Modern British Poetry Part 33

The blue smoke leaps Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.

So my love leaps forth toward you, Vanishes and is renewed.

III

A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky When the sunset is faint vermilion In the mist among the tree-boughs Art thou to me, my beloved.

IV

A young beech tree on the edge of the forest Stands still in the evening, Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air And seems to fear the stars-- So are you still and so tremble.

V

The red deer are high on the mountain, They are beyond the last pine trees.

And my desires have run with them.

VI

The flower which the wind has shaken Is soon filled again with rain; So does my heart fill slowly with tears, O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards, Until you return.

AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM

I turn the page and read: "I dream of silent verses where the rhyme Glides noiseless as an oar."

The heavy musty air, the black desks, The bent heads and the rustling noises In the great dome Vanish ...

And The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky, The boat drifts over the lake shallows, The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds, The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns, And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle....

_Edward Shanks_

Edward Shanks was born in London in 1892 and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has reviewed verse and _belles lettres_ for several years for various English publications, and is at present a.s.sistant editor of _The London Mercury_. His _The Queen of China and Other Poems_ appeared late in 1919.

COMPLAINT

When in the mines of dark and silent thought Sometimes I delve and find strange fancies there, With heavy labour to the surface brought That lie and mock me in the brighter air, Poor ores from starved lodes of poverty, Unfit for working or to be refined, That in the darkness cheat the miner's eye, I turn away from that base cave, the mind.

Yet had I but the power to crush the stone There are strange metals hid in flakes therein, Each flake a spark sole-hidden and alone, That only cunning, toilsome chemists win.

All this I know, and yet my chemistry Fails and the pregnant treasures useless lie.

_Osbert Sitwell_

Born in London, December 6th, 1892, Osbert Sitwell (son of Sir George Sitwell and brother of Edith Sitwell) was educated at Eton and became an officer in the Grenadier Guards, with whom he served in France for various periods from 1914 to 1917.

His first contributions appeared in _Wheels_ (an annual anthology of a few of the younger radical writers, edited by his sister) and disclosed an ironic and strongly individual touch. That impression is strengthened by a reading of _Argonaut and Juggernaut_ (1920), where Sitwell's cleverness and satire are fused. His most remarkable though his least brilliant poems are his irregular and fiery protests against smugness and hypocrisy. But even Sitwell's more conventional poetry has a freshness of movement and definiteness of outline.

THE BLIND PEDLAR

I stand alone through each long day Upon these pavers; cannot see The wares spread out upon this tray --For G.o.d has taken sight from me!

Many a time I've cursed the night When I was born. My peering eyes Have sought for but one ray of light To pierce the darkness. When the skies

Rain down their first sweet April showers On budding branches; when the morn Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers, I've cursed the night when I was born.

But now I thank G.o.d, and am glad For what I cannot see this day --The young men cripples, old, and sad, With faces burnt and torn away;

Or those who, growing rich and old, Have battened on the slaughter, Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold, Are creased in purple laughter!

PROGRESS

The city's heat is like a leaden pall-- Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, Of silver bodies bathing in a pool; Or trees that whisper in some far, small town Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold Was merely metal, not a grave of mould In which men bury all that's fine and fair.

When they could chase the jewelled b.u.t.terfly Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh For all the future held so rich and rare; When, though they knew it not, their baby cries Were lovely as the jewelled b.u.t.terflies.

_Robert Nichols_

Robert Nichols was born on the Isle of Wight in 1893. His first volume, _Invocations_ (1915), was published while he was at the front, Nichols having joined the army while he was still an undergraduate at Trinity College, Oxford. After serving one year as second lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery, he was incapacitated by sh.e.l.l shock, visiting America in 1918-19 as a lecturer. His _Ardours and Endurances_ (1917) is the most representative work of this poet, although his new volume, _The Flower of Flame_ (1920), shows a steady advance in power.

NEARER

Nearer and ever nearer ...

My body, tired but tense, Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure And tremulous confidence.

Arms to have and to use them And a soul to be made Worthy, if not worthy; If afraid, unafraid.

To endure for a little, To endure and have done: Men I love about me, Over me the sun!

And should at last suddenly Fly the speeding death, The four great quarters of heaven Receive this little breath.

_Charles Hamilton Sorley_

Charles Hamilton Sorley, who promised greater things than any of the younger poets, was born at Old Aberdeen in May, 1895. He studied at Marlborough College and University College, Oxford. He was finishing his studies abroad and was on a walking-tour along the banks of the Moselle when the war came. Sorley returned home to receive an immediate commission in the 7th Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. In August, 1915, at the age of 20, he was made a captain. On October 13, 1915, he was killed in action near Hulluch.