For the virgin roadsteads of our hearts an unwavering keel.
May 1932
18
O what is that sound which so thrills the ear Down in the valley drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear, The soldiers coming.
O what is that light I see flashing so clear Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear, As they step lightly.
O what are they doing with all that gear; What are they doing this morning, this morning?
Only the usual manoeuvres, dear, Or perhaps a warning.
O why have they left the road down there; Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in the orders, dear; Why are you kneeling?
O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care; Haven't they reined their horses, their horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear, None of these forces.
O is it the parson they want with white hair; Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear, Without a visit.
O it must be the farmer who lives so near; It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farm already, dear, And now they are funning.
O where are you going? stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear, But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door, O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;
Their feet are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning. October 1932
Hearing of harvests rotting inthe valleys,
Seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
Round corners coming suddenly on water,
Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands,
We honour founders of these starving cities,
Whose honour is the image of our sorrow.
Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys; Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities, They reined their violent horses on the mountains, Those fields like ships to castaways on islands, Visions of green to them that craved for water.
They built by rivers and at night the water Running past windows comforted their sorrow; Each in his little bed conceived of islands Where every day was dancing in the valleys, And all the year trees blossomed on the mountains, Where love was innocent, being far from cities.
But dawn came back and they were still in cities; No marvellous creature rose up from the water, There was still gold and silver in the mountains, And hunger was a more immediate sorrow; Although to moping villagers in valleys Some waving pilgrims were describing islands.
"The gods," they promised, "visit us from islands, Are stalking head-up, lovely through the cities; Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys And sail with them across the lime-green water; Sitting at their white sides. forget your sorrow, |
The shadow cast across your lives by mountains."
So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains Climbing up crags to get a view of islands; So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities; So many, careless, dived and drowned in water; So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.
It is the sorrow; shall it melt? Ah, water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.
May 1933
20
(TO GEOFFREY HOYLAND]
Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead
In the windless nights of June; Forests of green have done complete The day's activity; my feet Point to the rising moon.
Lucky, this point in time and space Is chosen as my working place;
Where the sexy airs of summer, The bathing hours and the bare arms, The leisured drives through a land of farms, Are good to the newcomer.
Equal with colleagues in a ring I sit on each calm evening, Enchanted as the flowers The opening light draws out of hiding From leaves with all its dove-like pleading Its logic and its powers.
That later we, though parted then
May still recall these evenings when ,
Fear gave his watch no look; The lion griefs loped from the shade And on our knees their muzzles laid, And Death put down his book.
Moreover, eyes in which I learn That I am glad to look, return
My glances every day; And when the birds and rising sun Waken me, I shall speak with one Who has not gone away.
Now North and South and East and West Those I love lie down to rest;
The moon looks on them alclass="underline" The healers and the brilliant talkers, I
The eccentrics and the silent walkers, 1
i
The dumpy and the tall.
She climbs the European sky; Churches and power stations lie
Alike among earth's fixtures: (
Into the galleries she peers, And blankly as an orphan stares Upon the marvellous pictures.
I
To gravity attentive, she
Can notice nothing here; though we
Whom hunger cannot move, From gardens where we feel secure Look up, and with a sigh endure
The tyrannies of love: |
And, gentle, do not care to know, |
Where Poland draws her Eastern bow, ,
What violence is done; !
Nor ask what doubtful act allows Our freedom in this English house, Our picnics in the sun.
The creepered wall stands up to hide The gathering multitudes outside
Whose glances hunger worsens; Concealing from their wretchedness Our metaphysical distress, Our kindness to ten persons.
And now no path on which we move But shows already traces of
Intentions not our own, Thoroughly able to achieve What our excitement could conceive, But our hands left alone.
For what by nature and by training We loved, has little strength remaining:
Though we would gladly give The Oxford colleges, Big Ben, And all the birds in Wicken Fen, It has no wish to live.
Soon through the dykes of our content The crumpling flood will force a rent,
And, taller than a tree, Hold sudden death before our eyes Whose river-dreams long hid the size And vigours of the sea.
But when the waters make retreat
And through the black mud first the wheat
In shy green stalks appears; When stranded monsters gasping lie, And sounds of riveting terrify Their whorled unsubtle ears:
If
May this for which we dread to lose Our privacy, need no excuse
But to that strength belong; As through a child's rash happy cries The drowned voices of his parents rise In unlamenting song.
After discharges of alarm, All unpredicted may it calm
The pulse of nervous nations; Forgive the murderer in his glass, Tough in its patience to surpass The tigress her swift motions.
June 1933
21
A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day:
Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea:
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.
With all his honours on, he sighed for one Who, say astonished critics, lived at home; Did little jobs about the house with skill And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still Or potter round the garden; answered some Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.
Our hunting fathers told the story Of the sadness of the creatures, Pitied the limits and the lack
Set in their finished features.; Saw in the lion's intolerant look, Behind the quarry's dying glare, Love raging for the personal glory