
Only a word!
What a romance it was
All but absurd!

All but absurd, you see,
Yes but not quite.
There’s one more word you see
“Death” we must write!

She had the knack of it
—Less than a kiss,
And for the lack of it
Look he is this.

O what a king he was
(Drowned in a pool),
What a brave thing he was
O what a fool!

While all the rest of us
Struggle to fame,
Here is the best of us
Dead with his shame.

Shame? Oh I wonder now.
What do you say?
If you should blunder now
Choose me your way!

If you’d thrown hope away;
Well would you care
Through life to grope a way?
Or would you dare

Take up the lot of it
Life, love and fame,
Make a clean shot of it
Into the flame?

Ah it was brave of him
Let them cry “shame.”
Life made no slave of him!
But you’ll exclaim,

Was she worth trying for?
He thought her so.
Was she worth dying for?
Yes, and then no.

“No,” for a wiser man.
“No,” for a less.
But the heart cries “Amen,”
When he says “yes.”

There in the pool he was
Just a dead thing.
O what a fool he was,
O what a king!

TELL me, dead lover, you who broke my heart
(O dead indeed, since love himself is dead).
Need I remember that we came to part,
May I forget to whom and why you fled?

Tell me, dead lover, since the grave is strong,
And those who sleep are cured of joy and pain,
And now no love may reach you, do I wrong
If I begin to love you all again?

And see, dead lover, since the shadows fall
And nothing now is false and nothing true.
Might I not dream (you would not know at all)
That I, O love, was loved once more by you.

And since, dead lover, death defeats your pride,
And ere it dreamed of pride my love awoke,
O let me think, it was because you died,
And not because you left me, my heart broke.

FENRIS the wolf, and Jörmungand the snake
In the slime and the swamp remorseless wait.
For not the years nor human hopes can break
Valhalla’s sentence thus pronounced by Fate.

“These gods that are the children of men’s dreams—
Virtue and honour, courage and the songs
Men sing about their hearthstones—stolen gleams
In the poor heart unbroken by its wrongs,

“These gods, of man’s refusal of the beast
The half pathetic, wholly fleeting sign
Who in that tenderness are gods the least
Where human weakness finds them most divine,

“These pitiful gods, fabric of mankind’s tears
A dream of what all human hearts have wanted
The vision at the end of all the years
The holy ghost that half the world has haunted,

“These gods are mortal as the heart that shaped them
And in that hour when mankind’s heart must break
These gods who only by that heart escaped them
Fall to the wolf and Jörmungand the snake.”

Fate pauses, but from Hela’s halls is heard
A voice is young when all the gods are dead.
Balder the beautiful has one more word
The word that even Fate must leave unsaid.

“True they depart the half-gods, and the snake
And Fenris come. But in the heart’s defection
I, Balder, bound in Hell for that heart’s sake
I am the life and I the resurrection.

“I, love, being loosed, will take my harp up—so—
Singing what all the world at last will learn
‘The devils come because the half-gods go
But in the end the gods, the gods return.’”

WHY d’you write about Frascati’s
You who from the balcony leaning
’Neath the lure that was Astarte’s
Find a negroid devil grinning.

Changed indeed and almost stupid
Yielding to analysis
Now a Piccadilly cupid
Hanging on a painted kiss.

Now a toy in two dimensions
Operated by a string
In your hand, whose interventions
Set the object capering.

You who at the higher level
Know love as he truly is
Not the fair Assyrian devil,
Not the poor idolatries,

Of the savage, not the crazes
Say of Shelley, and his set:
But you find him (as your phrase is)
Palm to palm in quiet sweat.

That’s a way, O brother brother
A new way for verse to move
There’s an older and another
Will you listen? way of love.

I from that same terrace waiting
For the music to begin
“Amoureuse” anticipating
Watched a boy who blundered in.

Slim he was, a little stooping
At the shoulders as it seemed,
Eyes on which the lids were drooping
Seeing only what he dreamed.

Where he came was noise and clatter,
But the pandemonium
Either didn’t seem to matter
Where he stood or else grew dumb.

And the waltz the band was creaking,
Like a cluster, round his head
Changed to cry “What’s music seeking
Save what he has left unsaid.”

And like flowers, bourgeois faces
Overtaken by the tune,
Pilfered unimagined graces
From an unimagined June.

And, when once again the Babel
Rose, though we had never stirred,
There between us at the table
At Frascati’s was the third.

What’s the good of all this antic
You’ll impatiently exclaim,
Still incurably romantic
Still incurably the same.

Only this—that at Frascati’s
If one does not wash one’s hands
That old magic was Astarte’s
Goes, before one understands.

AT full afternoon slowly the branches
Stirred as of old and fragrant with flowers
Touched with a breath of wind look down and wonder
To where—far below—is the delicate water.

Here should be peace as was peace and splendour
Of hearts’ first stirrings, the eye to the hills
Turned, the call of the perilous margins
Life just beginning, but life well begun.
Here by the well we played (you remember)
(Then too the grasses grew at the edges
Tempting small hands but tempt now no longer)
Here by the well we dreamed after playing.

Have you forgotten (or has death no mercy)
How bright the days were and how the evening
Softer than sleep laid her mysterious
Hands on the garden soothing and changing.
Here at the well side we loved after dreaming
Since we had played by it, since we had dreamed.
Here at the well side love that was wakened
Sank like a stone, but leaving no ripple.

Here are our shapes that play dream love quarrel,
Here are our dreams (and if there were dreamers,
If we were not like our visions a dream)
All is not over—is all then over?

Here is the well and the delicate water
Far below gleaming, the starred white branches
Fragrant with flowers. Here is the noontide,
Even the grasses grow at the edges.
What then is gone? If we were the dreamers
(And not a dream) then all must be over.
I an old man cold, fruitless and lonely,
Watch by the water, which you cannot see.

But if we two are dreams of a dreamer,
All is not over, and here together
Age falls from me, and from you the mantle
Death seemed to cast, and here by the well side
Lifted again is the voice of your singing,
Golden again are the perilous margins,
Sweet are your eyes and young and immortal
Our hearts are set to the day and the hills.

NOT I, oh Christ, not I betrayed thee
But He was traitor, He who made thee
Born of a village carpenter
With such immortal longings stir
As stretched beyond the world and found
In God himself the final wound.
Through me thou wast by soldiers taken
By Him, by Him on the Cross forsaken.

BE quiet bird
Be silent all
That e’er were heard
And cease to call.

Drop perfume rose
And flowers white
Put off your shows
For see ’tis night.

Soft creatures slow
Begin to pass,
And thousands grow
From out the grass.

With deep low whirr
The air is full
And through the fir
The moon shines cool.

There is no pain
Sorrow is dead
Slow Charles’ wain
Wheels overhead.

There is no grief
All things have ease
No bough or leaf
Stirs on the trees.

OTHER SONNETS. — THREE SONNETS OF LOVE. — I. — II. — III. — THE REPLY. — GOD GAVE US BODIES.... — RONSARD AND HELENE. — THE DRIFT OF THE LUTE. — LOVE AND BEAUTY.

AT NOONTIDE SEEKING.

CAN love being love and therefore magical
When summer and the roses lie between,
Find back to spring? Or shall he know at all
The places where his golden feet have been
At noontide seeking. Shall he know again
The tune of dawn, the unconditioned sky,
The world before the coming of the rain,
That like a shadow waited and went by,
Soft like a God and like a God aflame?
Ah will he find that murmur at your lips,
Still see you standing, as the morning stands,
With fingers stretched that touched and fled and came
To mine again, warm to the tender lips
Once lilies and now roses—Oh your hands?

AN ACCUSATION.

WHAT have you given, love, to those who gave
All for your sake? What gift to weigh the worth
Of those who, having all, did nothing save,
But for a kiss made jetsam of the earth?
What answer have you for the thronging ghosts—
Gentlemen of high heart, who were not brave
Because of you? What for the stricken hosts
Of those who, seeking truth, embraced the grave
Your magic sets about the brain? What way
Of answer have you for the fallen tears
Of those who heard you calling, and, once strong
As being pure, became the body’s prey?
What answer, O sweet God, to all the years
That worshipped you and crowned you, and were wrong?

THE TREMBLING BRIM.

LOVE, if remorseless, needeth no defence,
(You say) for though he waste our lives it seems
A moment spent with love is recompense,
For all the might have beens of all our dreams.
Yet is there something in the might have been
Was never yet in love. O trembling brim
Of the far country, that our eyes have seen,
Have seen and turned from for the sake of him.
Are there no pleasant places, no strange deeds
Waiting the comer? Is there no great sea
Watched by immaculate angels who attend
Our sails that linger? No red star that leads
To where beyond all passion shaken free
We follow the great road that has no end?

ALL things are true of love, save these things only,
That at the long day’s end when love is over,
He’s of love cheated who was once a lover,
And she, by love once visited, left lonely.
The dream is done, but here’s no cause for sorrow
When beauty’s seal is on the dream descending.
Beauty is mortal, beauty has an ending,
Beauty and love alone need no to-morrow.
All other things—courage and truth and virtue—
Have the one doom, the lust for the immortal.
Love only, with lost beauty, life outpaces,
Cold, though they burn, untroubled, though they hurt you,
And white, like gods, when through the sculptured portal
The starshine enter and the moon’s cold graces.

GOD gave us bodies for suffering and for strangers,
To have their will of. We divided waken
To find the heart that won through all its dangers
By the stained body at the dawn forsaken.
We said of love “The body, and its langours
Are but a little thing, though sweet. Unshaken
Behold the heart!” Fools! Who forgot the angers
Of blood despised and the heart overtaken
By the gross hands of lust even at the portal
Of bliss. And not for any tears is altered
Love thus betrayed, yet though betrayed, immortal,
Struggling for ever and for ever haltered.
God gave us bodies; let them write in heaven
“Love we forgive, but God is not forgiven.”

YOU sang, Ronsard, in your imperial lay
Hélène, and sang as only you would dare
That she would cry, in reading, old and grey
“Ronsard sang this of me when I was fair.”
That was youth spoke, Ronsard, who will not stay
To wonder if his own divine despair
May not with losing loveliness outweigh
Kisses, that given, melt upon the air.
If youth but knew, Ronsard! The things that seem
Would he not barter for the things that are,
And leave his mistress to embrace her dream
Exchange her lips for her lost beauty’s star?
Losing Hélène youth finds the lovelier truth,
If youth but knew! But then he were not youth.

LOVE, lay aside your lute and leave the roses
That with the bays are twined. No time for sweeping
The strings now in the hush of the heart, nor reaping
Summer’s fulfilment. For the daylight closes
With laying on of hands and the heart shriven,
And mystical washing away of sorrow,
So there is neither yesterday nor morrow
But quiet and the world to healing given.
And if such peace o’er lute and roses drifted
Would seem to beggar love of coronation
Thus in the darkness fallen on an ending,
See! Than the sun, whose golden hands were lifted
In heaven, now cloaked, more lovely seek her station,
The moon consummate in her place ascending.

EVEN tho’ love were done, shall we complain
If in the world there’s hidden loveliness
Born of that love, and not a lost caress
But makes us poorer to the common gain?
This beauty may adorn with deeper stain
The cool first jonquil, or with light redress
The vision of a star, and thus confess
That love, though lost, is never lost in vain.
And if for others we have lit this flame,
While us the gloom invests of dying embers,
Being so separate, your heart remembers,
As mine, the world before the wonder came,
For that sweet change we spent our hearts in heaven,
Thus briefly won, thus lost, and thus forgiven.

WAR VERSE. — V. D. F. ( Ave atque Vale. ) — ENGLAND. — THE MOON IN FLANDERS. — THE SOLDIER SPEAKS. — FLOWERS AT HAMPTON COURT.

YOU from Givenchy, since no years can harden
The beautiful dead, when holy twilight reaches
The sleeping cedar and the copper beeches,
Return to walk again in Wadham Garden.
We, growing old, grow stranger to the College,
Symbol of youth, where we were young together,
But you, beyond the reach of time and weather,
Of youth in death for ever keep the knowledge.
We hoard our youth, we hoard our youth, and fear it,
But you, who freely gave what we have hoarded,
Are with the final goal of youth rewarded
The road to travel and the traveller’s spirit.
And, therefore, when for us the stars go down,
Your star is steady over Oxford Town.

DEAR English heart, the open waterways,
The sea that is aware of liberty,
And your great ships, her servitors, the sea
Deep, as your depths, saying of pomp and blaze,
“These things are not for us,” since other days
Return, and when the flag is shaken free,
Cold captains, Drake and Nelson, watch with thee,
Whose eyes, of boastings cleared and empty praise,
Beyond the wrecked armadas find the soul
That unto battle brings our captains’ test:
“Triumph is good, but honour still is best.
Conquest of what is evil, and no goal
Of self-advancement. For the world set free
The ships of England keep the English sea.”

SOLDIERS that after struggle in the night
See the cold stars assume their shining place,
Watch the sweet moon and her unaltered grace
Mocking with peace the battle-tortured sight,
Think these not careless. These were not less white
Long years ago upon the upturned face
Of other soldiers also of your race
Who on those fields fought such another fight,
These stars, this moon, in their high citadel
Of heaven are witness in the Low Country,
Whose lights are the mere lights of history
Falling on you, these on your fathers fell.
See through the reek and horror, shining through,
Cold lights indeed, but lights of Waterloo!

THIS then was love of women. O how little
Remembered, being free! Say she was tender
And had a lure of the hands. Here ruthless splendour
Outlures that lure. And, look you, love was brittle
That broke, and none could heal it, being sated.
But this is lasting, this is always stranger
Each terrible new dawn, for each new danger
May be the last of all. O, we have waited
On love like cowards, and the worshipped woman
Enslaved and shamed us. But that shame is over.
We are with death acquainted, and to riot
And call of blood and tenderness and human
Regrets, he does succeed this final lover
Whose love is freedom and whose gift is quiet.

THE chestnut trees in Bushey Park are lit
This year as always since the spring knows naught
Of war and death, and still the shadows flit
Across the dappled grass and burnish it.
And still at night the moon in stately sort
Is tranquil with the avenues, and lights
The sleeping palace, as on other nights
Of springs long past; but searching for the rose
In vain, the dawn a little whisper knows:
“Where are the flowers that were at Hampton Court?”

Two years ago when all the trees were green
The old red walls were unto to summer brought,
By joyous bands of lilies and the lean
Daffodils danced before or ran between.
Where are they gone these blooms of good report?
And where the lad and where the laughing maid
Who came to wonder and to love who stayed?
For a lost flower is a little thing
But a lost lover is the end of spring.
“Where are the flowers that were at Hampton Court?”

Ah! spring these flowers are growing otherwhere,
In a new soil a changing radiance taught,
Born of the soul and nourished of the air,
Sweeter though scentless and unseen more fair.
Where are they gone these blooms of good report?
Is it perhaps that where the Tigris flows
There blooms an unaccustomed English rose?
And where the guns have killed the spring in France
The English lilies break a silver lance?
“Where are the flowers that were at Hampton Court?”

If thus the flowers, where are those who here
Themselves fresh flowers with the springtime fraught,
Saw the first leaves in Bushey Park appear
The dead swept leaves the leaves of yesteryear?
Where are they gone those lads of good report?
It may be they are sleeping; it may be
Strange lands have taken them or a strange sea.
But wheresoever in the world they lie
An English voice till that world ends will cry
“Here are the flowers that were at Hampton Court?”

Printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford.