Book 3 — MAN'S ANACREONTIC AND OTHER POEMS

Kiss! Kiss me and kiss again, Make kissing almost pain; Close your fingers close on mine, And our grappling looks entwine; Kiss again, and when that's done Blind me with each facing sun Of your clear and golden eyes, Till my spirit in me dies, And endures a long eclipse Till rekindled at your lips. From this minute I pursue The intense Idea that's you— Your you's Being. I would draw You from Obscurity's dusk maw Into my hands—whate'er you are, Moth or spirit, gnome or star. Yet I would not filch a part, Misty soul or flaming heart, Which left but, as doth the snake, A pale tissue. I will take And shut all your sweetness up In the gold walls of a cup, Sandalled feet to sweeping hair, Soul, brain, body, all you are— Curled as a mermaid coiled in brine, Now drunk one gush of giddy wine! Nay, as a strange lump of snow In my two hands you shall go, And I'll bare my browny breast, Press you there, where now you rest! Ay, and bless the frozen smart As you melt into my heart! Come, I'll twine you round my brows: A defiant diadem, Poets of your light shall sing. Satraps by you swear stout vows Eyeing my twice-marvellous gem— You: the emerald in my ring. Thus I'll keep you night and day, Since no stone can run away— And might dare a pleasure splendid: Toss my ring into the air, Watch it spinning, heart suspended, Lest it slip me unaware, Fall clean through my finger bars, Shatter in ten thousand stars! Yet you shall not be my ring; You shall not be any thing, Crown or stone set cunningly, Time can separate from me. No! I'll find an alchemist, With a beard of cobwebs grey And fired eyes like moonstones kissed By the last gold beam of day, And older and gentler than a fish, And wiser than an elephant; And when I've told him what we wish, Bribe or force him work our want. We two shall opposëd stand, Each touch other's finger-tip; At a slow pass of his hand And a soft word from his lip, We will incline smilingly, And as drops together run, Shaking off the he and she, Close and be forever one. Grayshott, Summer, 1914.

I stand in a sunny garden; A blackbird sings overhead: "I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's shining And where's the man would be dead?" "Blackbird, make an ending of fluting That song down your orange beak: I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's shining, And—I am the man you seek." Stamford, May, 1913.

Behold, the tides are awake! Under the high moon's light, Broad bands of silver, they glitter and quake, Moving out into the night. Off from the shore they slide, Out, out into the blue: And I am turned to a shimmering tide Flooding on outward to you! Hengistbury Head, Spring, 1915.

Two feet apart, straight-limbed on the heathered hill We lie, under the wavering haze Of the sun, even as two logs that lie still In the heart of a blaze. Side by side we lie through the long Late noon together; On us the light wind stoops his strong, Hot, sweet scents of heather. No word breaks the air that smothers, Lest we miss The dull heart-beat of the earth below each other's, And the soft kiss Of breathless heather upon heather, while the sun Beats on us encouraging the swiftening blood, Till up the limbs and through the ears it run, A thin, red singing flood. Love hath put in me might, That was so weak; I am strong with light, My senses seek Something indefinable, afar; They go wandering, and return.... With the light drunk off a star They calmly burn, Even as the immense sun burns on us Till evening turns watery those beams of his; And, rising from that joyance onerous, I stoop a kiss Lighter than the balls of fluff The wind sways across the heath, Though each invisible, hot puff Scarce rocks a spray beneath. I sit, and it is so still, Now wind and sun have gone home, I can almost hear distil The dew in the gloam. And from the clear and cool Of the twilit air, That is still as a pool Iced over and bare, I catch at length The thought I have been searching for: Did I absorb the sun's or just your strength, Or Something More? Summer, 1914.

I am Pierrot, and was born On some February morn When through glistering rain shone down The full moon on Paris town. (Ah the moonshine in my head!) For, upon the fatal minute When the moon's heart changes in it And the tides their flow reverse, I, for better or for worse, Born was. (Better been born dead Than with moonwork in my head!) Clown stood foster, but another Got me of Clown's wife my mother, And as suited my poor station, Thieving was made my profession: Doorsteps often were my bed (Frosty moonshine in my head). Yet while Pierrot was a thief— Miracle beyond belief, Chance fantastic as divine!— I fell in with Columbine: Dark eyes, lips of mournful red (Dark-bright moonshine in my head). At the corner of the street She and I by night would meet; Met, but never told our love, While th' ironic moon above In her reverie smiled, and shed Tranquil radiance round each head. Till my father by a breath Stifled at the hands of Death, "—Since no other children were— Assigned me as only heir." (Silver sequins heaped and spread: Billowing silver in my head.) So, in search of fitting knowledge, Poor Pierrot was sent to college, Where Pantaloon and Pantaloon In answerless riddles o' the moon Crammed more moonshine in his head. Home, then, Pierrot by-and-by Hurried spent, resolved to sigh Headache, heartache, and the rest, Out on Columbine's white breast, White as the moon's cloudy bed (Hush the moonshine in my head). But, while gone, had entered in Spangled, smiling Harlequin; Laughter cynic and unholy: "Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!" Turned but not a word I said (Moons like swords within my head!) Forth: but money burns so bright! Let it burn, then, left and right: "Where, O where, is Punchinello? Scaramouch too, that gay fellow? A brisk life it is we'll lead: Drown the moonshine in my head!" Midnight: Venus by an urn, Roses and rose lanterns burn, Wine, fount's purl, and mandoline.... Pulcinella waits within, Faithless she—but in her bed: No more moonlight in my head! Ah!... yet dawns a dreary morrow: 'Spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,' With light purse to her begone, If but as a hanger-on! (Dread and moonlight in my head.) Home then: catch upon the way— 'Harlequin fled yesterday. Bankruptcy of his employ.' Surging of relief and joy: Welcome then? past words unsaid? Surge of moonlight through my head. So on, beating, to her street: What sight Pierrot's eyes doth greet? One coach at her door arrives, From the back another drives.... Strange! (mere moonlight in the head). Pull the bell: is she within? 'I must see Miss Columbine.' Maid with finger laid by nose, Better not inquire too close— Such puts bullets through the head! Now I wander back and forth; Pierrot goes east, south, west, north; Shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, Till the more acute beholders, Watching him, have hazarded,— 'Touch of something in the head?' I am Pierrot, and was born On some far forgotten morn When the cold moon on the pane Struck and, signless, 'gan to wane, When the tides their flow reversed; And I bear, uncured, accursed, Aching until I am dead, Moonlight, moonlight in my head! Devonshire, November, 1916.

O silver bird, fly down, fly down, Bring thy fair gifts to him and me: A purse contains a minted crown, A golden ring for me. Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down. But upon the highest bough See amid the leaves he swings, Pipes three notes of laughter low, Flirts, and folds his flashy wings. Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down. What is't, bird, thy soul demands? Come, I'll rock thee in my breast; I will stroke thee with my hands; Where none rested thou shalt rest.... Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down. Jewels wouldst thou, then, O bird? See, among the sunny grass A tear has fallen unseen, unheard, Brighter than ever diamond was. Hark! Hark! His joy my voice doth drown: See, see, he leaps, floats, dives him down! 1916.

From the apple bough many petals fly tossed of the wind, Yet goldenly heavy it hangs on blue autumn eves (All things come unto him whose heart believes). The dove, though the tempest-swept sun her bright eyes blind, Beats onward fast. Till with clapped, sailing wings down at the last To the loved cote she come. Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home! The silver river wanders and circles time out of mind, Yet turns at length where the sea tosses her smoking sheaves (All things come unto him whose heart believes). So golden-feathered Love beats his high course, though blind, Until that hour When, downward stooping through the flaming shower, Into the heart he come. Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home! 1916.