Provocations Part 6

"Leave them with me, alone in my white world, Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled.

I need great souls! Great Hero souls to bless And consecrate my snowy wilderness."

The Stranger in London

'Tis a big, big place!-- And the clouds that gather the grey skies in Are frayed by chimneys black and old, Serried stacks of grime and sin.

And every road and every street Has a secret tale to guard and hold, Mid the echoing tones of pa.s.sing feet.

Oh weary place!

Brimmed up with life, confused in sound, I have little part in your daily round, For I wander lonely--stranger bound.

There are houses surely which open their door To those they know, For me they stand in a formal row Story on story, floor upon floor, Shielding themselves from the crimson sun, From the on-rolling mutter Of traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry, With curtain and shutter.

Mute houses which shun All light, sound and me Inexorably.

Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night, When the spluttering rain Spreads the s.m.u.ts on the pane, I dream that those mansions relax their grim pride And opening wide Their intimate hearts to me, Chill taciturnity Melts in the warmth of rich colour and fire.

Vast halls are alight With radiant desire To show hospitality.

Lavish regality Squanders the staircase in flowers and green.

And I wander unseen Through the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft red Of the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glow Ablaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I know There is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.

But sleep's "Open, Sesame"

Fails with the light, Forcing the hopes of me Back into night.

Never to open, never to see Stern cold houses Closed to me!

Gathering storms which smirch the sky, Burst your bonds, for up on high May I come in?

I have no part in this world, no home, No love to hold me. Bid me come, I would warm myself at your great round sun, I would open your windows one by one.

Your little stars and your crescent moon.

I am tired and thin, I think I shall come and see you soon.

May I come in, may I come in?

The Transvaal in June

Under the deep blue vault Of a hot relentless sky, Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road, And the choking dust like a rust corrode Soars up in spirals high.

Under the sun-gilt span Of a hot and brazen sky, Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain, Baring its naked stones in vain And its mud in misery.

Under the cloudless curve Of a wide remorseless sky Sleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veld And the slim blue gums, and the wattle belt Where the shrike broods watchfully.

Under the sullen glare Of the grim unblinking sky The hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze, The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blaze In their sun-struck agony.

Johannesburg

Miraculous city!

Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise, Buildings monstrous which brush the skies!

Raise your eyes In awe. Yet pity This marvellous, golden, mushroom city.

Hear the roar!

Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls back From the granite rock which whirls it back, A great unceasingly grinding drone In a heavy unyielding monotone.

'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain, The shriek of the d.a.m.ned raised in vain, Again! again!

And the stamping machine with a brutal joy Wrenches the gold from its quartz alloy, Crushing the tortured stone to dust As it yields the ore To the vast unquenchable thirst for l.u.s.t.

_Feel_ the south wind!

As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath, Biting the scrub with its teeth of death, lifting the dust like a phantom shroud From the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud.

Scattering the belching smoke, which flies From the chimney line that marks the rise Of the Main Reef ridge.

Some devil's bridge To bind the town to the broad full plain Which rolls beyond, like the boundless main.

Precocious town!

The forward child of a youthful state So young in years. So rich, so great In gilt renown, And glittering fate!

Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pity This marvellous, golden, old-young city!

In the Land of the Silences

She stood before the tent, a winging tent In thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong, Burning beneath a sun unreticent, Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong.

And she was fair, a sprig of English May, Born for the kiss of merriment and day.

Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of sea The great veld swept and rolled in curves away, A shabby patch of G.o.d's eternity Neglected by the angels, bare and grey, Wind-swept and solitary. d.i.c.k and she Had made this veld their home for seasons three.

_Well_ she remembered that first reckless ride, Their wedding journey over spruit and land, The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side, The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command, Holding a loot of empty pot and tin, Which once had held a soldier guard within.

The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and red Twisting in spiral devils, raw as rust, Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead, Murmuring Africa was never just.

"She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind, "She steals your youth and stultifies your mind."

On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal, Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump, Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal, By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant hump Of tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild, Strong with exhilaration, undefiled.

At last they reined. Across the scrub and veld d.i.c.k pointed with his sjambok to the white Outspreading tent, then to the wattle belt That marshalled thinly in the shimmering light.

"There lies our home, dear love, for you and me."

She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly.

Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich, Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom, Mad for the first wild draught of water, which Burst from the thunder-clouds, whose ma.s.sive gloom Blackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and tore Deep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar.

The storms swept by. A fairyland of green Mantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowers Sprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean, The soft mimosa sprinkled into showers Of golden b.a.l.l.s. The oleander hedge Swayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge.

And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot, Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her square Of gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruit Beyond, in childish hurry. Was he there?

She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign-- Of man or beast to break the distance line.

Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no, Only her wishes trembling in the air And mirage heat. A train sedate and slow Wheeled round the kopje far away. The glare Of brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!-- He would not come to-night! In lonely state