IRIS TREE [20.129]

Iris Tree photographed by Man Ray

Iris Tree

Iris Tree (1897 - 1968) fue una actriz y poetisa inglesa, descrita como una mujer bohemia, excéntrica, ingeniosa y aventurera.

Su padre fue Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree. Fue demandada, en su juventud, como modelo de artistas, siendo pintada por Augustus John, y simultáneamente por Duncan Grant, Vanessa Bell y Roger Fry, así como esculpida por Jacob Epstein, mostrando su pelo corto, lo cual, junto a su conducta, fue motivo de escándalo. Fue fotografiada por Man Ray. Durante un tiempo estuvo asociada con Nancy Cunard, y actuó junto a Diana Cooper a mediados de la década de 1920.

Había estudiado en la Slade School of Art. Contribuyó en 1917 a la antología poética Wheels, del grupo literario The Sitwells; publicó colecciones llamadas Poems (1920) y The Traveller and other Poems (1927).

Se casó en dos ocasiones. Su primer marido fue Curtis Moffat, de Nueva York; el guionista Ivan Moffat fue hijo de ambos. Su segundo matrimonio fue con el actor y ex-oficial de la caballería austriaca, Friedrich von Ledebur-Wicheln. Tras divorciarse actuaron juntos en la película de 1956 Moby Dick. También hizo un cameo, esencialmente como ella misma, en el film de Federico Fellini La dolce vita.

Es la bisabuela de la actriz Georgina Moffat.

Somos los guardianes

Somos los guardianes de casas vacías,

La luna apoya su delgado cuerpo contra la puerta,

Pero el óxido hace chirriar la cerradura.

El sol mira a través de la ventana,

Pero los postigos cerrados son como ojos ciegos.

Nuestras almas están llenas de muerte y cosas maravillosas

Como cuencos llenos de objetos,

Un polvo de pétalos

Susurra entre los cansados dedos de un fantasma.

Poems, John Lane Company, Londres, 1919. The Project Gutenberg EBooks of Poems, 2014

Versión de Jonio González

WE ARE THE CARETAKERS...

We are the caretakers of empty houses, 

The moon leans her slender body against the door, 

But the lock, is jarred with rust. 

The sun looks in through the window, 

But its closed shutters are as blinded eyes. 

Our souls are full of dead and beautiful things 

Like bowls of potpourri, 

A dust of petals 

Rustling through the tired fingers of a ghost.

Iris Tree, por Amedeo Modigliani (1916)

ROCKETS AND ASHES

You preach to me of laws, you tie my limbs

With rights and wrongs and arguments of good,

You choke my songs and fill my mouth with hymns,

You stop my heart and turn it into wood.

I serve not God, but make my idol fair

From clay of brown earth, painted bright with blood,

Dressed in sweet flesh and wonder of wild hair

By Beauty's fingers to her changing mood.

The long line of the sea, the straight horizon,

The toss of flowers, the prance of milky feet,

And moonlight clear as glass my great religion,

And sunrise falling on the quiet street.

The coloured crowd, the unrestrained, the gay,

And lovers in the secret sheets of night

Trembling like instruments of music, till the day

Stands marvelling at their sleeping bodies white.

Age creeps upon your timid little faces

Beneath each black umbrella sly and slow,

Proud in the unimportance of your places

You sit in twilight prophesying woe.

So dim and false and grey, take my compassion,

I from my pageant golden as the day

Pity your littleness from all my passion,

Leave you my sins to weep and whine away!

1914

We are the caretakers of empty houses,

The moon leans her slender body against the door,

But the lock is jarred with rust.

The sun looks in through the window,

But its closed shutters are as blinded eyes.

Our souls are full of dead and beautiful things

Like bowls of potpourri,

A dust of petals

Rustling through the tired fingers of a ghost.

1918

From far away the lost adventures gleam,

The print of childhood's feet that dance and run,

The love of her who showed me to the sun

In triumph of creation, who did seem

With vivid spirit like a rainbow stream

To paint the shells, young blossoms, one by one

Each strange and delicate toy, whose hands have spun

The woven cloth of wonder like a dream ...

The row of soldiered books, authority

Sharp as the scales I strummed upon the keys,

The priest who damned the things I dared not praise,

Rebellion, love made sad with mystery—

And like a firefly through the twilit trees

Romance, the golden play-boy of my days.

1917

Give me, O God, the power of laughter still,

I shall have need of humour, deftest foil

Against the army of infuriated pride,

Against the shields of reason, and the spears

Of savage moments, sharp-edged bitterness;

Against the blazoned armour of intolerance,

And all the flags of sentiment waved aloft....

Love, Humour, and Rebellion, go with me,

Three musketeers of faithful following.

We will fear nothing.—Is not laughter brave,

That unconcerned goes rippling through despair?

Is not rebellion brave, that fiercely moves

Against the buttressed prisons of the world?

And is not love the bravest of them all,

So frail to hold his white hands up to Heaven

While the red fists are threatening all around,

And hate is beating on the battledrums?

As d'Artagnan upon a starved grey horse

Goes singing ballads on adventurous roads,

I ride my fancy blithely into danger

To throw my gauntlet at the feet of pride

And stick my roses in the cap of Love....

1916

Winding down the street in wearied gaiety, the barrel-organ dribbled out its song

Merged with the thud of feet forever dallying indifferent and indefinite along.

The houses stood like rows of cripples, some paralysed, some hunch-backed and some bent with age,

They seemed at war, their chimneys threatening, their brows hung heavy in a sombre rage.

Crab-like the children crawled, while always hammering above their heads the scolding shrewish tongue;

They grew as bloodless flowers unflourishing, waxen and pale from out the dust and dung.

Above I saw the strip of sunset fluttering, even as washed-out rags upon the line,

I listened to the sparrows twittering, and the hours ticking in a slow decline.

Then beaded on the hem of evening, the coloured lights were threaded here and there,

Till proud with sweets and plumes and oranges, the shops grew brilliant in the tinsel glare.

Grey was the death-bed of the twilight, shuddering the faint hands of the day stretched to the night,

Fending it off, or feebly wavering over the pallid glints of stolen light.

And grey the faces that were gathering among the fallen ashes of the day,

And red the faces, yellow, flickering, under the lamps upon the long highway.

And some were gashed with smiles, and quaint grimaces of hate and pain and hunger and despair,

And some wore coloured hats and meek frivolities, limp ribbons, and false pansies in their hair,

But all were cold, and all seemed passionless; there shone no zest or splendour in their lives,

Nor hope in anything but holidays, or watching funerals, or taking wives.

I dared not think, for truth rose horrible, slapping the face with coarse uncaring hand,

But like them cheated into merriment, I wilfully refused to understand;

Turned me away from wan-eyed poverty, trod pity underfoot, oh, danced on grief,

Bade the crowd sing and fill my desolation, bade them be glad and hide my disbelief.

Strange we so love the world—for presently, out of my window looking on the city,

I blessed the night, and the roofs slumbering all huddled, and I felt no shame nor pity

For all our dusty days of journeying amid the wreck and ruins of our dreams,

Meandering in a bleared forgetfulness, where lethe laps the wharf of sleeping streams.

I only breathed the air, intensified by the ascending breath of million lungs,

And heard the labouring metropolis, quickened by whispers of a million tongues;

And felt a king of splendid loneliness, and felt an atom of the peopled spaces,

And felt again my lordly egoism, one face distinct among the blur of faces.

1913

Tranquility stirred by a sudden spasm,

Knives of rain that cut the silence,

Storms that rattle the bones of the forest,

Calm of the marble-terraced night

Charred with the spattering of rockets.

Drums will I hear and battles now,

And the long death howl of wolves by night,

Watching the moon on the forest tops,

Walking with delicate frightened steps

To the slaughter-house of a red sunrise.

1918

I could explain

The complicated lore that drags the soul

From what shall profit him

To gild damnation with his choicest gold.

But you

Are poring over precious books and do not hear

Our plaintive, frivolous songs;

For we in stubborn vanity ascend

On ladders insecure,

Toward the tottering balconies

To serenade our painted paramours;

Caught by the lure of dangerous pale hands,

Oblivion's heavy lids on sleepless eyes

That cheat between unrest and false repose.

And we are haunted

By spectral Joy once murdered in a rage,

Now taking shape of Pleasure,

Disguised in many clothes and skilful masks.

I could disclose

The truth that hangs between our lies

And jostles sleep to semi-consciousness;

Truth, that stings like nettles

Our frail hands dare not pluck

From out our garden's terraced indolence.

We are not happy,

And you make us dumb with loving hands

Reproachful on our lips.

Nor can we sob our sorrows on your breast,

For we have bartered diamonds for glass,

Our tears for smiles,

Eternity for now.

1917

I feel in me a manifold desire

From many lands and times and clamouring peoples,

And I the Queen

Of crowding vagabonds,

Ghosts of lost years in seeming fancy dress,

With pathos of torn laces

And broken swords;

Cut-throats and kings and poets

Who have loved me

In visions wild, not knowing

What I was.

In me no end

Even where the last content

Clasps on my head a crown

Of shining endurance—

I slip from all my robes

Into the rags of a tattered romance;

The stars crowd at the window,

Their jealous destiny

Raps at the door—

They bob and wink and leer,

And I must leave the lamplight for the road

To keep strange company.

Farewell and Hail!

1917

Silence—

Somewhere on earth

There is a purpose that I miss or have forgotten.

The trees stand bolt upright

Like roofless pillars of a broken temple.

There is a purpose in Heaven,

But for me

Nothing.

1917

I should like to say to the world:

I have launched my soul like a ship upon free waters;

Beautiful she stands in the docks with proud masts cutting the sky,

Perfectly poised, her white sails spreading like wings,

Her figurehead a woman with breasts that daunt the spray,

Her flag a flutter of coloured exuberance.

I should like to see her plunging out of the idle harbour

Where the sulky tide drifts scum, and the sailors wrangle and shout,

In a thunder of churning waves ramping before her like dappled stallions,

Blossoming behind her a field of etiolate lilies....

But to the mimicking, plotting, miserly, cynical,

To the rabble and gabble that dance and kill on the quay,

I can only say that my soul is a sleeping gondola

Lulled by a jester's mandolin, till night is atinkle with tunes

And lantern-lights, along the indolent backwaters.

1915

You pass as in a drugged delirium

Wrought strange upon the mind's distraction;

You sing a blasphemous Te Deum

To harlot virgins, and a fraction

Of your fulginous colour passes,

Stains my spirit's great conception

As it dips into your glasses.

I that am the sole exception

To your stillborn, false devices,

I that know you, I that hate you,

I that drank now spit your vices

Through my loathing reinstate you;

Dive once more into the stagnance,

Kiss your cynic lips and drink you,

Concentrate your cruel fragrance,

Steal your flowers before I sink you,

Lift with hate instead of praises,

Show you honour of my scorning,

Garlanded you go to blazes

With my rhymes for your adorning!

1913

O faces that look so coldly at me,

Colder than dawn through the windows of festival,

Colder than dawn with her grey nun's face.

You blame me, you curse me with your eyes,

While your lips are filled with flattering syllables,

With tinkling bells that harass my calm,

Disturb my silence and shatter my thoughts.

Your laughter waltzes like musical boxes,

How can I hear the triumphant symphonies?

The scarlet rhapsodies and beryl-cold sonatas? ...

Ah, strangers, ah, vacant tedious faces,

Bobbing beneath the feathery hats,

You have stolen the wings of birds for your garnishing,

And the stars and the dim pale petals of the sea

To make your breasts resplendent, to glitter your dress,—

How I might love you and weep for you,

Crowning your brows with a wreath of songs

If you could understand my singing,

If you could understand my love!

But you are waltzing with your marionettes

And marching to the music of the clock—

I cannot bear you to watch me

With those cold eyes through which I see,

Emptiness only and dust.

1918

I see myself in many different dresses,

In many moods, and many different places;

All gold amid the grey where solemn faces

Are silence to my mirth—a flame that blesses

From yellow lamp the darkness which oppresses ...

Or mid the dancers in their trivial laces

Aloof, as in the ring a lion paces,

Disdainful of their slander or caresses.

I see myself the child of many races,

Poisoners, martyrs, harlots and princesses;

Within my soul a thousand weary traces

Of pain and joy and passionate excesses—

Eternal beauty that our brief love chases

With snatch of desperate hands and dying tresses.

1917

There are songs enough of love, of joy, of grief:

Roads to the sunset, alleys to the moon;

Poems of the red rose and the golden leaf,

Fantastic faery and gay ballad tune.

The long road unto nothing I will sing,

Sing on one note, monotonous and dry,

Of sameness, calmness and the years that bring

No more emotion than the fear to die.

Grey house, grey house and after that grey house,

Another house as grey and steep and still:

An old cat tired of playing with a mouse,

A sick child tired of chasing down the hill.

Shuffle and hurry, idle feet, and slow,

Grim face and merry face, so ugly all!

Why do you hurry? Where is there to go?

Why are you shouting? Who is there to call?

Lovers still kissing, feverish to drain

Stale juices from the shrivelled fruit of lust:

A black umbrella held up in the rain,

The raindrops making patterns in the dust.

If this distaste I hold for fools is such,

Shall I not spit upon myself as well?

Do I not eat and drink and smile as much?

Do I not fatten also in this hell?

Sadness and joy—if they were melted up,

Things that were great—upon the fires of time

Drop but as soup in the accustomed cup,

Settle in stagnance, trickle into grime.

Faith, freedom, art that fire a man or two

And set him like a pilgrim on his way

With Beauty's face before him—what of you,

Priest, Butcher, Scholar, King, upon that day?

The dullard-masses that no god can save!

If I were God, to rise and strike you down

And break your churches in an angry wave

And make a furious bonfire of your town!

God in a coloured globe, alone and still,

Embroidering wonders with a fearless brain,

On loom of spaces measureless, to fill

The empty air with passion and with pain.

Emblazon all the heavens with desire

And Wisdom delved for in the depths of time—

Thoughts sculptured mountainous, and fancy's fire

Caught in the running swiftness of a rhyme.

Passion high-pedestalled, pangs turned to treasure,

Perfected and undone and built afresh

With concentrated agony and Pleasure ...

If I were God, and not a weight of flesh!

1914

How often, when the thought of suicide

With ghostly weapon beckons us to die,

The ghosts of many foods alluring glide

On golden dishes, wine in purple tide

To drown our whim. Things danced before the eye

Like tasselled grapes to Tantalus: The sly

Blue of a curling trout, the battened pride

Of ham in frills, complacent quails that lie

Resigned to death like heroes—July peas,

Expectant bottles foaming at the brink—

White bread, and honey of the golden bees—

A peach with velvet coat, some prawns in pink,

A slice of beef carved deftly, Stilton cheese,

And cup where berries float and bubbles wink.

1917

It is still something to have cheated God

And bored the Devil with so easy prey,

And in the midst of summer woods to raise

A leafless tree whose stark limbs mock at Heaven,

Flaunting an iron hatred in the midst of hope—

Yet sometimes in the loneliness of night

My buried longings blossom on the boughs,

My wistful longings come out star by star,

Till the great sky is light with my desire,

And on the winds my songs are galloping....

Ah, to what dismal greyness creeps the soul

Too weak, too tired, to struggle from the slough!

My weapons rust, my pen is in the dust,

The moulting feathers plucked from out my wings

Lie dangling in the hats I stole them for.

My heart is floating in a claret cup,

My brain is toppling drunken at the brim,

My life is drowned within the lurid dregs.

I turn and fold my hands in a last appeal,

What heaven shall I pray to and for what,

Now that my songs to penny tunes are set,

And nothing is to save of me but flesh?

1913

What words that move on wings in a long drift

Can waft this silence into weary ears,

And steal into the veins and fingertips

Of restless bodies, like magnificent ships

Proud from the seas that calmly sail through fears,

Mean streets, and miseries, with passage swift.

What words pricked from the stars and shimmering together,

Or swept like little winds through leaves alert,

Can filter through the chinks of bolted doors

Deaf to the clamours knocking without pause,

Steeled with indifference against all hurt,

Deaf to the cry of man, and rack of weather:

To sing the hubbub of this glittering night,

Where all the lamps each with a separate soul

Throb to the ecstasies of dancing life;

And Beauty, gleaming high her magic knife

Cuts free the tethered heart from long control

And flings it like a ball with mad delight

Into the silver lap of the young moon.

What needles quick, what threads, what fingers fine

Can broider tapestries as rich as these,

Stranger than dreams and drifting melodies,

Transparent as the gods we half divine,

Frail as the thoughts that dwindle in a swoon

Ghostly before begetting. Tinged with pain

That glimmers pale on hands we cannot find,

And visioned faces that our dreams create

Born in the land forbidden us of fate

And longed for all our lives ... What words can bind

Forever Joy, that never comes again!

1915

I think myself

The fool of tragedy strutting upon the stage

Where murder creeps and whispers.

The jester clad in piebald tights

Half black, half golden, with no company

Save bells that jingle,

And an effigy,

The grinning image painted like myself

Upon a stick....

I think myself

The fool of comedy mournfully straying

Amid the revellers,

Loving the moon and my own shadow

With its strange solemn gestures—

Loving the painted moon

That lets me play with shadows.

I am the jester on an empty stage

Playing a pantomime

To spectres in the stalls,

Listening at last

For ghostly mirth and phantom hands applauding,

And for some king with decadent tired fingers

To fling a white gardenia at my feet.

1918

The adored, wild, strange, irresistible,

How they fail one at the last!

What is there in your faces

That we should worship with our souls?

Most lovable, perfidious,

Vague—

Molesting even our visions

With treacherous pathos.

O vulgarity, mediocrity, stupidity,

What is it in you that makes us lavish our love,

Covering your meagre bodies

With our passionate mantle, dyed with blood and dreams?

Life and its grey days, and time

Are a thin curtain through which you shadow,

Or a dim glass through which you peer.

You climb in at the windows of our souls

With ladders and stratagems,

You mope in corners with reproachful eyes.

But what do you do for us

Lute players, dancers, deceivers,

Other than lie with red lips

And cajole with tears of beryl?

People—

Men and women with laughable, tragic faces

Winking at love,

Treading our songs and illusions

Under petulant feet!

1917

A ROSE

What do you ask of me with your beauty, what are you urging

Of labour and painful aspiring to flatter your perfection?

What secretness of love with terrible blushes surging

Unseen, have found in you at last their passionate reflection?

What dreams that lovers knew, as sleep with subtle magic

Tore off the rags of life and made her dance with body spangled,

Drew back the vacant hours, the tedious and the tragic,

And showed the glittering souls from bodies we had mangled;—

What visions made you, emblem of longing and love that has died unrequited,

And all lost joys, and tears, and beauty passionately given,

Winked at by folly, skewered by the butcher, danced on and slighted,

That now spring up from death, showing their slayers the colours of Heaven?

You have burst from the ground with your joy, you are pining and bleeding,

Your scent is heavy with sorrowful love; oh, memories clinging,

What do you ask of my soul with such fierceness of pleading,

I that was glad to forget ... What do you need of my singing?

1916

Like flocks of tired birds when autumn comes,

My spirit flags across the darkening fields

And melts into the drabness of the sky

And falls like dust upon the huddled corn.

But many wizened faces brown and sad

Peer from the bushes as I wander past,—

They tell me all those things that old men say

As youth looks up through tears with pallid cheek.

"When you are grey and crooked as ourselves,

When you have bowed before all other gods,

And found them false, then shall you come at last

To that dark King of grief, and he shall bless

Your bread with tears, and manacle your hands,

And call you slave and lover." ...

Shall not a child take Pain for company

And share her loneliness with him?

Does not a youth know tears

In the first bitterness of broken love?

Is Grief so proud a king that none shall come

To seek him save the blind, the halt, the lame? ...

He is a tramp, a beggar, and a clown,

He sits a jester at the feet of kings

And scurries with the leaves in Autumn's train.

He rides the wooden horses at a fair,

And dances with the jiggers on the stage.

Led by the violins of discontent

That whine their music to my listening soul,

I dance with him the dance of withered leaves,

We dance together to the tunes of rain

Played on one note upon the only string.

1913

Oh, just beyond the curve of ideal quest

That changes as a sea wave to the wind,

Beyond the cloud that folds around a star,

And dawn, that stands ajar to let us in,

Lies that to which our loves and dreams have gone,

The paradise of all we might have been,

While we are washed back downwards in the dark

Where tides recede, to dwindle with the foam.

1917

Ah! you, from the small high-walled acre of your lives,

Your windows only looking upon gardens,

Only perceiving love and death and truth

As facts that come to pass,

That pass and leave you still

Within your safe small prisons,

Older, duller,

To walk and talk among the evergreens.

You have never known

Delight of dying slowly,

Poisoned with raptures

In many hues from the slim-cut decanters of death—

The tunes

That dishevel and smooth,

Cajole and melancholize—

The dance

Which is a whirling of leaves

In their last scorn of sorrow

Flung upwards by the wind

Into the haggard face of winter—

Nor felt your souls go blowing like balloons

Tossed by impulsive hands;

Nor slid as skaters swiftly

Over the crackling crystals of perilous ice,

Buffeted with bouquets and blinded with confetti ...

You have not felt the abandon

Of light love

Dragged by the hair across a slippery floor....

1916

Mouth of the dust I kiss, corruption absolute,

Worm, that shall come at last to be my paramour,

Envenomed, unseen wanderer who alone is mute,

Yet greater than gods or heroes that have gone before.

For you I sheave the harvest of my hair,

For you the whiteness of my flesh, my passion's valour,

For you I throw upon the grey screen of the air

My prism-like conceptions, my gigantic colour.

For you the delicate hands that fashion to make great

Clay, and white paper, plant a tongue in silence,

For you the battle-frenzy, and the might of hate,

Science for giving wounds, and healing science.

For you the heart's wild love, beauty, long care,

Virginity, passionate womanhood, perfected wholeness,

For you the unborn child that I prepare,

You, flabby, boneless, brainless, senseless, soulless!

1913

The curtains are drawn as though it still were night,

A slip of dawn between them is a dangling silver ribbon;

And all about the room is quietness—Each patient chair

Erect, alert, in place. A letter on the table and a book

Lie as you left them, now bereft of purpose—

Garish a little in the room's sedateness, you

Returning dressed so frivolously in all your coloured clothes!

How grey and sober, full of placid wit

The furniture, the pictures on the wall;

How steely swift the light, stabbing you to the heart

As you stand at the window, bright as rushing blood.

Garish your hair, your shoes, your startling chalky face

And white, white gloves ...

What time is it? ... Still ticks the tireless clock,

With face grimacing ... nearly six it is....

Yet hurries not nor lingers, like our hearts,

For in its dial eternity is housed—

A cock should crow ... there are no cocks in town!

But a water cart with surly noise below

Grates unconcerned along the disconsolate street.

How cold and how familiar all these things,

To you so lonely in the enormous dawn

Slowly unfastening that vermilion dress ...

1916

BLACK VELVET

The darkness of the trees at deep midnight

And sombreness of shadows in the lake;

A mountain in the starlight wide awake

Dreaming to Heaven with imperial might

Of lifted shoulders, huge against the bright

Bespattered jewelry of stars—the ache

Of silence, and the sobbing tides that break

From music. Slumbering cities—candle light

Snuffed in the flooding darkness, and the train

Of Queens that go to scaffold for a sin—

Or splash of blackness manifest of pain,

Hamlet among his court, a Harlequin

Of tragedies ... Mysterious ... And again

Venetian masks against a milky skin.

1917

NERVES

These curious looms where we have spun our fancies,

These intricate webs where our desires are threaded,

These weird trapezes that our passion frenzies

Strange acrobats to catch them dizzy headed.

These tightening strings upon our spirit's fiddles

Tuneful or out of tune where music hungers

From writhing bow, these intertwining riddles

Mazes and labyrinths and storms and languors.

These colours twinging on a prism's edges,

These speckled patterns of fanatic madness

From glittering eyeballs, these unresting dredges

For pearls within the depths of sadness and of gladness—

O tortuous thoughts, what are you seeking after

As flies around a carcass with a humming dreary,

Gibing the silent dead with treacherous laughter,

Molesting quietness and waking up the weary!

What then, what then, can sleep not crush you to forgetting

With all her body's beauty, cannot peace submerge you

O wrangling, juggling, jangling, pirouetting—

What hope can drag you from the small desires that urge you?

You have lassoed the moon and trapped the sun's bright lion,

And trodden out the red stars into ashes,

Destroyed night's temple and broken the pillars of iron,

And striped the snowy horses of the clouds with zebra gashes ...

You have debauched the world! And as I sit here weary,

Deafened with your demands and torn in tatters,

The world seems suddenly most passionless and dreary,

A poor bewildered clown—and nothing matters.

1916

My pain has all the patience of a nun

Who kneels and prays for Heaven on the stone,

In some chill cellar where the amens moan,

Ave Maria, the long penance spun

Forever. And the tapers one by one

Stand like cold angels round the Virgin's throne.

My soul is tired from kneeling all alone,

Its little candles yearning to the sun.

Long have I dreamed of Paradise and seen

Bright mirages of glory on the grey

Of sad horizons; I have kept the green

Surprise of spring through winter and dismay,

Tasting within the bitter dregs of spleen

Drugs that bring peace, and wine that maketh gay.

1917

The scandal-monger after all is right—

The old and cunning voice with weary repetition

Is justified in all dull words and warnings.

I see at last how you,

Spendthrift of passion

In love's bankruptcy,

Borrow new beauty from each passing face—

How being too lavish you did steal

From generous hands—

You are the idol builder and the robber of temples,

Praising with passionate psalms

The thing you cannot worship—

And yet your prayers have stirred

Belief in us—

We see beyond the false and weary face

Into your haggard soul and trust from pity—

We hear beyond the idle music of your voice,

A wisdom taught by cruelty

And a tired scorn of treachery and guile—

We see your wounds and weep,

You meet our pity with a traitor's kiss—

For, you are schooled in suffering and schooled

In teaching pain to others—

And all that mob of furious accusation

To which you turn the cheek, or curse so well,

Are but the ghosts of bodies you have murdered,

That drive you on in vengeance to fresh crime.

1917

Woods of brown gloom sombring with the hush of death,

Wind's lassitude that sets the tired leaves shivering,

Starved yellow leaves sighing beneath the feet, a breath

Consumptive, old, and fever-red leaves quivering,

As with an earthward flutter like a ghostly butterfly

Listless they perish, wavering and hovering.

Skeleton branches where the rooks flap wings and cry,

Perched upon ribs and fingers; and the white mists covering

The far-off hills and bloodless visage of the sun.

No noise save the meandering dribble of a rivulet,

No noise save of the slow hours dropping one by one

As embers, no colour save Time's ashen coverlet....

How melancholy here the gayest tunes would sound

From shrill carousers riotous and merry all,

As echoes of lost joy their dancing feet upon the ground,

As funeral bagpipes at a burial.

And I who wander passionless and forlorn,

A leaf-forsaken tree symbolic of dejection,

In rags of old desires, dispirited and torn,

See in the stagnant glass of Time my soul's reflection.

1916

I feel so much alone,

And yet I know that many hopes are storming

My shut heart;

For I am bolted fast in my own house.

I pace distracted through its corridors

To the music of Love's knocking hands

Against the gate,

Or silence when they sleep.

I cannot find the key to let them in,

I, my own host and guest and ghost,

Imprisoned in myself!

1917

THE COMPLEX LIFE

I know it to be true that those who live

As do the grasses and the lilies of the field

Receiving joy from Heaven, sweetly yield

Their joy to Earth, and taking Beauty, give.

But we are gathered for the looms of Fate

That Time with ever-turning multiplying wheels

Spins into complex patterns and conceals

His huge invention with forms intricate.

Each generation blindly fills the plan,

A sorry muddle or an inspiration of God

With many processes from out the sod,

The Earth and Heaven are mingled and made man.

We must be tired and sleepless, gaily sad,

Frothing like waves in clamorous confusion,

A chemistry of subtle interfusion,

Experiments of genius that the ignorant call mad.

We spell the crimes of our unruly days,

We see a fabled Arcady in our mind,

We crave perfection that we may not find.

Time laughs within the clock and Destiny plays.

You peasants and you hermits, simple livers!

So picturesquely pure, all unconcerned

While we give up our bodies to be burned,

And dredge for treasure in the muddy rivers.

We drink and die and sell ourselves for power,

We hunt with treacherous steps and stealthy knife,

We make a gaudy havoc of our life

And live a thousand ages in an hour.

Our loves are spoilt by introspective guile,

We vivisect our souls with elaborate tools,

We dance in couples to the tune of fools,

And dream of harassed continents the while.

Subconscious visions hold us and we fashion

Delirious verses, tortured statues, spasms of paint,

Make cryptic perorations of complaint,

Inverted religion, and perverted passion.

But since we are children of this age,

In curious ways discovering salvation,

I will not quit my muddled generation,

But ever plead for Beauty in this rage.

Although I know that Nature's bounty yields

Unto simplicity a beautiful content,

Only when battle breaks me and my strength is spent

Will I give back my body to the fields.

1917

Shall we be christened poets, children of God,

For blowing sighs into the listeners' ears,

For tugging at the moaning bells of death,

And coming as the autumn grave-digger

To close the eyes of flowers, and shut the fingers

Of wind upon the rushes,

Of music upon silence?

Shall we be given wreathes of bay and laurel

For forcing tragedy into a rhyme

As a gaunt beggar in a spangled vest?

The poet ever wanders after Death,

The flunkey on a funeral chariot

Pouring the wine at feasts of burial;

And all the roses that he plucks from summer

Are carried to the crypts to deck a corpse....

How shall the world learn how to laugh again

When all its songs have only learnt to weep?

1919

When I am weary at the antic chance,

The hobby-horses and the wooden lance,

The hope and fear in jugglery, and see

How starved the juggler, mean and miserly,

And life a laboured trick—the years advance

A shrilling chorus in affected dance

With lust of many eyes that watch and wink

Fixed on them; or a clown in feverish pink

Will draw gross laughter by a hideous prance—

Vulgarity and sin and souls askance,

Where fiddles squeal and all the follies spin—

Till, when the stage is empty, Harlequin

Through curtained silence trips as from a trance

With blushing flowers for Columbine—Romance.

1917

MOODS

I

I crouched upon cushions and wallowed in their somnolent caresses,

And—listening with dread for the moment of my own silence

Rending the flimsy lace of whisperings—

My gnome dances before me

Behind a fan of smoke,

My dwarf squats on my shoulders

Tweeking their moulted wings,

My ape peers in the mirror of my face

Mimicking my soul's gaunt gestures—

My wolf bays through my moonly loneliness

Blotching the night with howls—

My laughter goes whining away on the wind,

Laughs that are whipped by a soul too sick with merriment,

Too satiate with humour's emptiness!...

II

Ah! loveliness with little pointed feet

Dancing across the leer of ugliness,

Skimming like a gold thread

Through a necklace of vile masks—

Lifting with lotus fingers

The blue arras of nightmare—

Loveliness like a delicate silver flute

Pressed to a negro's lips—

III

Do you then wish for all those griefs

Whose snarling hands you kiss,

Kneeling in adoration to a dagger

As saints before a cross?

You who have tossed all flowers away,

Coveting the drenched red peonies of blood

Their javelin-petals wet with slaughter,—

Do you then crave your own blood's offering,

Your own breast's pallor pierced with knives of flame?

In your ears are the pattering of the hunter's feet,

Softer than death, and omens mouthed by winds of twilight,

You lean across the precipice of time

Calling and crying

For the last abyssmal passion of self-slaughter—

IV

Waiting,

Like grey cloud-giants climbing the hills of Heaven

Carrying vast burdens over the crags of chaos—

Waiting,

Like trees that hear the far-off moan of winds,

Like listening trees that hug their branches round them,

Their leaves whispering lividly the rumour of storms,

Waiting like a vast arch of quietness

Through which a screaming messenger shall dart—

Like a dense hood of silence

Pierced by a sword of music—

Waiting, like the deathly stillness of a pool

Reflecting the diver poised before he plunges....

1919

SMOKE

Now is the evening dipped knee-deep in blood

And the dun hills stand fearful in their places.

Cunning in sin, we shuffle down the streets

With burdens of vainglory on our backs,

Spinning with spider-hands the miser's web

Or sitting placid, gay and fat with ease.

But out beyond, the armies of the world

March doomwards to the rhythm of the drum

Under the thirsting sun. Death holds his state:

His skeleton hands are filled with scarlet spoil:

He stands on flaming ramparts, waving high

The ensign of decay. All his bones are dressed

With livid roses; all his pillars black

Are girt in ashen poppies, and on dust

He raises up his awful golden throne.

Oh! your fierce shrieks have fainted on deaf ears;

Your tears have flowed on feet of carven stone;

Your blood is spilt for the boiling-pot of God

Where good and evil mix; and all your rage

Is but a thin smoke wafted in His face.

1914

Blow upon blow they bruise the daylight wan,

Scar upon scar they rend the quiet shore;

They ride on furious, leaving every man

Crushed like a maggot by the hoofs of war:

Gods that grow tired of paradisial water

And fill their cups with steaming wine of slaughter.

I fear a thing more terrible than death:

The glamour of the battle grips us yet—

As crowds before a fire that hold their breath

Watching the burning houses, and forget

All they will lose, but marvel to behold

Its dazzling strength, the glamour of its gold.

I fear the time when slow the flame expires,

When this kaleidoscope of roaring color

Fades, and rage faints; and of the funeral-fires

That shone with battle, nothing left of valour

Save chill ignoble ashes for despair

To strew with widowed hands upon her hair.

Livid and damp unfolds the winding-sheet,

Hiding the mangled body of the Earth:

The slow grey aftermath, the limping feet

Of days that shall not know the sound of mirth,

But pass in dry-eyed patience, with no trust

Save to end living and be heaped with dust.

That stillness that must follow where Death trod,

The sullen street, the empty drinking-hall,

The tuneless voices cringing praise to God,

Deaf gods, that did not heed the anguished call,

Now to be soothed with humbleness and praise,

With fawning kisses for the hand that slays.

Across the world from out the fevered ground

Decay from every pore exhales its breath;

A cloak of penance winding close around

The bright desire of spring. And unto Death,

As to a conquering king, we yield the keys

Of Beauty's gates upon our bended knees.

The maiden loverless shall go her ways,

And child unfathered feed on crust and husk;

The sun that was the glory of our days

Shining as tinsel till the moody dusk

Into our starving outstretched arms shall lay

Her silent sleep, the only boon we pray.

1914

A ragged drummer rides along the street,

And at his coming

The silence fills with tunes and rustling feet

And voices humming.

He rode a year ago from far away,

On charger prancing,

With bright new buttons and with ribbons gay,

And banners dancing.

Oh, he was fatter than the bursting drum

He bore so proudly,

His roaring music woke the silence dumb

To thunder loudly.

And by his side the old men and the young

Had followed cheering

Into the sunset smiling as they sung,

Nor thought of fearing.

They left their lovers and their mothers' lap,

Their homes demolish,

"For, look, I have a ribbon for my cap,

A sword to polish!"

And so the town was silent once again,

Though tunes of battle

Beat fearful in the wind, or in the rain

Ghost drums would rattle.

But at the chuckling dice or careful loom,

Or candled churches

A few forgot or prayed or followed doom

With drunken lurches....

Now loom and bar and church disgorge the throng,

In huddled masses

They stand aghast to hear the drummer's song

As back he passes—

Palsied and drear and bent he turns alone

In rags and tatters,

And on a soundless barrel with a bone

He beats and batters.

"Where march your feet so gaily, careless crowd,

That we may kiss them?

Where sound your little songs that rang so loud

To us that miss them?"

There are no songs, no happy marching feet,

No favours flying:

The drummer passes ... on the quiet street

The sun is dying.

Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave!...

Have done with weeping,

But put your ribbons on a soldier's grave

As he lies sleeping.

1914

ZEPPELINS

MIDNIGHT

Suddenly

Shutting our lips upon a jest

As we are sipping thoughts from little glasses,

A gun bursts thunder and the echoing streets

Quiver with startled terrors—

How swift runs fear: quicksilver that is free!

Now every muscle weakens, every pulse

Is set at gallop-pace and every nerve

Stretched taut with horror and a wild revolt....

How sweetly spins the world to noise of music,

How sweet to live life's arrogant adventure!

Live in a vain world wracked with a thousand pangs,

Limp in a dull street housed with crumbling dreams,

To breathe and eat and sleep and love and sigh

A little longer, oh a little year!

Forgotten prayers rise up in resurrection,

And resolutions of new wondrous lives

Choke up our hearts and fling us to our knees....

Worms creep in dreadful hunger from the ground,

The lurid silent people loved by death,

And peer into our eyes with sly forebodings

To drag our body's glory from the light.

Though all the world should fall into their cells

And lie within their larders shelf on shelf—

Yet will I toss the sheets of dust away,

Yet will I be the mistress of the sun!

* * * * *

1 A. M.

Look how they struggle in a mist of fire,

Those hunchbacked chimneys and distorted domes—

Now gloat on Hell, the colour seems to roar,

An army fierce upon its own destruction,

A famished monster tearing in its claws

Gigantic foods to glut its lean desire

Digesting all the world!...

Look at the eager people open-mouthed

That stand as foolish rabbits hypnotised

By the uncoiling rhythm of a snake,

Their earth adoring senses caught awhile

In the red whirlwind of ascending wings;

Their spirits straining upward upon strings

Like kites and air balloons, but more grotesque,

Lacking the ephemeral beauty of a toy—

Yet for an hour

Dyed with the colour that their drabness fears

They kiss the feet of beauty as she passes

Starwards, tremendous in a coat of fire.

* * * * *

3 A. M.

The dawn seems drained of blood so colourless—

Slowly the river moves as though in sleep

While silent barges

Slide from the mist like dreams;

The intricate patterns of the scaffolding

Are drawn against the sky

More delicate than lace.

All the shimmering lights

Have shrunk away from morning

As a blue peacock sheaves his starry tail....

I am alone, most utterly alone,

More lonely than the last man in the world

Straying amid the dust of vanished lives.

More lonely than a spirit stolen from heaven

Who stands beside that nebulous cold river

Dividing sleep from death,

Eternity from time....

Nothing disturbs the white peace of the dawn,

She brings no feverous memories of night

And sheds no tears.

Only two hours ago

Fire walked in crimson armour through the city

Piercing the night's black tent with glittering javelins,

While shrieks and whispered omens flew like bats

Among the silver foliage of the stars....

But rage has left no furrow in the sky,

No wake of sparks across the placid water....

This is the ominous and sacred hour

When priest-like the world kneels

Bowed low toward the empty throne of day—

Soon will the herald trumpet-blast be heard

And the flamingo messengers will come

Flocking from out the burnished cage of sunrise....

This is the hour of nothing,

Colourless and chill

Oblivion's hands are folded on the world,

As sits an idol holding in his fingers

A scentless lotus carven out of stone.

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