Poems Read online

  Is as tin tinkling. In tattered garment,

  Weak with winters, he walks forever

  A weary way, wide round the heav’n,

  Stoop’d and stumbling, with staff groping,

  The lord of lead. He is the last planet

  Old and ugly. His eye fathers

  Pale pestilence, pain of envy,

  Remorse and murder. Melancholy drink

  (For bane or blessing) of bitter wisdom

  He pours for his people, a perilous draught

  That the lip loves not. We leave all things

  To reach the rim of the round welkin,

  Heaven’s hermitage, high and lonely.

  PINDAR SANG

  Pindar stood with his chorus on the dancing floor. The stern poet

  Uttered his dark glory. Light as a flight of tumbling birds

  Was the dipping and soaring of his syllables and the wheeling maze.

  Demure as virgins, young men of noble houses, trained and severe,

  Strongly as if it were a battle and resolutely danced his ode;

  Their faces rigid, but their limbs and garments flowed like water.

  ‘Unless a god in secret helps the work, trouble and skill

  Are unavailing; the laborious plodder’s wages are oblivion,

  For a soul’s weight is born with her. My wisdom is the birth of heaven;

  In heaven itself the everlasting gods dare not begin

  A feast or dance without the favour and assent of the grave Charites.

  ‘For gods and men are of one stock and came of the same womb

  Though an utter separation is between them, and we are nothing

  While their unshakable, eternal floor is the firmament of bronze.

  They look down; they behold the isle of Delos far below,

  Set like a star amid the deep-blue world’s level expanse.

  ‘But we are tethered to Hope that will promise anything without blushing,

  And the flowing water of foreknowledge is far away beyond our reach.

  Therefore neither ashore nor in the hollow ships will any praise

  Be given to an act on which the doer does not stake his life.

  (At Pindus the glory of the Dorian spear burst into flower.)

  And we live for a day. What are we? What are we not? A man

  Is a dream about a shadow. Only when a brightness falls from heaven

  Can human splendour expand and glow and mortal days grow soft.

  ‘Not even to Kadmos though a peer for Gods, not to the Aiakid

  Peleus, was there allowed a perfect, whole, unslippery life;

  Though these were fortunate, men say, beyond all human bounds

  And heard the gold-drown’d Muses singing on their marriage day.

  Over the mountain and to seven-gated Thebes the song

  Drew near when deep-dark-eyed Harmonia became Kadmos’ bride,

  And Peleus took the Nereid Thetis, and had gods for guests.

  He also had sorrow afterwards for Achilles’ sake, his son,

  And Kadmos, weeping for his daughter; even though the Father of the skies

  Had lain in Semele’s desired bed and white embrace.

  ‘Take the god’s favour when it comes. Now from one quarter, now

  From another, the wing’d weathers ride above us. Not for long,

  If it grows heavy with goodness, will fortune remain good.

  ‘Once over Lerna a shower of snow turned into flakes of gold;

  Once, following the doe of the Pleiades whose horns were charactered with gold,

  Herakles hunted far beyond the Ister till he found

  A land that lies at the other side of the North Wind. And he stood

  Gazing upon the trees of that country; he was struck with sweet desire.

  But do not therefore imagine that ever you, by land or sea,

  Will find the miraculous road into the Hyperborean place.

  Of unattainable longings sour is the fruit; griding madness.

  ‘Bless’d is the man who does not enter into the grave, the hollow earth,

  Before he has seen at Eleusis the acts unspeakable which show

  The end and new beginning of our life, the divine gift.

  Some find the road that leads beyond the tower of Kronos, and the isles

  Where no one labours, no one bruises the flower of his white hand

  Wounding with spade or oar the parsimonious earth or bitter sea.

  Golden are the flowers they pick for garlands in the righteous wood.

  ‘But the voice of the Pierides is hateful to all the enemies of Zeus,

  And the melody that makes drowsy with delight the eagle on his sceptre

  Is torture to those who lie in Tartaros. Hundred-headed Typhon

  Struggles in anguish as he hears it, vomiting lava and smoke.’

  The heaven-descended nobles of the pure Dorian blood,

  Not thinking they understood him, but silent in reverence for the god

  And for the stern poet, heard him and understood it all.

  Tears stood in their eyes because of the beauty of the young men who danced.

  HERMIONE IN THE HOUSE OF PAULINA

  How soft it rains, how nourishingly soft and green

  Has grown the dark humility of this low house

  Where sunrise never enters, where I have not seen

  The moon by night nor heard the footfall of a mouse,

  Nor looked on any face but yours

  Nor changed my posture in my place of rest

  For fifteen years—oh how this quiet cures

  My pain and sucks the burning from my breast.

  It sucked out all the poison of my will and drew

  All hot rebellion from me, all desire to break

  The silence you commanded me. . . . Nothing to do,

  Nothing to fear or wish for, not a choice to make,

  Only to be; to hear no more

  Cock-crowing duty calling me to rise,

  But slowly thus to ripen laid in store

  In this dim nursery near your watching eyes.

  Pardon, great spirit, whose tall shape like a golden tower

  Stands over me or seems upon slow wings to move,

  Colouring with life my paleness, with returning power,

  By sober ministrations of severest love;

  Pardon, that when you brought me here,

  Still drowned in bitter passion, drugged with life,

  I did not know . . . pardon, I thought you were

  Paulina, old Antigonus’ young wife.

  YOUNG KING COLE

  By enemies surrounded,

  All venomously minded

  Against him, to hound him

  To death, there lived a king

  Who was great and merry-hearted,

  He ate and drank and sported,

  When his wounds smarted

  He would dance and sing.

  With gossiping and stories,

  With possets of Canary,

  With goliards and glory,

  He made the time pass;

  His merriment heightened

  As his territory straitened,

  And his grip tightened

  On the stem of his glass.

  When his foes assaulted

  He rose and exulted

  Like a lover as he vaulted

  On his gaunt horse,

  Sublime and elated,

  But each time he was defeated,

  For the lower gods hated him

  Without remorse.

  So his realm diminished;

  Overwhelmed, it vanished,

  He held at the finish

  But a small river-isle;

  With his queen, amid the saplings

  And the green rippling,

  With his Fool and his Chaplain,

  Held it for a while;

  Till, breathing anger,

  The heathen in their hunger

  Came with clangour

  To the river ba
nks

  With their commissars and harlots,

  With their bombers and their hurlers

  Of flame, with their snarling

  And the rattle of their tanks.

  Fast came their orders

  For the last king’s murder;

  From the reedy borders

  The grey batteries spoke.

  The long endeavour

  Of those strong four lovers

  Relaxed forever

  Amid stench and smoke.

  From their fresh, unpolluted

  Flesh there sprouted

  A tree fair-fruited,

  And its smell and taste

  Were big with Eden;

  Every twig was laden

  With gold unheeded

  In the flowery waste.

  Past the gossamer and midges,

  Past the blossomy region

  Of the bees, past the pigeons’

  Green world, towards the blue,

  Past the eagles’ landings

  Many a league ascending,

  Above Alps and Andes

  Infallibly it grew;

  And it cast warm joys on

  The vast horizons,

  But its shadow was poison

  To the evil-eyed.

  Yes: they ought to have felled it.

  They were caught unshielded.

  Paralysed, they beheld it;

  They despaired and died.

  THE PRODIGALITY OF FIRDAUSI

  Firdausi the strong Lion among poets, lean of purse

  And lean with age, had finished his august mountain of verse,

  The great Shah Nameh gleaming-glaciered with demon wars,

  Bastioned with Rustem’s bitter labours and Isfendiyar’s,

  Shadowed with Jamshid’s grief and glory as with eagles’ wings,

  Its foot-hills dewy-forested with the amours of kings,

  Clashing with rhymes that rush like snow-fed cataracts blue and cold;

  And the king commanded to be given him an elephant’s burden of gold.

  Firdausi the carved Pillar among poets was not dear

  To government. They smiled at the king’s word. The Grand Vizier

  Twisted his pale face, making parsimonious mouths, and said

  ‘Send the old rhymer thirty thousand silver pounds instead—

  The price of ten good vineyards and a fine Circassian girl.’

  This pleased them and they called a secretarial shape, a churl,

  A pick-thank without understanding and of base descent,

  And bade it deliver their bounty, and with mincing paces it went.

  It found the Cedar among poets in the baths that day,

  At ease, discoursing with his friends. Exalted men were they,

  Taking their wine and sugared roseleaves in an airy hall,

  Poets or theologians or saints or warriors all

  Or lovers or astronomers. Like honey-drops the speech

  Distilled in apophthegms or verses from the lips of each,

  On roses and predestination and heroic wars

  And rhetoric, and the brevity of the life of man, and the stars.

  With courtesy the Lily among poets asked its will.

  The bearers laid the silver at his feet. The hall was still,

  The churl grew pale. Firdausi beckoned to the Nubian slave

  Who had dried their feet; to him the first ten thousand coins he gave.

  Ten thousand more immediately he gave the fair-haired boy

  Who waved the fan, saying ‘My son, may Allah send you joy;

  And in your grandson’s house in unbelieving Frangistan

  Make it your boast that once you spoke with the splendour of Iran.’

  Lastly the Heaven of poets to the churl himself returned

  The remnant. ‘You look pale, my friend,’ he said. ‘Well have you earned

  This trifle for your courtesy and for the heat of the day.’

  Clutching his silver, silently, the creature slunk away,

  And dogs growled as he passed and beggars spat. Laughter and shame

  Wait upon all his progeny; on him, Gehenna’s flame.

  Immediately the discourse in the baths once more began

  On the beauty of women and horses and the brevity of the life of man.

  LE ROI S’AMUSE

  Jove gazed

  On woven mazes

  Of patterned movement as the atoms whirled.

  His glance turned

  Into dancing, burning

  Colour-gods who rushed upon that sullen world,

  Waking, re-making, exalting it anew—

  Silver and purple, shrill-voiced yellow, turgid crimson, and virgin blue.

  Jove stared

  On overbearing

  And aching splendour of the naked rocks.

  Where his gaze smote,

  Hazily floated

  To mount like thistledown in countless flocks,

  Fruit-loving, root-loving gods, cool and green

  Of feathery grasses, heather and orchard, pollen’d lily, the olive and the bean.

  Jove laughed.

  Like cloven-shafted

  Lightning, his laughter into brightness broke.

  From every dint

  Where the severed splinters

  Had scattered a Sylvan or a Satyr woke;

  Ounces came pouncing, dragon-people flew,

  There was spirited stallion, squirrel unrespectful, clanging raven and kangaroo.

  Jove sighed.

  The hoving tide of

  Ocean trembled at the motion of his breath.

  The sigh turned

  Into white, eternal,

  Radiant Aphrodite unafraid of death;

  A fragrance, a vagrant unrest on earth she flung,

  There was favouring and fondling and bravery and building and chuckling music and suckling of the young.

  Jove thought.

  He strove and wrought at

  A thousand clarities; from his brows sprang

  With earnest mien

  Stern Athene;

  The cold armour on her shoulders rang.

  Our sires at the fires of her lucid eyes began

  To speak in symbols, to seek out causes, to name the creatures; they became Man.

  World and Man

  Unfurled their banner—

  It was gay Behemoth on a sable field.

  Fresh-robed

  In flesh, the ennobled

  Spirits carousing in their myriads reeled;

  There was frolic and holiday. Jove laughed to see

  The abyss empeopled, his bliss imparted, the throng that was his and no longer he.

  VITREA CIRCE

  The name of Circe

  Is wrongly branded

  (Though Homer’s verses

  Portrayed her right)

  By heavy-handed

  And moral persons

  Misunderstanding

  Her danger bright.

  She used not beauty

  For man’s beguiling,

  She craved no suitor;

  Sea-chances brought

  To her forest-silent

  And crimson-fruited

  And snake-green island

  Her guests unsought.

  She watched those drunken

  And tarry sailors

  Eat nectar-junket

  And Phoenix-nests;

  Each moment paler

  With pride, she shrunk at

  Their leering, railing,

  Salt-water jests.

  They thought to pluck there

  Her rosial splendour?

  They thought their luck there

  Was near divine?

  When the meal ended

  She rose and struck them

  With wand extended

  And made them swine.

  With smiles and kisses

  No man she tempted;

  She scorned love’s blisses

  And toils, until

  There came, und
ream’t of,

  The tough Ulysses,

  From fate exempted

  By Pallas’ will.

  Then flashed above her

  (Poor kneeling Circe,

  Her snares discovered)

  The hero’s blade.

  She lay at mercy,

  His slave, his lover,

  Forgot her curses,

  Blushed like a maid.

  She’d none to warn her.

  He hacked and twisted

  Her hedge so thorny;

  It let him pass.

  Her awful distance,

  Her vestal scornings,

  Were bright as crystals,

  They broke like glass.

  THE LANDING

  The ship’s stride faltered with her change of course, awaking us.

  Suddenly I saw the land. Astern, the east was red;

  Budding like a flower from the pale and rippled vacancy,

  The island rose ahead.

  All, then, was true; such lands, in solid verity,

  Dapple the last sea that laps against the sky;

  Apple-gold, the headlands of the singing Hesperides

  On glass-clear water lie.

  Once before I’d seen it, but that was from Helicon,

  Clear and distinct in the circle of a lens,

  Peering on tip-toes, one-eyed, through a telescope

  —Goddesses’ country, never men’s.

  Now we were landing. Bright beasts and manifold

  Came like old familiars, nosing at our knees;

  Nameless their kinds—Adam’s naming of the animals

  Reached not those outer seas.

  Up from the shore then, benumbed with hope, we went upon

  Danceable lawns and under gum-sweet wood,

  Glancing ever up to where a green hill at the centre of

  The hush’d island stood.

  We climbed to the top and looked over upon limitless

  Waters, untravelled, further west. But the three

  Daughters of Hesperus were only painted images

  Hand-fast around a tree,

  And instead of the Dragon we found a brazen telescope

  That burned our eyes there, flashing in the sun.

  It was turned to the west. As once before on Helicon,

  We looked through it, one by one.

  There, once again, I beheld it, small and perilous,

  Distant beyond measure, in the circle of the lens

  —But this time, surely, the true one, the Hesperides’

  Country which is not men’s.

  Hope died—rose again—quivered, and increased in us

  The strenuous longing. We re-embarked to find

  That genuine and utter West. Far astern and east of us