Poems by Sir John Collings Squire Volume II Part 2

You said, that first winter, That the landscape around Ypres Reminded you of Chinese paintings: The green plain, striped with trenches, The few trees on the plain, And the puffs of smoke sprinkled over the plain.

You said, when the war was over, That you would record that green desolation In flat colours and lines As a Chinese artist would.

That is what you were going to do.

The plain is still there.

V. ANOTHER HOUR

How many days we spent together!

Thousands.

And now I would give anything, Anything, For another, or even for one hour: An hour, were it only of aimless lounging, Or a game of billiards in a pub.

AN IMPRESSION RECEIVED FROM A SYMPHONY

There was a day, when I, if that was I, Surrendered lay beneath a burning sky, Where overhead the azure ached with heat, And many red fierce poppies splashed the wheat; Motion was dead, and silence was complete, And stains of red fierce poppies splashed the wheat,

And as I lay upon a scent-warm bank, I fell away, slipped back from earth, and sank, I lost the place of sky and field and tree, One covering face obscured the world for me, And for an hour I knew eternity, For one fixed face suspended Time for me.

O had those eyes in that extreme of bliss Shed one more wise and culminating kiss, My end had come, nor had I lived to quail, Frightened and dumb as things must do that fail, And in this last black devil-mocking gale, Battered and dumb to fight the dark and fail.

FEN LANDSCAPE

Wind waves the reeds by the river, Grey sky lids the leaden water.

Ducks fly low across the water, Three flying: one quacks sadly.

Grey are the sky and the water, Green the lost ribbons of reed-beds, Small in the silence a black boat Floats upon wide pale mirrors.

MEDITATION IN LAMPLIGHT

What deaths men have died, not fighting but impotent.

Hung on the wire, between trenches, burning and freezing, Groaning for water with armies of men so near; The fall over cliff, the clutch at the rootless gra.s.s, The beach rushing up, the whirling, the turning head first; Stiff writhings of strychnine, taken in error or haste, Angina pectoris, shudders of the heart; Failure and crushing by flying weight to the ground, Claws and jaws, the stink of a lion's breath; Swimming, a white belly, a crescent of teeth, Agony, and a spirting shredded limb And crimson blood staining the green water; And, horror of horrors, the slow grind on the rack, The breaking bones, the stretching and bursting skin, Perpetual fainting and waking to see above The down-thrust mocking faces of cruel men, With the power of mercy, who gloat upon shrieks for mercy.

O pity me, G.o.d! O G.o.d make tolerable, Make tolerable the end that awaits for me, And give me courage to die when the time comes, When the time comes as it must, however it comes, That I shrink not nor scream, gripped by the jaws of the vice; For the thought of it turns me sick, and my heart stands still, Knocks and stands still. O fearful, fearful Shadow, Kill me, let me die to escape the terror of thee!

A tap. Come in! Oh, no, I am perfectly well, Only a little tired. Take this one, it's softer.

How are things going with you? Will you have some coffee?

Well, of course it's trying sometimes, but never mind, It will probably be all right. Carry on, and keep cheerful, I shouldn't, if I were you, meet trouble half-way, It is always best to take everything as it comes.

HARLEQUIN

Moonlit woodland, veils of green, Caves of empty dark between; Veils of green from rounded arms Drooping, that the moonlight charms.

Tranced the trees, gra.s.s beneath Silent....

Like a stealthy breath, Mask and wand and silver skin, Sudden enters Harlequin.

Hist! Hist! Watch him go, Leaping limb and pointing toe, Slender arms that float and flow, Curving wand above, below; Flying, gliding, changing feet; Onset fading in retreat.

Not a shadow of sound there is But his motion's gentle hiss, Till one fluent arm and hand Suddenly circles, and the wand Taps a bough far overhead, "Crack," and then all noise is dead.

For he halts, and a s.p.a.ce Stands erect with upward face, Taut and tense to the white Message of the moon's light.

What is he thinking of, you ask; Caught you the eyes behind the mask?

Whence did he come, where would he go?

Answers but the resuming flow Of that swift continuous glide, Whispering from side to side, Silvered boughs, branches dim, All the world's a frame for him; All the trees standing around On the fascinated ground, See him swifter, swifter, sweep, Dazzling, till one wildest leap...

Whisht! he kneels. And he listens.

How his steady silver glistens!

He was listening; he was there; Flash! he went. To the air He a waiting ear had bent, Silent; but before he went Something somewhere else to seek, He moved his lips as though to speak.

And we wait, and in vain, For he will not come again.

Earth, gra.s.s, wood, and air, As we stare, and we stare, Which that fierce life did hold, Tired, dim, void, cold.

WINTER NIGHTFALL

The old yellow stucco Of the time of the Regent Is flaking and peeling: The rows of square windows In the straight yellow building Are empty and still; And the dusty dark evergreens Guarding the wicket Are draped with wet cobwebs, And above this poor wilderness Toneless and sombre Is the flat of the hill.

They said that a colonel Who long ago died here Was the last one to live here: An old retired colonel, Some Fraser or Murray, I don't know his name; Death came here and summoned him, And the sh.e.l.ls of him vanished Beyond all speculation; And silence resumed here, Silence and emptiness, And n.o.body came.

Was it wet when he lived here, Were the skies dun and hurrying, Was the rain so irresolute?

Did he watch the night coming, Did he shiver at nightfall Before he was dead?

Did the wind go so creepily, Chilly and puffing, With drops of cold rain in it?

Was the hill's lifted shoulder So lowering and menacing, So dark and so dread?

Did he turn through his doorway And go to his study, And light many candles?

And fold in the shutters, And heap up the fireplace To fight off the damps?

And muse on his boyhood, And wonder if India Ever was real?

And shut out the loneliness With pig-sticking memoirs And collections of stamps?

Perhaps. But he's gone now, He and his furniture Dispersed now for ever; And the last of his trophies, Antlers and photographs, Heaven knows where.

And there's gra.s.s in his gateway, Gra.s.s on his footpath, Gra.s.s on his door-step; The garden's grown over, The well-chain is broken, The windows are bare.

And I leave him behind me, For the straggling, discoloured Rags of the daylight, And hills and stone walls And a rick long forgotten Of blackening hay: The road pale and sticky, And cart-ruts and nail marks, And wind-ruffled puddles, And the slop of my footsteps In this desolate country's Cadaverous clay.

A FAR PLACE