Some Imagist Poets, 1916 Part 7

For one year's s.p.a.ce, attend on our angry dead, Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet, Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence, Then lead them to the gates of the unknown, And bid farewell, oh stately travellers, And wait till they are lost upon our sight.

Then we shall turn us home again to life Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death, Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.

And we shall have new peace in this our life, New joy to give more life, new bliss to live, Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.

PERFIDY

Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door, And I lingered on the threshold with my hand Upraised to knock and knock once more: Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor, Hollow re-echoed my heart.

The low-hung lamps stretched down the road With shadows drifting underneath, With a music of soft, melodious feet Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet The low-hung light of her eyes.

The golden lamps down the street went out, The last car trailed the night behind, And I in the darkness wandered about With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt In the dying lamp of my love.

Two brown ponies trotting slowly Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink.

The dark van drummed down the distance slowly, And city stars so high and holy Drew nearer to look in the streets.

A hasting car swept shameful past.

I saw her hid in the shadow, I saw her step to the curb, and fast Run to the silent door, where last I had stood with my hand uplifted.

She clung to the door in her haste to enter, Entered, and quickly cast It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.

AT THE WINDOW

The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the cl.u.s.tered tombstones recede Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pa.s.s To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darkness That watch forever earnestly from behind the window gla.s.s.

IN TROUBLE AND SHAME

I look at the swaling sunset And wish I could go also Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.

I wish that I could go Through the red doors where I could put off My shame like shoes in the porch My pain like garments, And leave my flesh discarded lying Like luggage of some departed traveller Gone one knows not where.

Then I would turn round And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber, I would laugh with joy.

BROODING GRIEF

A yellow leaf from the darkness Hops like a frog before me-- --Why should I start and stand still?

I was watching the woman that bore me Stretched in the brindled darkness Of the sick-room, rigid with will To die-- And the quick leaf tore me Back to this rainy swill Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.

AMY LOWELL

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.

I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my pa.s.sion Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please.

And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden paths.

The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.

I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon-- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.

"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday sen'night."

As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes.

"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.

"No," I told him.