The Five Books of Youth Part 8

VIII

A smile will turn away green eyes That laughter could not touch, The dangers of those subtleties, The stealthy, clever hand, Should not affright you overmuch If you but understand How Judas, clad in Oxford grey,-- Could walk abroad on Easter Day.

Paris, 1919

IX

Two Kings there were, one Good, one Bad; The first was mournfulness itself, The second, happy as a lad,-- And both are dust upon a shelf.

Sheffield, 1917

X

I see that Hermes unawares, Has left his footprints on the path; See here, he fell, and in his wrath He pulled out several golden hairs Against the brambles. Guard them well, The hairs of G.o.ds are valuable.

Paris, 1919

XI

Semiramis, the wh.o.r.e of Babylon, Bade me go walking with her. I obeyed.

Philosophy, I thought, is not afraid Of any woman underneath the sun.

Far up the hills she led me, where one ledge Thrust out a slender finger to the sky, Dizzy and swaying as an eagle's cry; Semiramis stepped to the farthest edge.

And there she danced, whirling upon her toes, The triumph of a flame was in her face, Faster and faster as the mad wind blows, She whirled, and slipped, and dashed down into s.p.a.ce....

Next day I saw her smiling in the sun, Semiramis, the Queen of Babylon.

Paris, 1919

XII

Bring hemlock, black as Cretan cheese, And mix a sacramental brew; A worthy drink for Socrates, Why not for you?

Sheffield, 1917

XIII

Walking through the town last night, I learned the lore of second sight, And saw through all those solid walls, Imbecile and troglodyte.

The vicious apes of either s.e.x Grinned and mouthed and stretched their necks, Their little l.u.s.ts skipped back and forth, Not very pretty or complex.

Each has five senses; every sense Is like a false gate in a fence, They think the gates are bona fide, Such is their only innocence.

And think themselves extremely wise When any sense records its lies, They mumble what they feel or hear, Unmindful still of Paradise.

When I walked through the town last night In vain they drew their curtains tight, Through walls of brick I plainly saw The imbecile, the troglodyte.

Paris, 1919

XIV

The change of many tides has swung the flow Of those green weeds that cling like filthy fur Upon the timbers of this voyager That sank in the clear water long ago.

Whence did she sail? the sands of ages blur The answer to the secret, and as though They mocked and knew, sleek fishes, to and fro, Trail their grey carrion shadows over her.

Coffer of all life gives and hides away, It matters not if London or if Tyre Sped you to sea on some remoter day; Beneath your decks immutable desire And hope and hate and envy still conspire, While all the gaping faces nod and sway.

Brussels, 1919

XV

Piero di Cosimo, Your unicorns and afterglow, Your black leaves cut against the sky, Black crosses where the young G.o.ds die, Black horizons where the sea And clouds contend perpetually, And hanging low, The menace of the night:--

They called you madman. Were they right, Piero di Cosimo?

Pomfret, 1919

XVI

I would know what can not be known; I would reach beyond my sphere, And question the stars in their courses, And the dead of many a year.

I would tame the infinite forces That bend me down like the grain, Peace would I give to the fields where the young men died, Peace to the sea where the s.h.i.+ps of battle ride, And light again to the eyes of the beautiful slain.

This would I do, but today against the sky, They who were building a cross grinned as I pa.s.sed them by.

Pomfret, 1919

XVII

The yellow bird is singing by the pond, And all about him stars have burst in bloom, A colonnade stands pallidly beyond, And beneath that a solitary tomb.

Who lies within that tomb I do not know, The yellow bird intones his threnody In notes as colourless as driven snow, Clas.h.i.+ng with the green hush and out of key.

O cease, your endless song is out of tune, Where all these old forgotten things are sleeping,-- Give back to silence's eternal keeping The windless pond, the hanging colonnade, Lest in the wane of the long afternoon, The Dead awake, unhappy and afraid.

Bordeaux, 1917

BOOK V SONNETS

I