Poems, 1916-1918 Part 3

High on the tufted baobab-tree To-night a rain-bird sang to me A simple song, of three notes only, That made the wilderness more lonely;

For in my brain it echoed nearly, Old village church bells chiming clearly: The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune, Over the mowing gra.s.s in June--

Over the mowing gra.s.s, and meadows Where the low sun casts long shadows.

And cuckoos call in the twilight From elm to elm, in level flight.

Now through the evening meadows move Slow couples of young folk in love, Who pause at every crooked stile And kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while:

Like pale moths the summer frocks Hover between the beds of phlox, And old men, feeling it is late, Cease their gossip at the gate,

Till deeper still the twilight grows, And night blossometh, like a rose Full of love and sweet perfume, Whose heart most tender stars illume.

Here the red sun sank like lead, And the sky blackened overhead; Only the locust chirped at me From the shadowy baobab-tree.

MOTHS

When I lay wakeful yesternight My fever's flame was a clear light, A taper, flaring in the wind, Whither, fluttering out of the dim Night, many dreams glimmered by.

Like moths, out of the darkness, blind, Hurling at that taper's flame, From drinking honey of the night's flowers Into my circled light they came: So near I could see their soft colours, Grey of the dove, most soothely grey; But my heat singed their wings, and away Darting into the dark again, They escaped me....

Others floated down Like those vaned seeds that fall In autumn from the sycamore's crown When no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred, More silent in flight than any bird, Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, soft As lizards moving on a white wall They came quietly from aloft Down through my circle of light, and so Into unlighted gloom below.

But one dream, strong-winged, daring Flew beating at the heart of the flame Till I feared it would have put out my light, My thin taper, fitfully flaring, And that I should be left alone in the night With no more dreams for my delight.

Can it be that from the dead Even their dreams, their dreams are fled?

BeTE HUMAINE

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise, I saw the world awake; and as the ray Touched the tall gra.s.ses where they dream till day, Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies, With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.

I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes...

Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain And horror, at my own careless cruelty, That where all things are cruel I had slain A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: Like beasts that prey with b.l.o.o.d.y claw...

Nay, they Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?

DOVES

On the edge of the wild-wood Grey doves fluttering: Grey doves of Astarte To the woods at daybreak Lazily uttering Their murmured enchantment, Old as man's childhood;

While she, pale divinity Of hidden evil, Silvers the regions chaste Of cold sky, and broodeth Over forests primeval And all that th.o.r.n.y waste's Wooded infinity.

'Lovely G.o.ddess of groves,'

Cried I, 'what enchanted Sinister recesses Of these lone shades May still be haunted By thy demon caresses, Thy unholy loves?'

But clear day quelleth Her dominion lonely, And the soft ring-dove, Murmuring, telleth That dark sin only From man's l.u.s.t springeth, In man's heart dwelleth.

SONG

I made a song in my love's likeness From colours of my quietude, From trees whose blossoms shine no less Than b.u.t.terflies in the wild-wood.

I laid claim on all beauty Under the sun to praise her wonder, Till the noise of war swept over me, Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.

The angel of death hath swift wings, I heard him strip the huddled trees Overhead, as a hornet sings, And whip the gra.s.s about my knees.

Down we crouched in the parched dust, Down beneath that deadly rain: Dead still I lay, as lie one must Who hath a bullet in his brain.

Dead they left me: but my soul, waking, Quietly laughed at their distress Who guessed not that I still was making That new song in my love's likeness.

BEFORE ACTION

Now the wind of the dawn sighs, Now red embers have burned white, Under the darkness faints and dies The slow-beating heart of night.

Into the darkness my eyes peer Seeing only faces steel'd, And level eyes that know not fear; Yet each heart is a battlefield

Where phantom armies foin and feint And b.l.o.o.d.y victories are won From the time when stars are faint To the rising of the sun.

With banners broken, and the roll Of drums, at dawn the phantoms fly: A man must commune with his soul When he marches out to die.

O day of wrath and of desire!

For each may know upon this day Whether he be a thing of fire Or fettered to the traitor clay.

Such is the hazard that is thrown: We know not how the dice may fall: All the secrets shall be known Or else we shall not know at all.

ON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTION

Into that dry and most desolate place With heavy gait they dragged the stretcher in And laid him on the b.l.o.o.d.y ground: the din Of Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head, And looked into his face, And saw that he was dead.

Saw beneath matted curls the broken skin That let the bullet in; And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth...

(Ah, may we smile at death As bravely....) the curv'd lips that no more drouth Should blacken, and no sweetly stirring breath Mildly displace.

So I covered the calm face And stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there, A zinc ident.i.ty disc, a bracelet of elephant hair I found.... Ah, G.o.d, how deep it stings This unendurable pity of small things!