POEMS OF LONDON

Dawn over London; all the pearly light Trembles and quivers over street and park, The houses are a strange, unearthly white; Pavement and roof grow slowly, palely bright; There is no shadow, neither light nor dark But everything is steeped in glimmering dawn.

Oh, purity of dawn; oh, milk-and-pearl Translucent splendour, spreading far and wide, As on a yellow beach the small waves curl —Almost as noiselessly as buds unfurl— On windless mornings with the rising tide, So flows the dawn o'er London, all asleep.

Indeed, I think that heaven is a sea, And London is a city of old rhymes Sunk fathoms deep in its transparency, That folk of living lands may dream they see And muse on, and have thoughts about our times, How we were great and splendid, and now gone.

For never light the common earth has born, This crystalline pale wonder that so falls On streets and squares the daily toil has worn, On blind-eyed houses, holding lives forlorn, For the grey roads and wide, blank, grey-brick walls Shine with a glory that is new and strange.

And not more wonderful, nor otherwise Shall dawn come up upon the dewy hills, Nor in the mountains, where the rivers rise That water Eden; and no lovelier lies The dawn on Paradise, than this that fills The space 'twixt house and house with tremulous light.

Yet, on the pavement, huddled fast asleep, A thing of dusty, ragged misery, Grotesque in wretchedness, from London's deep Spumed off, a strange, distorted thing to creep From God knows where, and lie, and let all be Unheeding, whether of the day or night.

Such tired, hopeless angles of the knees And neck and elbows—and the dawning grey Trembling to sunrise; in the park the trees Begin to shiver lightly in a breeze, And turning watchful kindly eyes away The policeman passes slowly on his beat.

A dash of rain on the pavement, In the air a gleam of sun, And the clouds are white, and rolling high From Marble Arch all down the sky —And that's the spring begun!

The sky is all a-shining With sunniest blue and white, The flags are streaming out full cry As the crisp North wind comes bustling by, And all the roofs are bright.

And all the shops and houses Of sunlit Oxford Street, —Pearl behind amber, gold by rose— To grey the long perspective goes; Till all the houses meet.

And there, in every gutter, The glory of spring flowers The whole long street with colour fills, And across the yellow daffodils Sharp sunshine and soft showers.

And among the drabs and greys and browns Of folk going to and fro Are trays of violets, darkly bright, And yellow, like the spring moon's light, Pale primrose-bunches show.

There's blue in every puddle, And every pane of glass Has a thousand little dancing suns, —And up and down the glad news runs, That spring has come to pass.

My dwelling has a courtyard wide Where lord with lady well might pace, —Such silks and velvets side by side, And she a fan to shield her face!— It's fine as any king's; For there I see on either hand The whole great stretch of London lie; —Just so as any king might stand Upon his roof, to watch go by The flashing pigeon wings.

Just so a king might look abroad: "And this is all my own," says he, And then he'd turn to some great lord, Who'd acquiesce with gravity —But that I do without, For all of lord there is up here Is this impassive chimney-stack, And cloudy be my view or clear My courtier will not answer back; All silent I look out,

And see the flight of roofs that fade Towards the West in golden haze, And all this work men's hands have made Like jewels in the sun's last rays— I have a dwelling wide; Three rooms are mine, but I can go Up to this roof in shade or shine, And watch all London change and glow Rose, purple, gold; three rooms are mine— And all of heaven beside.

Brown little, fat little, cheerful sparrows! I like to think, when I hear them chatter, How, when the brazen noise was gone Of the chariot-wheels, with the sparks a-scatter, Their chirp was heard in old Babylon.

In Babylon, and more ancient Memphis, They chattered and quarrelled, pecked and fumed, And loved their loves, and flew their ways, Where the royal Pharaohs lay entombed Deep from the daylight's vulgar gaze.

Then, just such little homely fellows (When the angry monarch, terrible, Watched his curled Assyrians writhe) They sat, on a carven granite bull Unheeding of anguish, feathered and blithe.

So did they sit, on the roofs of Rome, And preen themselves in the morning sun; And Caesar saw them, brown and grey, Whisk in the dust, when his course was run And he took to the Forum his fated way.

Oh, changing time; oh, sun and birds How little changing. In the Square This winter morning I have met Old Egypt's grandson, stopped him there, And "Sir, you will outlive me yet," Said I politely, "mark my words."

Sharp and straight are the scaffold poles, Black on a delicate sky; Upright they stand, across they lie, In changeless angles fixed and bound, The sunset light in mist is drowned, And the moon has risen high;

High above houses, high and clear Above the scaffolding, So exquisite, so faint a thing, The young moon's silver curve that shines Above the fretting, tangled lines, With the old moon in her ring.

The young moon holds the old black moon In a sky all grey with frost, By cable wires barred and crossed, And below, the haze of purplish-brown Smokes upward from the lamp-lit town Where outlines all are lost.

The pure pale arch of windless sky, The pure bright young moon's thread, These wide and still are overhead; And in the dusky glare below The lamps go dotting, row on row, And there is movement, to and fro, Where far the pavements spread.

The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone From the quiet trees in the Park; From the houses the open windows yellowly shine, The streets are softly dark;

Row upon row the twisted chimneys stand, Each angle sharply lined, And the mass of the Institute rises, tower and dome, Black on the sky behind;

Green is the sky, like some strange precious stone, Dark, it yet holds the light In its depths, like a bright thing shrouded over or veiled By the creeping shadow of night;

And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth A faint star throbs and beats— And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war, Below, in the quiet street.

The small white space roped off; the hard blue light Burning intensely on the narrow ring, And every muscle's movement sculpturing Harshly, of those two naked men who fight; Beyond, the yellow lights that seem to swing Across abysmal darkness; and below, Tier upon tier, all silent, row on row The dense black-coated throng, and all a-strain White faces, turned towards the narrow stage, Watching intently; watching, nerves and brain, As those two men, cut off in that blue glare From all reality of place and age Wherein our common being has a share, Together isolated, watch and creep —Sunk head, hunched shoulders, light of foot and swift, Deadly of purpose—in that ancient game, Which was not otherwise in forests deep Of earth primeval: that light tread the same, The same those watchful eyes, and those quick springs Of a snake uncoiling; underneath the skin, Glistening with sweat in that unearthly blaze, The muscles run and check, like living things. And then, the hot air tremulous with the din, And all the great crowd surging to its feet, Yet like a wave arrested, while the hands Of the referee allot the moments' beat; The seconds, strung like greyhounds on a leash Await the signal; and there's one who stands Still guarding, watchful, tense, while all around Lamp-light and darkness seem to rock and spin In one wild clamour; and upon the ground, Beneath the stark blue light, the beaten man!

When I was a little child And lived very near the sky, A German band was wonderful music That could almost make me cry.

It was to me of a beauty That I could not understand, Though I dimly guessed at sorrow and joy In a grown-up distant land.

All that I know with the years, Much that I never shall know, Was in my heart when the music came In such guise, years ago.

And now when on Friday mornings I hear my own child run, When the German band in the street starts playing, The wonder is never done;

The wonder at ways that our spirit May take for itself to rise, How a puddle may be a silver lake, And a chimney touch the skies.

All the forms through which spirit Yearns and strives to be known Are only a little greater or less, For great is the Spirit alone.

There comes an old man to our street, Dragging his knobby, lame old feet, Once a week he comes and stands, A concertina in his hands, There in the gutter stops and plays, No matter fine or rainy days —Very humble and very old— Pavement's for them who make so bold! Prim, starched nurses, and ladies fair With taffeta dresses and shining hair, And gay little children, who break and run To give him a penny—he seems to feel (Out-at-elbows and out-at-heel) That they've a right to the morning sun; And so with gnarled old hands he'll play For an hour, perhaps, then take his way, Dragging his knobby, lame old feet In the gutter of this quiet street.

There is no grudging in his eyes, Nor anger, nor the least surprise At the uneven scales of fate: Glad of the sun, against the rain Hunching his shoulders, age and pain He takes as his appointed state, And stands, like Lazarus, at the door With the dread humility of the poor.

I've heard a mad old fiddler play Harsh, discordant, broken strains, Down the wet street on a winter's day When the rain was speckling the window-panes,

And though it was middle afternoon And none of the lamps were lighted yet, The night had settled down too soon And the sky was low and dark and wet.

In a cracked old voice I've heard him sing, Strangely capering to and fro, Sawing his fiddle on one worn string, A grotesque and desolate thing of woe,

Wagging his head and stamping his feet (Unwitting of the passers-by Hurrying through the gloomy street) His shoulders hunched and his head awry.

The children would laugh when they saw him pass, And "Look," they'd say, "at Crazy Joe!" And press their faces against the glass To watch him—leering and lurching—go.

Where he comes from, nobody knows, But he, being mad, is in God's hand, And sacred upon his way he goes; And his music—God will understand.

Above, the quiet stars and the night wind; Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk When the just sleep, at night, in London town.

Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare, Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind Is whispering to the trees across the Park;

For it is summer, may be, and the scent Of new-mown hay is sweet across the fields, But neither summer, nor the gleaming spring One breath of healing to this dark life yields;

No morning sunshine greets these sidelong eyes With blessings, daughters as they are of gloom, Ghosts only, such as seem to have a shape At night in some old evil, haunted room.

Would that they were indeed to be dissolved At every sunrise!—they are living souls Dragging mortality about foul streets While overhead the star-lit heaven rolls.

Living souls are they, and they have their share In seed and harvest, and the round world's boon Of changing seasons, and the miracle Of each month's waxing and waning of the moon.

Living souls are they, prisoned in a net Of stealthy streets—age after age they've gone Bearing the burden of a city's sin, In London, and old Rome, and Babylon.

A tired, working woman, draggle-tailed, Came in, harsh-featured in the yellow glare Of electricity; an urchin trailed Clumsily after her, with towsled hair, And sharp, pale features, and a vacant stare, And in her arms she bore another child.

A sick child, doubtless, where all three looked sick; The poor legs hanging limply, lean and blue, Dangled grotesquely, for the boots, too thick For such frail bones a touch could snap in two, Like clock-weights seemed to swing, as staggered through The burdened mother, till she found a seat.

Through dark unnatural to unnatural blaze Of stations rocked the train; it tore the air To shreds and tatters in the tunnelled ways With such a noise as when hell's trumpets blare; We, swaying, faced our fellow-creatures there Each mercilessly pilloried in light.

The sick child lay against the woman's breast Asleep, and she looked down on it and smiled, And with her gaunt arms made her bird a nest Against her poor worn bosom—sad and mild In such wise looked Madonna at her Child Where old saints worshipped, round the altar set.

Such glory of the spirit shone and streamed In that brief moment, that her form and face Were rags of vesture only, through which gleamed The splendour; something of wonder and of grace Making the poor flesh lovely—all the place Grew holy with the Mother and the Child.

A heavy sky, and a drizzling rain And the lamps in rigid rows; Long smears of light all down the street Where a lean cat stalking goes;

Blank, save a glimmer here and there The gaunt dark houses stand— And a man and a girl against the gate Whispering, hand in hand.

There is a little dripping sound Of rain from off the roof; And gleaming like black armour goes The policeman's waterproof.

He crosses the road to give them room As he takes his evening beat; He also knows that heaven may look Like a rainy London street.

Just to all of us once there comes This splendour and wonder of love, When the earth is transmuted to silver and gold, And heaven opens above;

When all we have ever seen with our eyes, Daily, under the sun, Seems like a miracle, happening again To us two, instead of to one.

When there is nothing so ugly or mean, But somehow shimmers and glows In that light, whose spring is within our hearts And whose stream o'er the wide earth flows.

When the spirit of us that is prisoned within Seems at last to have wings, And, soaring, looks with no common eyes On no other than common things;

When we may freely enter and share Heaven's splendour and mirth— Just for a moment to all of us comes This glory of love upon earth.

A book's end is the end of many hopes; Much good endeavour; certain hours of stress When brain and spirit fail, and laziness Thralls the poor body—yet the purpose gropes Athwart it all, and as the horseman cheers His tired beast with chirrup, spur, and goad Towards his home along the heavy road, So drives us purpose till the end appears. Read it who may! Find more or less of good Within its covers, but at least find this: Glad service to a great and noble aim That may be striven for, and understood, And fallen short of—so not quite we miss In our small lamp of clay Truth's very flame.