RICHARD ALDINGTON

This is an old and very cruel god ... We will endure; We will try not to wince When he crushes and rends us. If indeed it is for your sakes, If we perish or moan in torture, Or stagger under sordid burdens That you may live— Then we can endure. If our wasted blood Makes bright the page Of poets yet to be; If this our tortured life Save from destruction’s nails Gold words of a Greek long dead; Then we can endure, Then hope, Then watch the sun rise Without utter bitterness. But, O thou old and very cruel god, Take, if thou canst, this bitter cup from us.

I have been a spendthrift— Dropping from lazy fingers Quiet coloured hours, Fluttering away from me Like oak and beech leaves in October. I have lived keenly and wastefully, Like a bush or a sun insect— Lived sensually and thoughtfully, Loving the flesh and the beauty of this world— Green ivy about ruined towers, The out-pouring of the grey sea, And the ecstasy Of a pale clear sky at sunset. I have been prodigal of love For cities and for lonely places; I have tried not to hate mankind; I have gathered sensations Like ripe fruits in a rich orchard.... All this is gone; There are no leaves, no sea, No shade of a rich orchard, Only a sterile, dusty waste, Empty and threatening. I long vainly for solitude And the lapse of silent hours; I am frantic to throw off My heavy cloth and leather garments, To set free my feet and body; And I am so far from beauty That a yellow daisy seems to clutch my heart With eager searching petals, And I am grateful even to humility For the taste of pure, clean bread.

One night I wandered alone from my comrades’ huts; The grasshoppers chirped softly In the warm misty evening; Bracken fronds beckoned from the darkness With exquisite frail green fingers; The tree gods muttered affectionately about me, And from the distance came the grumble of a kindly train. I was so happy to be alone, So full of love for the great speechless earth, That I could have laid my cheek in the wet grasses And caressed with my lips the hard sinewy body Of Earth, the cherishing mistress of bitter lovers.

The long autumn grass beneath my body Soaks my clothes in dew; Where my knees press into the ground I can feel the damp earth. In my nostrils is a smell of crushed grass, Wet pine-cones and bark. Through the bronze pine trunks Glitters a silver segment of road. Interminable squadrons of silver and grey horses Pace in long ranks the blank fields of heaven. There is no sound; The wind hisses gently through the pine-needles; The flutter of a finch’s wings about my head Is violent as distant thunder, And the shrill flight of a gnat Sounds loud and clear. I am “to fire at the enemy column After it has passed”— But my rifle (loaded with “blank”) Lies untouched before me, My spirit follows the gliding clouds And my lips murmur of the mother of beauty Standing breast-high in golden broom Among the English pine-woods!

The grim dawn lightens thin bleak clouds; In the hill clefts beyond the flooded meadows Lies death-pale, death-still mist. We trudge along wearily, Heavy with lack of sleep, Spiritless, yet with pretence of gaiety. The sun brings crimson to the colourless sky; Light gleams from brass and steel— We trudge on wearily— O God, end this bleak anguish Soon, soon, with vivid crimson death, End it in mist-pale sleep!

Let the sea beat its thin torn hands In anguish against the shore, Let it moan Between headland and cliff; Let the sea shriek out its agony Across waste sands and marshes, And clutch great ships, Tearing them plate from steel plate In reckless anger; Let it break the white bulwarks Of harbour and city; Let it sob and scream and laugh In a sharp fury, With white salt tears Wet on its writhen face; Ah! let the sea still be mad And crash in madness among the shaking rocks— For the sea is the cry of our sorrow.

Through the dark pine trunks Silver and yellow gleam the clouds And the sun; The sea is faint purple. My love, my love, I shall never reach you.

You are beautiful As a straight red fox-glove Among green plants; I stretched out my hand to caress you: It is blistered by the envious nettles.

I have spent hours this morning Seeking in the brook For a clear pebble To remind me of your eyes. And all the sleepless hours of night I think of you.

Your kisses are poignant, Ah! why must I leave you? Here alone I scribble and re-scribble The words of a long-dead Greek poet: “Love, thou art terrible, Ah, Love, thou art bitter-sweet!”

They have torn the gold tettinx From my hair; And wrenched the bronze sandals From my ankles. They have taken from me my friend Who knew the holy wisdom of poets, Who had drunk at the feast Where Simonides sang. No more do I walk the calm gardens In the white mist of olives; No more do I take the rose-crown From the white hands of a maiden. I, who was free, am a slave; The Muses have forgotten me, The gods do not hear me. Here there are no flowers to love; But afar off I dream that I see Bent poppies and the deathless asphodel.

Vagabonds of beauty, Wistful exquisite waifs From a lost, and a forgotten, and a lovely land, We cannot comfort you Though our souls yearn for you. You are delicate strangers In a gloomy town, Stared at and hated— Gold crocus blossoms in a drab lane. We cannot comfort you; Your life is anguish; All we can do— Mutely bring pungent herbs and branches of oak And resinous scented pine wreaths To hide the crown of thorny pain Crushing your white frail foreheads.

I am a garden of red tulips And late daffodils and bay-hedges, A small sunk garden About an oblong pool With three grey lead Dutch tanks— I am this garden shattered and blown With a day-long western gale And bursts of rapid rain. There are dank petals in the ruffled waters, And muddy flowers upon the path. The grass is covered with torn leaves. God of gardens, dear small god of gardens, Grant me faint glow of sunlight, A last bird hopping in the quiet haze, Then let the night swoop swiftly, Fold round and crush out life For ever.