Georgian Poetry 1911-1912 Part 11

And I remembered, drowsily, How 'mid the hills last night I'd lain Beside a singing moorland burn; And waked at dawn, to feel the rain Fall on my face, as on the fern That drooped about my heather-bed; And how by noon the wind had blown The last grey shred from out the sky, And blew my homespun jacket dry, As I stood on the topmost stone That crowns the cairn on Hawkshaw Head, And caught a gleam of far-off sea; And heard the wind sing in the bent Like those far waters calling me: When, my heart answering to the call, I followed down the seaward stream, By silent pool and singing fall; Till with a quiet, keen content, I watched the sun, a crimson ball, Shoot through grey seas a fiery gleam, Then sink in opal deeps from sight.

And with the coming on of night, The wind had dropped: and as I lay, Retracing all the happy day, And gazing long and dreamily Across the dim, unsounding sea, Over the far horizon came A sudden sail of amber flame; And soon the new moon rode on high Through cloudless deeps of crystal sky.

Too holy seemed the night for sleep; And yet, I must have slept, it seems; For, suddenly, I woke to hear A strange voice singing, shrill and clear, Down in a gully black and deep That cleft the beetling crag in twain.

It seemed the very voice of dreams That drive hag-ridden souls in fear Through echoing, unearthly vales, To plunge in black, slow-crawling streams, Seeking to drown that cry, in vain ...

Or some sea creature's voice that wails Through blind, white banks of fog unlifting To G.o.d-forgotten sailors drifting Rudderless to death ...

And as I heard, Though no wind stirred, An icy breath Was in my hair ...

And clutched my heart with cold despair ...

But, as the wild song died away, There came a faltering break That shivered to a sobbing fall; And seemed half-human, after all ...

And yet, what foot could find a track In that deep gully, sheer and black ...

And singing wildly in the night!

So, wondering I lay awake, Until the coming of the light Brought day's familiar presence back.

Down by the harbour-mouth that day.

A fisher told the tale to me.

Three months before, while out at sea, Young Philip Burn was lost, though how, None knew, and none would ever know.

The boat becalmed at noonday lay ...

And not a ripple on the sea ...

And Philip standing in the bow, When his six comrades went below To sleep away an hour or so, Dog-tired with working day and night, While he kept watch ... and not a sound They heard, until, at set of sun They woke; and coming up they found The deck was empty, Philip gone ...

Yet not another boat in sight ...

And not a ripple on the sea.

How he had vanished, none could tell.

They only knew the lad was dead They'd left but now, alive and well ...

And he, poor fellow, newly-wed ...

And when they broke the news to her, She spoke no word to anyone: But sat all day, and would not stir-- Just staring, staring in the fire, With eyes that never seemed to tire; Until, at last, the day was done, And darkness came; when she would rise, And seek the door with queer, wild eyes; And wander singing all the night Unearthly songs beside the sea: But always the first blink of light Would find her back at her own door.

'Twas Winter when I came once more To that old village by the sh.o.r.e; And as, at night, I climbed the street, I heard a singing, low and sweet, Within a cottage near at hand: And I was glad awhile to stand And listen by the glowing pane: And as I hearkened, that sweet strain Brought back the night when I had lain Awake on Devil's Edge ...

And now I knew the voice again, So different, free of pain and fear-- Its terror turned to tenderness-- And yet the same voice none the less, Though singing now so true and clear: And drawing nigh the window-ledge, I watched the mother sing to rest The baby snuggling to her breast.

D.H. LAWRENCE

SNAP-DRAGON

She bade me follow to her garden where The mellow sunlight stood as in a cup Between the old grey walls; I did not dare To raise my face, I did not dare look up Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly in My windows of discovery and shrill 'Sin!'

So with a downcast mien and laughing voice I followed, followed the swing of her white dress That rocked in a lilt along: I watched the poise Of her feet as they flew for a s.p.a.ce, then paused to press The gra.s.s deep down with the royal burden of her: And gladly I'd offered my breast to the tread of her.

'I like to see,' she said, and she crouched her down, She sunk into my sight like a settling bird; And her bosom couched in the confines of her gown Like heavy birds at rest there, softly stirred By her measured breaths: 'I like to see,' said she, 'The snap-dragon put out his tongue at me.'

She laughed, she reached her hand out to the flower Closing its crimson throat: my own throat in her power Strangled, my heart swelled up so full As if it would burst its wineskin in my throat, Choke me in my own crimson; I watched her pull The gorge of the gaping flower, till the blood did float

Over my eyes and I was blind-- Her large brown hand stretched over The windows of my mind, And in the dark I did discover Things I was out to find: My grail, a brown bowl twined With swollen veins that met in the wrist, Under whose brown the amethyst I longed to taste: and I longed to turn My heart's red measure in her cup, I longed to feel my hot blood burn With the lambent amethyst in her cup.

Then suddenly she looked up And I was blind in a tawny-gold day Till she took her eyes away.

So she came down from above And emptied my heart of love ...

So I held my heart aloft To the cuckoo that fluttered above, And she settled soft.

It seemed that I and the morning world Were pressed cup-shape to take this reiver Bird who was weary to have furled Her wings on us, As we were weary to receive her:

This bird, this rich Sumptuous central grain, This mutable witch, This one refrain.

This laugh in the fight, This clot of light, This core of night.

She spoke, and I closed my eyes To shut hallucinations out.

I echoed with surprise Hearing my mere lips shout The answer they did devise.

Again, I saw a brown bird hover Over the flowers at my feet; I felt a brown bird hover Over my heart, and sweet Its shadow lay on my heart.

I thought I saw on the clover A brown bee pulling apart The closed flesh of the clover And burrowing in its heart.

She moved her hand, and again I felt the brown bird hover Over my heart ... and then The bird came down on my heart, As on a nest the rover Cuckoo comes, and shoves over The brim each careful part Of love, takes possession and settles her down, With her wings and her feathers does drown The nest in a heat of love.

She turned her flushed face to me for the glint Of a moment. 'See,' she laughed, 'if you also Can make them yawn.' I put my hand to the dint In the flower's throat, and the flower gaped wide with woe.

She watched, she went of a sudden intensely still, She watched my hand, and I let her watch her fill.

I pressed the wretched, throttled flower between My fingers, till its head lay back, its fangs Poised at her: like a weapon my hand stood white and keen, And I held the choked flower-serpent in its pangs Of mordant anguish till she ceased to laugh, Until her pride's flag, smitten, cleaved down to the staff.

She hid her face, she murmured between her lips The low word 'Don't!' I let the flower fall, But held my hand afloat still towards the slips Of blossom she fingered, and my crisp fingers all Put forth to her: she did not move, nor I, For my hand like a snake watched hers that could not fly.

Then I laughed in the dark of my heart, I did exult Like a sudden chuckling of music: I bade her eyes Meet mine, I opened her helpless eyes to consult Their fear, their shame, their joy that underlies Defeat in such a battle: in the dark of her eyes My heart was fierce to make her laughter rise ...

Till her dark deeps shook with convulsive thrills, and the dark Of her spirit wavered like water thrilled with light, And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its stark Fervour within the pool of her twilight: Within her s.p.a.cious gloom, in the mystery Of her barbarous soul, to grope with ecstasy ...

And I do not care though the large hands of revenge Shall get my throat at last--shall get it soon, If the joy that they are lifted to avenge Have risen red on my night as a harvest moon, Which even Death can only put out for me, And death I know is better than not-to-be.

JOHN MASEFIELD