Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 11

THE BELLS OF HEAVEN

'Twould ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal for years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together Knelt down with angry prayers For tamed and shabby tigers And dancing dogs and bears, And wretched, blind pit ponies, And little hunted hares.

BABYLON

If you could bring her glories back!

You gentle sirs who sift the dust And burrow in the mould and must Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; Who catalogue and pigeon-hole The faded splendours of her soul And put her greatness under gla.s.s-- If you could bring her past to pa.s.s!

If you could bring her dead to life!

The soldier lad; the market wife; Madam buying fowls from her; Tip, the butcher's bandy cur; Workmen carting bricks and clay; Babel pa.s.sing to and fro On the business of a day Gone three thousand years ago-- That you cannot; then be done, Put the goblet down again, Let the broken arch remain, Leave the dead men's dust alone--

Is it nothing how she lies, This old mother of you all, You great cities proud and tall Towering to a hundred skies Round a world she never knew, Is it nothing, this, to you?

Must the ghoulish work go on Till her very floors are gone?

While there's still a brick to save Drive these people from her grave.

The Jewish seer when he cried Woe to Babel's l.u.s.t and pride Saw the foxes at her gates; Once again the wild thing waits.

Then leave her in her last decay A house of owls, a foxes' den; The desert that till yesterday Hid her from the eyes of men In its proper time and way Will take her to itself again.

ROBERT GRAVES

IT'S A QUEER TIME

It's hard to know if you're alive or dead When steel and fire go roaring through your head.

One moment you'll be crouching at your gun Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast-- No time to think--leave all--and off you go ...

To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow, To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime-- Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!

It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yelling 'f.a.g!'

When somehow something gives and your feet drag.

You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.

Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!

You're back in the old sailor suit again.

It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out-- Great roar--the trench shakes and falls about-- You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo!

Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, Hanky to nose--that lyddite makes a stench-- Getting her pinafore all over grime.

Funny! because she died ten years ago!

It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick; Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click, You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: Even good Christians don't like pa.s.sing straight From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well today ...

It's a queer time.

GOLIATH AND DAVID

('For D. C. T., killed at Fricourt, March 1916')

Once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook: Out between the lines he went To that one-sided tournament, A shepherd boy who stood out fine And young to fight a Philistine Clad all in brazen mail. He swears That he's killed lions, he's killed bears, And those that scorn the G.o.d of Zion Shall perish so like bear or lion.

But ... the historian of that fight Had not the heart to tell it right.

Striding within javelin range Goliath marvels at this strange Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.

David's clear eye measures the length; With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee, Poises a moment thoughtfully, And hurls with a long vengeful swing.

The pebble, humming from the sling Like a wild bee, flies a sure line; For the forehead of the Philistine; Then ... but there comes a brazen clink And quicker than a man can think Goliath's shield parries each cast.

Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye, Towering unhurt six cubits high.

Says foolish David, 'd.a.m.n your shield!

And d.a.m.n my sling! but I'll not yield.'

He takes his staff of Mamre oak, A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke The skull of many a wolf and fox Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks.

Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh Can scatter chariots like blown chaff To rout: but David, calm and brave, Holds his ground, for G.o.d will save.

Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!

Shame for Beauty's overthrow!

(G.o.d's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.) One cruel backhand sabre cut-- 'I'm hit! I'm killed!' young David cries, Throws blindly forward, chokes ... and dies.

And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim, Goliath straddles over him.

A PINCH OF SALT

When a dream is born in you With a sudden clamorous pain, When you know the dream is true And lovely, with no flaw nor stain, O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.

Dreams are like a bird that mocks, Flirting the feathers of his tail.

When you seize at the salt-box Over the hedge you'll see him sail.

Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.

Poet, never chase the dream.

Laugh yourself and turn away.

Mask your hunger, let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.