Modern British Poetry Part 27

David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity, ranging from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost frenzied mysticism, is seen even in his prose works--particularly in his short stories, _The Prussian Officer_ (1917), his a.n.a.lytical _Sons and Lovers_ (1913), and the rhapsodic novel, _The Rainbow_ (1915).

As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emotions; his pa.s.sion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms, which sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But within his range he is as powerful as he is poignant. His most notable volumes of poetry are _Amores_ (1916), _Look! We Have Come Through!_ (1918), and _New Poems_ (1920).

PEOPLE

The great gold apples of light Hang from the street's long bough Dripping their light On the faces that drift below, On the faces that drift and blow Down the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough.

The ripeness of these apples of night Distilling over me Makes sickening the white Ghost-flux of faces that hie Them endlessly, endlessly by Without meaning or reason why They ever should be.

PIANO

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appa.s.sionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

_John Freeman_

John Freeman, born in 1885, has published several volumes of pleasantly descriptive verse. The two most distinctive are _Stone Trees_ (1916) and _Memories of Childhood_ (1919).

STONE TREES

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark.

In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.

Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonished stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid.

From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought.

Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Grey granite trees was music wrought.

In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ...

Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And shivered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.

Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd: Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light.

And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

_Shane Leslie_

Shane Leslie, the only surviving son of Sir John Leslie, was born at Swan Park, Monaghan, Ireland, in 1886 and was educated at Eton and the University of Paris. He worked for a time among the Irish poor and was deeply interested in the Celtic revival. During the greater part of a year he lectured in the United States, marrying an American, Marjorie Ide.

Leslie has been editor of _The Dublin Review_ since 1916. He is the author of several volumes on Irish political matters as well as _The End of a Chapter_ and _Verses in Peace and War_.

FLEET STREET

I never see the newsboys run Amid the whirling street, With swift untiring feet, To cry the latest venture done, But I expect one day to hear Them cry the crack of doom And risings from the tomb, With great Archangel Michael near; And see them running from the Fleet As messengers of G.o.d, With Heaven's tidings shod About their brave unwearied feet.

THE PATER OF THE CANNON

Father of the thunder, Flinger of the flame, Searing stars asunder, _Hallowed be Thy Name!_

By the sweet-sung quiring Sister bullets hum, By our fiercest firing, _May Thy Kingdom come!_

By Thy strong apostle Of the Maxim gun, By his pentecostal Flame, _Thy Will be done!_

Give us, Lord, good feeding To Thy battles sped-- Flesh, white grained and bleeding, _Give for daily bread!_

_Frances Cornford_

The daughter of Francis Darwin, third son of Charles Darwin, Mrs.

Frances Macdonald Cornford, whose husband is a Fellow and Lecturer of Trinity College, was born in 1886. She has published three volumes of unaffected lyrical verse, the most recent of which, _Spring Morning_, was brought out by The Poetry Bookshop in 1915.

PREeXISTENCE

I laid me down upon the sh.o.r.e And dreamed a little s.p.a.ce; I heard the great waves break and roar; The sun was on my face.

My idle hands and fingers brown Played with the pebbles grey; The waves came up, the waves went down, Most thundering and gay.

The pebbles, they were smooth and round And warm upon my hands, Like little people I had found Sitting among the sands.

The grains of sand so shining-small Soft through my fingers ran; The sun shone down upon it all, And so my dream began:

How all of this had been before, How ages far away I lay on some forgotten sh.o.r.e As here I lie to-day.

The waves came shining up the sands, As here to-day they shine; And in my pre-pelasgian hands The sand was warm and fine.