Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 12

STAR-TALK

'Are you awake, Gemelli, This frosty night?'

'We'll be awake till reveille, Which is Sunrise,' say the Gemelli, 'It's no good trying to go to sleep: If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, But rest is hopeless tonight, But rest is hopeless tonight.'

'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?'

'Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug,' say the Pleiads, 'All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather tonight, It's bitter weather tonight.'

'What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?'

'The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, And the Great Bear,' says Orion, 'With my starry quiver and beautiful belt I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders tonight, To warm my shoulders tonight.'

'Did you hear that, Great She-bear, This frosty night?'

'Yes, he's talking of stripping _me_ bare Of my own big fur,' says the She-bear, I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel tonight!

And the frost so cruel tonight!

'How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?'

'Complaints is many and various And my feet are cold,' says Aquarius, 'There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-sp.a.w.n found in my pails, And the pump has frozen tonight, And the pump has frozen tonight.'

IN THE WILDERNESS

Christ of his gentleness Thirsting and hungering, Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace he spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering.

He heard the bitterns call From ruined palace-wall, Answered them brotherly.

He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety.

Basilisk, c.o.c.katrice, Flocked to his homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barbed stings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries.

And ever with him went, Of all his wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scape-goat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind him kept, Tears like a lover wept.

THE BOY IN CHURCH

'Gabble-gabble ... brethren ... gabble-gabble!'

My window glimpses larch and heather.

I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving or d.a.m.nation.

Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still; I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill.

The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show.

The parson's voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks. I like this church.

The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch.

'Prayer,' says the kind voice, 'is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again.'

I add the hymns up over and over Until there's not the least mistake.

Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover!

It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the Lake?

The red light from his mantle pa.s.ses Across the broad memorial bra.s.ses.

It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly, serious people linking Prayer-chains for a forgiving G.o.d.

But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.

THE LADY VISITOR IN THE PAUPER WARD

Why do you break upon this old, cool peace, This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese, With garish flowers?

Why do you churn smooth waters rough again, Selfish old Skin-and-bone?

Leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain, Leave us alone.

NOT DEAD

Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again.

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.

Caressingly I stroke Rough bark of the friendly oak.

A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.

Turf burns with pleasant smoke: I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.

Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile.

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

RUPERT BROOKE

Your face was lifted to the golden sky Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square, As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air Its tumult of red stars exultantly, To the cold constellations dim and high; And as we neared, the roaring ruddy flare Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy.

The golden head goes down into the night Quenched in cold gloom--and yet again you stand Beside me now with lifted face alight, As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn ...

Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn, And look into my eyes and take my hand.

TENANTS

Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways, We came upon the little house asleep In cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep, In the white magic of the full moon-blaze.

Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze, Fearful to break that quiet, and to creep Into the home that had been ours to keep Through a long year of happy nights and days.

So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam, So old and ghostly like a house of dream It seemed, that over us there stole the dread That even as we watched it, side by side, The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and died Within its walls, were sleeping in our bed.