Georgian Poetry 1920-22 Part 8

Across two counties he can hear, And catch your words before you speak.

The woodlouse or the maggot's weak Clamour rings in his sad ear; And noise so slight it would surpa.s.s Credence:--drinking sound of gra.s.s, Worm-talk, clashing jaws of moth Chumbling holes in cloth: The groan of ants who undertake Gigantic loads for honour's sake-- Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin: Whir of spiders when they spin, And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs Of idle grubs and flies.

This man is quickened so with grief, He wanders G.o.d-like or like thief Inside and out, below, above, Without relief seeking lost love.

MORNING PHOENIX

In my body lives a flame, Flame that burns me all the day; When a fierce sun does the same, I am charred away.

Who could keep a smiling wit, Roasted so in heart and hide, Turning on the sun's red spit, Scorched by love inside?

Caves I long for and cold rocks, Minnow-peopled country brooks, Blundering gales of Equinox, Sunless valley-nooks,

Daily so I might restore Calcined heart and shrivelled skin, A morning phoenix with proud roar Kindled new within.

A LOVER SINCE CHILDHOOD

Tangled in thought am I, Stumble in speech do I?

Do I blunder and blush for the reason why?

Wander aloof do I, Lean over gates and sigh, Making friends with the bee and the b.u.t.terfly?

If thus and thus I do, Dazed by the thought of you, Walking my sorrowful way in the early dew, My heart cut through and through In this despair of you, Starved for a word or a look will my hope renew:

Give then a thought for me Walking so miserably, Wanting relief in the friendship of flower or tree; Do but remember, we Once could in love agree, Swallow your pride, let us be as we used to be.

SULLEN MOODS

Love, do not count your labour lost Though I turn sullen, grim, retired Even at your side; my thought is crossed With fancies by old longings fired.

And when I answer you, some days Vaguely and wildly, do not fear That my love walks forbidden ways, Breaking the ties that hold it here.

If I speak gruffly, this mood is Mere indignation at my own Shortcomings, plagues, uncertainties; I forget the gentler tone.

'You,' now that you have come to be My one beginning, prime and end, I count at last as wholly 'me,'

Lover no longer nor yet friend.

Friendship is flattery, though close hid; Must I then flatter my own mind?

And must (which laws of shame forbid) Blind love of you make self-love blind?

... Do not repay me my own coin, The sharp rebuke, the frown, the groan; No, stir my memory to disjoin Your emanation from my own.

Help me to see you as before When overwhelmed and dead, almost, I stumbled on that secret door Which saves the live man from the ghost.

Be once again the distant light, Promise of glory not yet known In full perfection---wasted quite When on my imperfection thrown.

THE PIER-GLa.s.s

Lost manor where I walk continually A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood; Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers And gliding steadfast down your corridors I come by nightly custom to this room, And even on sultry afternoons I come Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.

Empty, unless for a huge bed of state Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry (A puppet theatre where malignant fancy Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness To summon me from attic glooms above Service of elder ghosts; here at my left A sullen pier-gla.s.s cracked from side to side Scorns to present the face as do new mirrors With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.

Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadow And blank foreboding, never a wainscot rat Rasping a crust? Or at the window pane No fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?

The windows frame a prospect of cold skies Half-merged with sea, as at the first creation, Abstract, confusing welter. Face about, Peer rather in the gla.s.s once more, take note Of self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled, Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's love Give me one token that there still abides Remote, beyond this island mystery, So be it only this side Hope, somewhere, In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage, True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.

A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound, But a pulse quicker or slower, then I know My plea is granted; death prevails not yet.

For bees have swarmed behind in a close place Pent up between this gla.s.s and the outer wall.

The combs are founded, the queen rules her court, Bee-sergeants posted at the entrance-c.h.i.n.k Are sampling each returning honey-cargo With scrutinizing mouth and commentary, Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction-- Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at last From labyrinthine wandering. This new mood Of judgment orders me my present duty, To face again a problem strongly solved In life gone by, but now again proposed Out of due time for fresh deliberation.

Did not my answer please the Master's ear?

Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question, A paltry question set on the elements Of love and the wronged lover's obligation?

_Kill or forgive?_ Still does the bed ooze blood?

Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!

Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgment:-- _'Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come.'_ 'Kill, strike, again, again,' the bees in chorus hum.

THE TROLL'S NOSEGAY

A simple nosegay! was that much to ask?

(Winter still gloomed, with scarce a bud yet showing).

He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.

'Somewhere,' she cried, 'there must be blossom blowing.'

It seems my lady wept and the troll swore By Heaven he hated tears: he'd cure her spleen; Where she had begged one flower, he'd shower four-score, A haystack bunch to amaze a China Queen.

Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose He conjured, and in a gla.s.sy cauldron set With elvish unsubstantial Mignonette And such vague bloom as wandering dreams enclose.

But she?

Awed, Charmed to tears, Distracted, Yet-- Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued--who knows?

FOX'S DINGLE

Take now a country mood, Resolve, distil it:-- Nine Acre swaying alive, June flowers that fill it,

Spicy sweet-briar bush, The uneasy wren Fluttering from ash to birch And back again.

Milkwort on its low stem, Spread hawthorn tree, Sunlight patching the wood, A hive-bound bee....

Girls riding nim-nim-nim, Ladies, trot-trot, Gentlemen hard at gallop, Shouting, steam-hot.

Now over the rough turf Bridles go jingle, And there's a well-loved pool, By Fox's Dingle,

Where Sweetheart, my brown mare, Old Glory's daughter, May loll her leathern tongue In snow-cool water.