Collected Poems Volume II Part 9

X

Yus, a dozen coppers, all my capital, it fled, sir, Representin' twelve bokays that cost me nothink each, Twelve bokays o' corn-flowers blue that grew beside my bed, sir, That same day, at sunrise, when the sky was like a peach: Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir, All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach: So, upon the roaring waves I cast my blooming bread, sir, Bread I'd earned with nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach, Nose-gays _and_ a speech, All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach.

XI

Still, you've only got to hear the bankers on the budget, Then you'll know the giving game is hardly "high finance"; Which no more it wasn't for that poor old dame to trudge it, _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, on such a devil's dance: Crumbs, it took me quite aback to see her stop so humble, Casting up into my face a sort of shiny glance, _Bless you, bless you_, that was what I thought I heard her mumble; Lord, a prayer for poor old Bill, a rummy sort of chance!

Crumbs, that shiny glance Kinder made me king of all the sky from here to France.

XII

_Tick, tack, tick, tack_, but now she toddled faster: Soon she'd reach the little twisted by-way through the wheat.

"Look 'ee here," I says, "young woman, don't you court disaster!

Peepin' through yon poppies there's a cottage trim and neat White as chalk and sweet as turf: wot price a bed for sorrow, Sprigs of lavender between the pillow and the sheet?"

"No," she says, "I've got to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow!

P'raps they'd tell the work'us! And I've lashings here to eat: Don't the gorse smell sweet?"...

Well, I turned and left her plodding on beside the wheat.

XIII

Every cent I'd given her like a hero in a story; Yet, alone with leagues of wheat I seemed to grow aware Solomon himself, arrayed in all his golden glory, Couldn't vie with Me, the corn-flower king, the millionaire!

How to cash those bright blue cheques that night? My trouser pockets Jingled sudden! Six more pennies, crept from James knew where!

Crumbs! I hurried back with eyes just bulging from their sockets, Pushed 'em in the old dame's fist and listened for the prayer, Shamming not to care, Bill--the blarsted chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire.

XIV

_Tick, tack, tick, tack_, and faster yet she clattered!

Ay, she'd almost gained a yard! I left her once again.

Feeling very warm inside and sort of 'ighly flattered, On I plodded, all alone, with hay-stacks in my brain.

Suddenly, with _c.h.i.n.k--c.h.i.n.k--c.h.i.n.k_, the old sweet jingle Startled me! 'TWAS THRUPPENCE MORE! Three coppers round and plain!

Lord, temptation struck me and I felt my gullet tingle.

Then--I hurried back, beside them seas of golden grain: No, I can't explain; There I thrust 'em in her fist, and left her once again.

XV

Tinkle-c.h.i.n.k! THREE HA'PENCE! If the vulgar fractions followed, Big fleas have little fleas! It flashed upon me there,-- Like the snakes of Pharaoh which the snakes of Moses swallowed All the world was playing at the tortoise and the hare: Half the smallest atom is--my soul was getting tipsy-- Heaven is one big circle and the centre's everywhere, Yus, and that old woman was an angel and a gipsy, Yus, and Bill, the chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire, Shamming not to care, What was he? A seraph on the misty rainbow-stair!

XVI

Don't you make no doubt of it! The deeper that you look, sir, All your ancient poets tell you just the same as me,-- What about old Ovid and his most indecent book, sir, Morphosizing females into flower and star and tree?

What about old Proteus and his 'ighly curious 'abits, Mixing of his old grey beard into the old grey sea?

What about old Darwin and the hat that brought forth rabbits, Mud and slime that growed into the pomp of Ninevey?

What if there should be One great Power beneath it all, one G.o.d in you and me?

XVII

Anyway, it seemed to me I'd struck the world's pump-handle!

"Back with that three ha'pence, Bill," I mutters, "or you're lost."

Back I hurries thro' the dusk where, shining like a candle, Pale before the sunset stood that fairy finger-post.

_Sir, she wasn't there!_ I'd struck the place where all roads crost, All the roads in all the world.

She couldn't yet have trotted Even to the ... Hist! a stealthy step behind? A ghost?

_Swish_! A flying noose had caught me round the neck! Garotted!

Back I staggered, clutching at the moonbeams, yus, almost Throttled! Sir, I boast Bill is tough, but ... when it comes to throttling by a ghost!

XVIII

Winged like a b.u.t.terfly, tall and slender Out It steps with the rope on its arm.

"Crumbs," I says, "all right! I surrender!

When have I crossed you or done you harm?

_Ef_ you're a sperrit," I says, "O, crikey, _Ef_ you're a sperrit, get hence, vamoose!"

Sweet as music, she spoke--"I'm Psyche!"-- Choking me still with her silken noose.

XIX

Straight at the word from the ferns and blossoms Fretting the moon-rise over the downs, Little blue wings and little white bosoms, Little white faces with golden crowns Peeped, and the colours came twinkling round me, Laughed, and the turf grew purple with thyme, Danced, and the sweet crushed scents nigh drowned me, Sang, and the hare-bells rang in chime.

XX

All around me, gliding and gleaming, Fair as a fallen sunset-sky, b.u.t.terfly wings came drifting, dreaming, Clouds of the little folk cl.u.s.tered nigh, Little white hands like pearls uplifted Cords of silk in shimmering skeins, Cast them about me and dreamily drifted Winding me round with their soft warm chains.

XXI

Round and round me they dizzily floated, Binding me faster with every turn: Crumbs, my pals would have grinned and gloated Watching me over that fringe of fern, Bill, with his battered old hat outstanding Black as a foam-swept rock to the moon, Bill, like a rainbow of silks expanding Into a beautiful big coc.o.o.n,--

XXII

Big as a cloud, though his hat still crowned him, Yus, and his old boots bulged below: Seas of colour went shimmering round him, Dancing, glimmering, glancing a-glow!

Bill knew well what them elves were at, sir,-- Ain't you an en-to-mol-o-gist?

Well, despite of his old black hat, sir, Bill was _becoming--a chrysalist_.

XXIII

m.u.f.fled, smothered in a sea of emerald and opal, Down a dazzling gulf of dreams I sank and sank away, Wound about with twenty thousand yards of silken rope, all Shimmering into crimson, glimmering into grey, Drowsing, waking, living, dying, just as you regards it, Buried in a sunset-cloud, or cloud of breaking day, 'Cording as from East or West yourself might look towards it, Losing, gaining, lost in darkness, ragged, grimy, gay, 'And-cuffed, not to say Gagged, but both my shoulders budding, sprouting white as May.