Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 23

And his little frame grew stout, And his little legs grew strong, And the way was not so long; And his little horns came out, And he played at b.u.t.ting trees And boulder-stones and tortoises,

Joined a game of k.n.o.bby skulls With the youngsters of his year, All the other little bulls, Learning both to bruise and bear, Learning how to stand a shock Like a little bull of rock.

Dreaming of a day less dim, Dreaming of a time less far, When the faint but certain star Of destiny burned clear for him, And a fierce and wild unrest Broke the quiet of his breast,

And the gristles of his youth Hardened in his comely pow, And he came to fighting growth, Beat his bull and won his cow, And flew his tail and trampled off Past the tallest, vain enough,

And curved about in splendour full And curved again and snuffed the airs As who should say Come out who dares!

And all beheld a bull, a Bull, And knew that here was surely one That backed for no bull, fearing none.

And the leader of the herd Looked and saw, and beat the ground, And shook the forest with his sound, Bellowed at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

Dreaming, this old bull forlorn, Surely dreaming of the hour When he came to sultan power, And they owned him master-horn, Chiefest bull of all among Bulls and cows a thousand strong.

And in all the tramping herd Not a bull that barred his way, Not a cow that said him nay, Not a bull or cow that erred In the furnace of his look Dared a second, worse rebuke;

Not in all the forest wide, Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen, Not another dared him then, Dared him and again defied; Not a sovereign buck or boar Came a second time for more.

Not a serpent that survived Once the terrors of his hoof Risked a second time reproof, Came a second time and lived, Not a serpent in its skin Came again for discipline;

Not a leopard bright as flame, Flashing fingerhooks of steel, That a wooden tree might feel, Met his fury once and came For a second reprimand, Not a leopard in the land.

Not a lion of them all, Not a lion of the hills, Hero of a thousand kills, Dared a second fight and fall, Dared that ram terrific twice, Paid a second time the price ...

Pity him, this dupe of dream, Leader of the herd again Only in his daft old brain, Once again the bull supreme And bull enough to bear the part Only in his tameless heart.

Pity him that he must wake; Even now the swarm of flies Blackening his bloodshot eyes Bursts and bl.u.s.ters round the lake, Scattered from the feast half-fed, By great shadows overhead.

And the dreamer turns away From his visionary herds And his splendid yesterday, Turns to meet the loathly birds Flocking round him from the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

THE SONG OF HONOUR

I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound Swung by and soon was nowhere found, I heard him calling half-way round, Holloing loud and deep; A pair of stars, faint pins of light, Then many a star, sailed into sight, And all the stars, the flower of night, Were round me at a leap; To tell how still the valleys lay I heard a watchdog miles away ...

And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell, The mastiff in a slumber fell, I stared into the sky, As wondering men have always done Since beauty and the stars were one, Though none so hard as I.

It seemed, so still the valleys were, As if the whole world knelt at prayer, Save me and me alone; So pure and wide that silence was I feared to bend a blade of gra.s.s, And there I stood like stone.

There, sharp and sudden, there I heard-- 'Ah! some wild lovesick singing bird Woke singing in the trees?'

'The nightingale and babble-wren Were in the English greenwood then, And you heard one of these?'

The babble-wren and nightingale Sang in the Abyssinian vale That season of the year!

Yet, true enough, I heard them plain, I heard them both again, again, As sharp and sweet and clear As if the Abyssinian tree Had thrust a bough across the sea, Had thrust a bough across to me With music for my ear!

I heard them both, and oh! I heard The song of every singing bird That sings beneath the sky, And with the song of lark and wren The song of mountains, moths and men And seas and rainbows vie!

I heard the universal choir The Sons of Light exalt their Sire With universal song, Earth's lowliest and loudest notes, Her million times ten million throats Exalt Him loud and long, And lips and lungs and tongues of Grace From every part and every place Within the shining of His face, The universal throng.

I heard the hymn of being sound From every well of honour found In human sense and soul: The song of poets when they write The testament of Beautysprite Upon a flying scroll, The song of painters when they take A burning brush for Beauty's sake And limn her features whole--

The song of men divinely wise Who look and see in starry skies Not stars so much as robins' eyes, And when these pale away Hear flocks of shiny pleiades Among the plums and apple trees Sing in the summer day-- The song of all both high and low To some blest vision true, The song of beggars when they throw The crust of pity all men owe To hungry sparrows in the snow, Old beggars hungry too-- The song of kings of kingdoms when They rise above their fortune men, And crown themselves anew,--

The song of courage, heart and will And gladness in a fight, Of men who face a hopeless hill With sparking and delight, The bells and bells of song that ring Round banners of a cause or king From armies bleeding white--

The song of sailors every one When monstrous tide and tempest run At ships like bulls at red, When stately ships are twirled and spun Like whipping tops and help there's none And mighty ships ten thousand ton Go down like lumps of lead--

And song of fighters stern as they At odds with fortune night and day, Crammed up in cities grim and grey As thick as bees in hives, Hosannas of a lowly throng Who sing unconscious of their song, Whose lips are in their lives--

And song of some at holy war With spells and ghouls more dread by far Than deadly seas and cities are, Or hordes of quarrelling kings--- The song of fighters great and small, The song of pretty fighters all, And high heroic things--

The song of lovers--who knows how Twitched up from place and time Upon a sigh, a blush, a vow, A curve or hue of cheek or brow, Borne up and off from here and now Into the void sublime!

And crying loves and pa.s.sions still In every key from soft to shrill And numbers never done, Dog-loyalties to faith and friend, And loves like Ruth's of old no end, And intermission none-- And burst on burst for beauty and For numbers not behind, From men whose love of motherland Is like a dog's for one dear hand, Sole, selfless, boundless, blind-- And song of some with hearts beside For men and sorrows far and wide, Who watch the world with pity and pride And warm to all mankind--

And endless joyous music rise From children at their play, And endless soaring lullabies From happy, happy mothers' eyes, And answering crows and baby cries, How many who shall say!

And many a song as wondrous well With pangs and sweets intolerable From lonely hearths too gray to tell, G.o.d knows how utter gray!

And song from many a house of care When pain has forced a footing there And there's a Darkness on the stair Will not be turned away--

And song--that song whose singers come With old kind tales of pity from The Great Compa.s.sion's lips, That makes the bells of Heaven to peal Round pillows frosty with the feel Of Death's cold finger tips--

The song of men all sorts and kinds, As many tempers, moods and minds As leaves are on a tree, As many faiths and castes and creeds, As many human bloods and breeds As in the world may be;

The song of each and all who gaze On Beauty in her naked blaze, Or see her dimly in a haze, Or get her light in fitful rays And tiniest needles even, The song of all not wholly dark, Not wholly sunk in stupor stark Too deep for groping Heaven--

And alleluias sweet and clear And wild with beauty men mishear, From choirs of song as near and dear To Paradise as they, The everlasting pipe and flute Of wind and sea and bird and brute, And lips deaf men imagine mute In wood and stone and clay;

The music of a lion strong That shakes a hill a whole night long, A hill as loud as he, The twitter of a mouse among Melodious greenery, The ruby's and the rainbow's song, The nightingale's--all three, The song of life that wells and flows From every leopard, lark and rose And everything that gleams or goes Lack-l.u.s.tre in the sea.

I heard it all, each, every note Of every lung and tongue and throat, Ay, every rhythm and rhyme Of everything that lives and loves And upward, ever upward moves From lowly to sublime!

Earth's mult.i.tudinous Sons of Light, I heard them lift their lyric might With each and every chanting sprite That lit the sky that wondrous night As far as eye could climb!

I heard it all, I heard the whole Harmonious hymn of being roll Up through the chapel of my soul And at the altar die, And in the awful quiet then Myself I heard, Amen, Amen, Amen I heard me cry!

I heard it all, and then although I caught my flying senses, oh, A dizzy man was I!

I stood and stared; the sky was lit, The sky was stars all over it, I stood, I knew not why, Without a wish, without a will, I stood upon that silent hill And stared into the sky until My eyes were blind with stars and still I stared into the sky.