Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 5

Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls With roaring brain--agony--the snapt spark-- And blots of green and purple in his eyes.

Then the slow fingers groping on his neck, And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.

THE DEATH-BED

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- Silence and safety; and his mortal sh.o.r.e Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Some one was holding water to his mouth.

He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.

Water--calm, sliding green above the weir; Water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers And shaken hues of summer: drifting down, He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.

Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; Fragrance and pa.s.sionless music woven as one; Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace Gently and slowly was.h.i.+ng life away.

He stirred, s.h.i.+fting his body; then the pain Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.

But some one was beside him; soon he lay Shuddering because that evil thing had pa.s.sed.

And Death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.

Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.

Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.

He's young; he hated war; how should he die When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But Death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.

Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

I. ROSENBERG

'AH, KOELUE ...'

Ah, Koelue!

Had you embalmed your beauty, so It could not backward go, Or change in any way, What were the use, if on my eyes The embalming spices were not laid To keep us fixed, Two amorous sculptures pa.s.sioned endlessly?

What were the use, if my sight grew, And its far branches were cloud-hung, You small at the roots, like gra.s.s, While the new lips my spirit would kiss Were not red lips of flesh, But the huge kiss of power?

Where yesterday soft hair through my fingers fell, A s.h.a.ggy mane would entwine, And no slim form work fire to my thighs, But human Life's inarticulate ma.s.s Throb the pulse of a thing Whose mountain flanks awry Beg my mastery--mine!

Ah! I will ride the dizzy beast of the world My road--my way!

ROBERT NICHOLS

TO----

Asleep within the deadest hour of night And turning with the earth, I was aware How suddenly the eastern curve was bright, As when the sun arises from his lair.

But not the sun arose: it was thy hair Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.

Since then I know that neither night nor day May I escape thee, O my heavenly h.e.l.l!

Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay; And should I dare to die, I know full well Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell, Whose face would greet me in h.e.l.l's fiery way.

THE a.s.sAULT

The beating of the guns grows louder.

'Not long, boys, now'.

My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder.

Hurricanes grow As guns redouble their fire.

Through the shaken periscope peeping, I glimpse their wire: Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, Spouting like shocks of meeting waves, Death's fountains are playing, Sh.e.l.ls like shrieking birds rush over; Crash and din rises higher.

A stream of lead raves Over us from the left ... (we safe under cover!) Cras.h.!.+ Reverberation! Cras.h.!.+

Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash.

Black smoke drifting. The German line Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry Of our men, 'Gah, yer swine!

Ye're for it', die In a hurricane of sh.e.l.l.

One cry: 'We're comin' soon! look out!'

There is opened h.e.l.l Over there; fragments fly, Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: Dust, smoke, thunder! A sudden bout Of machine guns chattering ...

And redoubled battering, As if in fury at their daring!...

No good staring.