Modern British Poetry Part 34

Sorley left but one book, _Marlborough and Other Poems_. The verse contained in it is sometimes rough but never rude. Although he admired Masefield, loveliness rather than liveliness was his aim. Restraint, tolerance, and a dignity unusual for a boy of 20, distinguish his poetry.

TWO SONNETS

I

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.

Poets have whitened at your high renown.

We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pa.s.s your pathway down.

You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware.

But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.

I think it like that signpost in my land h.o.a.ry and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know.

II

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"

But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete.

And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

TO GERMANY

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land.

But gropers both, through fields of thought confined, We stumble and we do not understand.

You only saw your future bigly planned, And we the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.

When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm, The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

_Robert Graves_

Robert Graves was born July 26, 1895. One of "the three rhyming musketeers" (the other two being the poets Siegfried Sa.s.soon and Robert Nichols), he was one of several writers who, roused by the war and giving himself to his country, refused to glorify warfare or chant new hymns of hate. Like Sa.s.soon, Graves also reacts against the storm of fury and blood-l.u.s.t (see his poem "To a Dead Boche"), but, fortified by a lighter and more whimsical spirit, where Sa.s.soon is violent, Graves is volatile; where Sa.s.soon is bitter, Graves is almost blithe.

An unconquerable gayety rises from his _Fairies and Fusiliers_ (1917), a surprising and healing humor that is warmly individual. In _Country Sentiment_ (1919) Graves turns to a fresh and more serious simplicity.

But a buoyant fancy ripples beneath the most archaic of his ballads and a quaintly original turn of mind saves them from their own echoes.

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-- A 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 Boches, 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 to-day ...

It's a queer time.

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.

I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?

Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas!

The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands Are boats and barges anch.o.r.ed to the sands, With mighty cliffs all round; They're full of wine and riches from far lands....

_I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound.

The seas run high and the boats split asunder....

_I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

The thin soap slips And slithers like a shark under the ships.

My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked.

The soap slides round and round; He's biting the old sailors, I expect....

_I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_