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COTERIE

May-Day, 1919.o. 1.

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COTERIE

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COTERIE

L O N D O N : H E N D E R S O N S , S IX T Y-S IX C H A R I N G C RO SS R O A D .

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L I T E R A R Y C O MMU N I C A T I O N S should beaddressed to Chaman Lall , Jesus College,

Oxford. All other comm unications should be addressedto Hen derson s, 66, Charing Cross Road , Lond on,W.C . 2 .

C O T E R I E will be published Quarterly, price 2s. 8d.,post free. Readers are invited to subscribe for fournumbers (10s. 8d. post free), to ensure immediatedelivery on publication.

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C O T E R I E , M A Y D A Y , 1 9 1 9 , N o . 1I . T . W . E a r p :

Six PoemsI I . Wilfred Childe:

The Blue FlowerThe London RiverStella MarisI I I . R. C. Trevelyan:

After Lieh TzuW i n t e r R a i n sIV . Leon ard A. S. St r on g:From the Dub l in S t ree t s

I . The Brew er 's ManI I . A Young Man wi th Sorrow on Him

I I I . An Old Man at a CrossingV. A. E. Cop pard :

The I r i sh RoadThe Obsequies

V I . Aldous Hux ley :B e a u t yVII . E r i c Dick in son :

The Ilex GroveTuscan Love SongThe Mother ' s SongBeata Sol i tudo5

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V II I . Haro ld J . Mass ingham :Pils don PenTo Don QuixoteTo W. H . D .

I X . C h a m a n L a l l :D r e a m sLegendsD e p a r t u r eTrees* * * *

X . Russell Gr een :HillsDefeatP lead ingEsquisses

X L T . S . E l i o t : A Cooking Egg

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T . W . E A R PIA N aged king who shook upon his throneSpoke a great Word that made his people reel ,Unti l within their hearts resolve had grown,And their inconstant minds were fi rm as steel .

Laughing, some died upon the plains of war,Laughing a t death , because they once had heardThat Word of promise they were fight ing for ;In meanest flesh a soul heroic stirred.Then the v ic tor ious remnant to the i r k ingCried : We hav e conqu ered, Lord ! W e pr ay you giveThe Word again for our glad hearkening,And by the Word we would henceforward l ive.The palsied king, t ragical and absurd,Looked out across the fi res and huddled dead.There was a Word, he sa id . There was a W ord ;But now I have forgotten i t : he said.

I IS TRONG Ti tan-Cast le and s t rong Babel -Tower,And each high, fabled place in many landsIs fallen and lower now than is a flower,Because i t was a bui lding made of hands.7

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And he whose dwelling beautiful on all sidesWas raised with careful labour on the sands,Saw i t fal l down and perish with the t ides,Because i t was a bui lding made of hands.And thy work , Time, wi th t rumpets and wi th drumsResoundingly erec ted , nobly s tands ,But i t must fal l when one hushed moment comes,Because i t was a bui lding made of hands.

II I

CHIN upon hand, wi th despera te wide eyesShe stares into the emptiness of space ;The peace of ut ter sorrow smooths her face,And her great heart can heave with no more sighs.Effort is vain, she knows ; and never triesThose various keen tools within the place.The y are bu t useless sym bols of disgrace,While yet the unhewn block before her l ies.Shal l i t be roses or grave myrt le-leaves,Defeat or victory, t rumpet or flute ?Each shape fades with the next her mind conceives.Now she has won all choice she never stirs ;How could she choose when every choice is hers,And, when she knows al l secrets, not be mute ?

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I VH E s to l e a l o n e t h r o u g h t h e d u s k t o t h e r i v e r - b a n k .A f ew r e e d s g r e w t h e r e , a n d t h e se d g e w a s d a n kW i t h m a r s h y e x h a l a t i o n s . H e w a s t i r e dOf a f a l se l i f e , and bu t one th ing des i red :D e a t h , t h a t w o u l d c o m e t o h i m l ik e a w o m a n , p e r h a p s ,G e n t l y a n d s i l e n t l y , a n e a s y l a p s eI n t o f o r g e t f u ln e s s , a s t h o u g h a n a r mW e r e p r e s s e d a b o u t h i m , s h i e l d i n g h i m f ro m h a r m .T h e l a s t h o p e i n h i m w h i s p e r e d : I t m a y b eT h a t a t t h e f i n a l m o m e n t I s h a l l s e eT w o t e n d e r , p i t y i n g e y e s l o o k d o w n a t m i n e ,A n d w i t h m y o w n t e a r s I s h a l l s e e t h e m s h i n e ,J u s t a t t h e end . I sha l l e scap e th e l i esT h a t o v e r c r e e p i n g m a n k i n d t y r a n n i s e ;F o r I a m w e a r y of t h e m o n o t o n o u s p a s s i o nO f l o v e a n d h a t e , t h e s a m e i n a d i f f e re n t f a s h i o n .I w o u l d t a k e d e a t h q u i c k l y t o m e , t h e l a s t m a t e ,A n d s o b e c o m e t h e l o r d of m y o w n f a t e .A sac red b i rd f lapped aw ay in su dd en f l igh t ,T h e r e e d s q u i v e r e d , b l a c k w a t e r d r o w n e d h i s s i g h t .Bu t s t i l l he was no t h i s own when he came to d i e ,A n d k n e w t h a t h e w a s f o o l e d w i t h a l a s t l i e .

VOM A R , a m i d t h e P e r s i a n n i g h t i n g a l e s ,S a n g o f m a n b o w e d b e n e a t h i m p l a c a b l e f a t e ,O f D e a t h , t h e k i n g , t h a t k e e p s o ' e r k i n g s h i s s t a t e ,A n d y e t t h r o u g h a l l t h e s o n g t h e v i n e p r e v a i l s .

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Villon, within a tavern 's murky glow,Laureate of ruffians and the gal lows-tree,Sang beauty 's end, how i t must shameful be,And yet made beauty l ive, dead long ago.Herr ick , a wanderer in west -count ry lanes ,Sang man repentant , God the judge of sin,How in the end tears end what tears begin ,And yet his laughter on his warning gains.Now are the singers dead, and yet their songLives, wi th the v ine , wi th beauty and wi th laughter ;Though death be soon or late, before and afterThose frai lest things l ive, and outl ive the strong.

V IA RTHUR, Char l emagne and Barba rossa s l eep ,Round an old table seated, buried deepWith in a cavern underneath a h i l l ;And in the peaceful world men with good willPlough the brown fields, and at the harvest reapThe golden corn, and eat and drink their fil l .Arthur , Charlemagne and Barbarossa wake,And from the table a huge dice-box take,And with great knotted fingers throw a main ;Then over the torn world are many slain,Beauty l ies bleeding, old foundations shake,Unti l the three kings nod asleep again.

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W I L F R E D C H I L D E

T H E B L U E F L O W E R

IN no far vale or faery daleThe Azure Blossom blows,Where lil ies pale bend to soft gale,Or redly burns the rose,Or gl immers the dim primrose.But , chi ld, in thine own sacred heartI t s be auty b r ight ex tends ;There are the guarded groves apar t ,Where magic gleams of water start ,And the Hesper-star of the Spiri t bendsAbove the woodsO holy heart ,O sacrament of friends !Seek not thy God in the angry fire,Or in the outward world :The Blue Flower shines within, within,Where the soul 's pure aethers know not sin;There is i ts heart uncurled ;With the priceless tears of the SeraphinIs i ts sea-blue raiment pearled.And it smiles like a wise and lovely child,As it laughs in its guarded place ;Innocent, wild and undefiled,

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Stares forth i ts cherub-face,In the holy heart of the ta intless wild,And the seven springs of grace !On its pure f lesh the radiant dewTrembles pear l over pear l ,The Sylphs s ip deep from its chalice blue,And many a c rys ta l Gir lDrinks from its lucid springsKnowledge of golden th ings .And the birds of the burnished Eden t reesTha t have human heads and eyesCome round it and sing in the sweet morning,When the milky dawn-s ta rs r ise ,And the young blue Day leads on God's MayThrough the valleys of Paradise !

T H E L O N D O N R I V E R"And tha t s tupendous j ewe l f rom New York . "R. B R O W N I N G .

PR O U D sea of ships and prouder Soul of Man,Gray ta t te r ed ma nt le of per ilous gorgeous days !What supreme ente rpr ise Atlant ianDrew vessels hence in search of golden praise,And dragged them down the hol lows of the WestInto that bleeding Shell of sunset, beyondIsles, fr i ths and capes and the gli t tering wave 's last crest ,Seeking the quintessent ia l Diamond !

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O, never sa t i s f i ed , wi ld mar iners ,T h a t i n t h e D e l u g e s a w J e h o v a h w a l k i n g ;F ron t i ng t he s c a r l e t l e v i n w i t h a c u r s e ,H e a r i ng t he bow e l s o f de e p oc e a n t a l k i ng !B e c a u s e o f t h e m , b e n e a t h T i t a n i c s k i e sM a n h a t t a n l i k e a p h o e n i x d o t h a r i s e !

S T E L L A M A R I SA N D t he l a s t s t a r gone l one l y t o i t s be d ,A n d a l l t h e t o r c h e s q u e n c h e d i n t h e h i g h H e a v e n ;T he s e a s i l e n t a nd t he s pe e c h l e s s w i l de rne s sA g ha s t fo r s o r row o f u t t e r w e a r i ne s s !I t i s a t s uc h t i me s t ha t t he M orn i ng S t a r ,A babe of j ewels in he r a rms , a c rownO f f i e ry c rys t a l s bu rn i ng on he r b row ,Like a j e t o f l igh t out of the b lue n ight spr ings :Or she i s a s a founta in tha t s ings a loneWi t h s p r a ys o f s ong i n S i l e nc e , va ne on va neOf lone ly m in ar e t s in g l i t t e r ing fire,Up p i l ed in to the e te rn i ty of S i l ence ,A n d o n t h e t o p m o s t v a n e a h o l y B i r d ,A n d i n h is go l de n be a k a ma g i c R o s e !T h e n w e d e s c r y b e y o n d t h a t p a t h l e s s s e aH i l l s o f t h e ro s y l a nd c a l l e d B l os om onA p p e a r a n d d i s a p p e a r , a n d i n t h e c l o u dS h i n i ng , ha l f h i dd e n , c h i l d r e n o f t h e A nge l sL a u g h w i t h p u r e l i p s a n d s m i l e f r o m r a p t u r o u s e y e s .

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R. C. TREVELYAN

A F T E R L I E H T Z U

ONE day Confucius the sage,With his favouri te disciples, Yu,Tzen San, Yen Hui and Tuan Mu,Set forth upon a pi lgrimageTo c l imb the sacred mount Tai Shan.The sun was hot , the path was s teep .By zigs and zags from slope to slopeSlowly and weari ly they creep,Unt i l , no t far beneath the top ,They met wi th a so l i ta ry o ld man,Rambl ing through the wi ldernessClad only in a deer-skin dress,And girdled with a plain grass rope,Plucking a lute as he strol led along,And singing to himself a blithe and careless song.Confucius, wondering much, and glad to findExcuse to pause and rest awhile,Bowed twice and thus spoke courteously :" Most venerable sir , I pray you, be so kindAs to explain to us for what causeYou seem so ha pp y. " W ith a smi leThe old man answered : " Have I notCauses enough for happiness ?Man, of al l l iving things by Heaven created,Is no bles t. Now it has fallen to m y lot

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To have been born a man, and not a snai l ,A crocodile, a fish, or a baboon.Moreover, the more nobly ratedOf the two sexes is the male :And I , who might have beenA washerwoman, or at best a queen,Was born a male, and a phi losopher.That is my second ground for bl iss .My third is this , most honoured sir:Many there are who pass the gates of birth ,Yet ne 'er behold the l ight of sun or moon,B ut pe rish in the ir sw addling clothes ; while IFor n ine ty years a l ready have walked the ear th .What though I be bu t poor , and must d ie soon .Poverty is the sage 's lot , my friend ;And d eath for all men is the a ppo inted end.Have I not reason then for my fel ici ty ? "Away slowly the old man wandered,Twanging his lute , and singing st i l lH is ha pp y song. Aw hile Confucius pondered ,Then turned to his friends and said : " How admirableIs he who for life's miseries can findWise consolation thus in his own mind ! "

W I N T E R R A I N SW HEN after weeks of winter rainsThe foggy air hangs chill and wet,When mis ted are the window-panes ,And wal l s and shee ts and cupboards sweat ;15

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When chilblains i tch in every shoe,And the mind 's furnished chambers , too,Are damp and sodden th rough and th rough ;When meals a re glum and shoulders ache ,No match will s tr ike nor f irewood blaze,Fiddle -s t r ings squeak and tempers break,No robin s ings and no hen lays ;When pa ths a re pools and noses pear led,And cats in kitchen fenders curledDream of a happier , drier world ;Then suddenly, when leas t we think,A br ight wind breaks the mis t , and thereThe sun looks out above the brinkOf piled up clouds, s ta ir over s ta ir :Glad then a t hear t a re a l l l ive th ings ,Both small and great, on feet or wings,Birds , boys and beggars , cats and kings.

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LEONARD A. S . STRONG

F R O M T H E D U B L I N S T R E E T SI. T H E B R E W E R ' S M A N .H AV E I a wife ? Be dam ! I hav e !But we were badly mated :I hit her a great clout one night,And now we 're separa ted .

An' mornin 's goin ' to me workI meets her on the quay :" Good mornin ' to ye , ma 'am," says I ." T o hell wid ye ! " says she.

I I . A Y O U N G M A N W I T H S O R R O W O N H I M .I seen her last night ,And nothin ' ai led her.She was laughin ' ; and nowThe breath has fai led her.Her two hands I he ldAre cold as clay :Her two l ips I kissed,Agape and grey .A round b lack pe nnyOn each eye socket,And herselfIn God's pocket .

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I I I . A N O L D M A N A T A C R O S S I N G .I sweeps the road an ' l i f ts me hatAs persons come an ' persons go,Me lady an ' me gent leman :I l i f ts me hatbut yous don't know !I 've money by against I 'm dead,A hearse an ' mourners there wil l be :An' every sort of walkin ' manWill stop an' l ift his hat to me.

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A. E. CO PPARD

T H E I R IS H R O A D

WHA T are these passengers tha t s t ray abo ut the roadUndriven nor bereftOf their ease and sweet of the world ?One t ime i t is hens, hesi tant ,With blink of the furtive eye and snap of the bill ,Or lambs t ro t t ing ;And there 's a ga l lan t young gander .The p ig grunts ,The ass brays ,The dog snarls,The bullock pauses,But my courage abides and I pass on.And on e i ther handThe fields gather up their grace,The forest calls with the grandeur of its deep voice,The hi l ls toss the smoke from their temples,And I sa lu te them,Salute them with my farewell .Is the lot of a man this onlyfor everTo be saying good-bye to beauty ?Could I turn myself into a pig or a treeTo what should I say good-bye ?

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T H E O B S E Q U I E S

M A RC H no t so slowly, you co m passion ate soldiers,With guns s lan t ing to ear th ;Pass quickly, fi fes and drums,Nor mock wi th del ibera te s t r ideThe eager wings of death,The querulous pace of the l iving.Hurry , 0 hu r ry , you , hu r ry h im away ,This captain who was once an ironmonger,In to tha t dreadful grave .Cease, deep bel l ;Horror has fal l 'n upon him l ike a bol t ,And a l l the ardours tha t encompassed h imAre fa in t wi th those wreaths , those wreaths .Pass quickly, desolate drums, reluctant fi fes.S tabbing wi th pract i sed melancholyThe br ight uncomprehending world .Sad soldiers, with your grave-denoting guns.Pass on, pass on.

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A L D O U S H U X L E Y

B E A U T YI

TH E R E is a sea somewherew hether in the lampless c ryptsof the earth, or among sunli t islands, or that which is anunfathomable and terri fying quest ion between the archipelagosof starsthere is a sea (and perhaps its t ides have filled thosegreen transparent pools that gl int l ike eyes in a spring storm-cloud) which is for ever t roubled and in t ravai la bubblingand a heav ing u p of wate rs as tho ugh for the bir th of a fou ntain.The sick and the crippled l ie along the brims in expectat ionof th e m iracle . An d at last, at last . . .A funnel of wh ite water is twis ted up a nd so stan ds, st raig htand st i l l by the very speed of i ts motion.It drinks the light : slowly it is infused with colour, rose andmo ther-of-pearl , Slowly i t take s shape, a heave nly body .O dazzl ing Anadyomene !The flakes of foam break into white birds about her head,fall again in a soft avalanche of flowers. Perpetual miracle,beauty endlessly born.

I ISteamers, in al l your t ravel l ing have you trai led the meshesof your long expiring white nets across this sea, or dipped in ityour sl iding rai l , or balanced your shadow far down upon i tsglass-green sand ? Or, forget t ing the pre- occup ations of commerce and the well-oi led predest inat ion of your machinery, didyou ever put in at the real Paphos ?21

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IIII n t h e c i t y o f T r o y , w h i t h e r o u r A r g o n a u t i c a l v o y a g e s h a d

c a r r i e d u s , w e found H e l e n a nd t h a t l a m e n t a b l e C res s id w h o w a st o C h a u c e r t h e f e m i n i n e p a r a d o x , u n t e n a b l y f a n t a s t i c b u t s ode va s t a t i ng l y a c t u a l , t h e c rys t a l i de a l f l a w e d ; a n d t o S ha k e speare the inevi t ab le t ru l l , f l ayed to show her phys io logica lma c h i ne ry a nd t he l og i c a l c onc l us i on o f e ve ry t he mos t he a r t -r e nd i ng l y i nge nuo us ge s t u r e o f m a i d e nh oo d . (B u t , b l e s s yo u !ou r go rge do e s n ' t r i s e . W e a r e c yn i c a l l y w e ll u p i n t h e d a m ni n gt he o r y of w om a n , w h i c h ma ke s i t a l l t h e mo re a mu s i ng t ow a t c h ou r s e l ve s i n t h e e c s t a t i c p r a c t i c e o f he r . U nfo re s e e np e r v e r s i t y . )

F a bu l ou s H e l e n ! A t he r firm b re a s t s t h e y us e d t o m ou l dde l i c a t e d r i nk i ng c ups w h i c h ma de t he s ou re s t v i ne ga r r i c h l yp o i s o n o u s .

T h e g e o m e t r y of h e r b o d y h a d u t t e r l y o u t w i t t e d E u c l i d ,a nd t he P h i l o s ophe r s w e re ba f f l e d by c u rve s o f a s ub t l e t yi n f i n i t e l y more e l u s i ve a nd E l e us i n i a n t ha n t he mos t o r a c u l a rs pe c u l a t i ons o f P a rm e n i de s . T h e y d i d t he i r be s t t o m a k e ac o h e r e n t s y s t e m o u t of t h e i n c o m p a t i b l e , b u t e m p i r i c a ll yes tab l i she d , fac t s of he r . T i m e , for ins tan ce , wa s abo l i shedwi th in th e c i rc le of he r a r m s . " I t i s e t e rn i ty w hen her l ipst o u c h m e , " P a r i s h a d r e m a r k e d . A n d y e t t h i s s a m e P a r i s w a sma n i f e s t l y a nd no t o r i ous l y f a l l i ng i n t o a de c l i ne , ha d l o s t w ha t e ve r s ens e o r be a u t y he onc e pos s e s s e d , t og e t h e r w i t h h i s m e m orya nd a l l s k i l l i n t he n i ne a r t s w h i c h a r e me mory ' s da ugh t e r s .H o w w a s i t t h e n , t h e s e p e r p l e x e d p h i l o s o p h e r s w o n d e r e d , t h a ts he c ou l d a t one a nd t he s a me mome n t g i ve e t e rn i t y l i ke ag o d d e s s , w h i l e s h e w a s v a m p i r i n g a w a y w i t h t h a t d i v i n e ,

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th i r s t y m ou th of he rs th e l as t d re gs of a po or mo r t a l l ife ?T he y s ough t a n i n s u f f i c i e n t r e fuge i n H e ra c l i t u s ' t he o ry o fo p p o s i t e s .

M e a nw hi l e T ro i l u s w a s a l w a ys t o be found a t s uns e t , pa c i ngu p a n d d o w n t h e w a l ls b y t h e w e s t e r n g a t e q u i t e m a d . A td u s k t h e G r e e k c a m p - f i r e s w o u l d b l o s s o m a l o n g X a n t h u sb a n k s o n e a f te r a n o t h e r , a m y r i a d l i g h t s d a n c i n g in t h e d a r k .

A s w h e n t h e moon , r e fu l ge n t l a m p of n i gh t ,O ' e r he a v e n ' s pu re a z u r e s p r e a d s he r s om e t h i ng l i gh t . . .

H e w ou l d r e pe a t t he s i mi l e t o himself, b u t c o u l d n e v e r r e m e m b e rt h e c o r r ec t e p i t h e t s . N o t t h a t t h e y m a t t e r e d a n y m o r e t h a na n y t h i n g e l s e .

I V" T h e re a r e fine c i t i e s i n t h e w o r l d M a nh a t t a n , E c b a t a n a

a n d H e c a t o m p y l u s b u t t h i s c i t y of T r o y is t h e m o s t f a b u l o u so f t h e m a l l .

" R ome w a s s e ve n h i l l s o f bu t c he r ' s me a t , A t he ns a n a bs t r a c t i o n o f m a r b l e , i n A l e x a n d r i a t h e s t e a m o f k i d n e y - p u d d i n g sr e vo l t e d t h e c oe nob i t e s, da r kne s s a nd s i z e r e nd e r L o nd onina pp rec iab le , Pa r i s i s fu ll o f spa r ro ws , th e sno w li es g r i t t y onB e r l i n , M os c ow ha s no ve r i s i mi l i t ude , a ll t h e E a s t i s pe o p l e dby ma sk s an d apes an d l a rvae . B ut th i s c i ty of Tr oy i s , m os to f a l l , r e a l a nd f a bu l ous w i t h i t s c ha rne l be a u t y .

" I s no t H e l e n t he e nd o f ou r s e a r c h pa ra d i s a l L i t t l e Wor l d ,s ym bo l a nd e p i t o m e o f t h e G re a t ? D a w n s l ee ps i n t h e t r a ns pa re n t s ha do w o f r o s e s w i t h i n he r e a r . T h e s t a i n l e s s c a nd ou ro f i n fi ni ty fa r-o ff pe a ks in s um m e r a nd t he M i l ky W a y ha st a k e n m a rve l l ous fo rm i n he r . T h e L i t t l e W or l d ha s i t s m e t e o r s

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comets and shadowy clouds of hair, stars at whose glance mengo plan et-stru ck. Meteorsyes, and histor y i t has . The pa stis stil l alive in the fragrance of her hair and her young bodybreathes forth memories as old as the beginning of lifeEros,first of gods . In her is th e goal. I res t here with H ele n."" Fo ol ," I said. " Quo te you r Fa us tus . I go fur ther ."

VFurther but a hund red L i l liput ian te thers preven t me, thewh ite nerv es which tie soul to skin. And th e whole air isaching wi th epidermical magnet i sm.Fu rthe r , fur ther . Bu t Troy is the b i r th-p lace of my homesickness. Tr oy is m ore th an a pa trio tism , for it is bu ilt of m yvery flesh ; the remembrance of it is a fire that sticks and tearswhen I would pull it off.B ut further. One last look at Troi lus where he stan ds bythe western gate , s tar ing over the p la in . Fu rthe r . Wh en Ihave learnt the t ruth, I wil l return and build a new palace withdomes less ominously like breasts, and there I will invent asafer Helen and a less paradoxical Cressid, and my harem willbe a very l ibrary for enl ightenment.

V IHer e are pago das of diminishing bells . The leopard sleepsin the depth of his rosy cavern, and when he breathes i t is asmell of irresistible sweetness : in the bestiaries he is the symbolof Christ in his sepulchre.This listening conch has collected all the rumours ofpan theism ; the dew in this veined cup is th e sa cra m ent of

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nature, while these pale thuribles worship in the dark withyel low lamps and incense.Everywhere alchemical profusionthe golden mintage ofglades and ripples, vigils of passion enriched with silverunder the fingers of the moon ; everywhere lavishness, colour,music ; th e sm oothness of mac hinery , incredible a nd fantast icingenuit ies. God has lost his half-hu nter in the deser t .

But we have no t come to worsh ip among these Goth icbeeches, for all their pillars and the lace-work of their greenwindow s. W e are looking for other thing s th an ch urch es.

V I ITrees, the half fossilised exuberances of a passionate life,petri f ied fountains of intemperancewith their abol i t ion beginsthe realm of reason.Ge om etry, lines and planes, smooth edges, th e ordered horro rof perspec t ives . In th i s count ry there a re pave me nts b r igh tan d sleek as w ate r. Th e walls are precipices to which gian tshav e nailed a perp etua l cata rac t of m arble. The fringes of th esky are scal loped with a pa t te rn of domes and min are ts . A tn igh t , too , the down-s t ruck lamps are pyramids of phantom

green and the perfect circle they make upon the pavement ismagica l .Look over the pa rap et of th e Acropolis. Th e bridges godizzily down on their swaying catenaries, the gull 's fl ightcha ined fast. Th e walls dro p clear int o th e valley , all th emillions of basalt blocks calcined into a single red monolith,fluted with thirstily shining organ pipes, which seem for ever25

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we t . Th ere a re no c rev ices for mo ss an d toad - f l ax , an d ev enth e c laws of th e yel low l ichen s l ip on i t s po l ish ed f lanks .

Th e va l l ey i s a l l pa ve d an d in la id w i th r ive rs of s t ee l . N ot r e e s , f o r t he y ha ve be e n a bo l i s he d ." G l o r i o u s u n n a t u r e ! " c r ie s t h e w a t c h e r a t t h e pa r a pe t . H i svo i c e l a unc he s i n t o t he a bys s , f o l l ow i ng t he c u r ve o f t he b r i dge s ." G l o r i o u s u n n a t u r e ! W e h a v e t r i u m p h e d ! "

B u t h i s l au gh te r a s i t desc end s i s l ike a flight of b ro ke ns t e p s .

V I I IL e t u s a b a n do n ou r s e l ve s t o T i m e , w h i c h i s be a u t y ' s e s s e nc e .

W e l i v e a m o n g t h e p e r p e t u a l d e g e n e r a t i o n s o f a p o t h e o s e s .Sunse t d i s so lves in to sof t g rey snow, an d the d eep ocean of mid n i gh t , bound l e s s a s f o r ge t f u l ne s s o r s ome ye t und i s c ove r e dP a c if i c, c o n t r a c t s i n t o t h e g r e e n pu dd l e o f t h e da w n . T h eflowers b u r n t o du s t w i t h t he i r ow n b r i g h t n e s s . O n t h e ba n kso f a nc i e n t r i ve r s s t a nd t h e p i t if u l s t u m ps o f hu ge t ow e r s a nd t h egho s t s o f de a d m e n s t r a i n i ng t o r e t u r n i n t o l if e. T h e w ood s a r ef ull o f t h e s me l l of t r a n s i e n c e . B e a u t y , t he n , i s t h a t m om e n t o fde s c e n t w he n a po t he os i s t i l t s i t s w i ngs dow nw a r ds i n t o t he gulf.T he e nds of t h e c u r ve lo s e t he m s e l v e s pa r a b o l i c a l l y s om e w h e r ei n i n f i n i ty . O u r s e n t i m e n t a l e ye s s e e on l y t he mi dd l e s e c t i ono f t h i s de g e ne r a t i on , kn ow i ng ne i t he r t he upp e r no r t h e l ow e re x t r e m e s , w h i c h s o m e h a v e t h o u g h t t o m e e t , g o d h e a d a n da n n i h i l a t i o n .

O l d Cur i o s i t y S hop s ! I f I have sa id : " Mor ta l i ty i s beauty , " 'i t was a we akn ess . Th e sense of t im e i s a sy m p to m of anaemiao f t h e s ou l , t h r ou gh w h i c h c i r c u l a t e s a nge l i c i c ho r . W e m us te s c a pe f r om t he dus t o f t he s hop .

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Cloi s te red da rkn ess an d s l eep offer us the i r lo tu ses . N ot t operc e ive w here a l l i s ug ly , ea te n in to by th e syphi l i s of t ime ,he a r t - s i c ke n i ng t h i s i s be a u t y : no t t o de s i r e w h e re de a t h i st h e o n ly c o n s u m m a t i o n w i s d o m .N i g h t i s a me a s u re l e s s de e p s i le nc e : da yb re a k b r i ngs ba c kt h e foet id gu t t e r s o f t he t ow n . O , s up re m e be a u t y of a n i g h tt h a t know s no l i m i t a t i ons s t a r s o r t h e j a gge d e dge s o f c oc k -c row i ng . D e s pe ra t e , m y m i nd ha s de s i r e d i t : ne v e r m y b l ood ,w hos e pu l s e i s a r hy t hm o f t he w or l d .

A t t he o t he r e x t r e me , B e a t r i c e l a c ks s o l i d i t y , i s a s un re s pons i ve t o yo u r k i s se s a s m a t he m a t i c s . S he t o o is a n oub l i e t t e ,no t a w a y o f li fe : a n ou b l i e t t e t ha t , a dm i t t e d l y , s hoo t s yo uup w a rd s i n t o l i gh t , no t do w n t o de a t h ; b u t i t c ome s t o t h e s a m et h i n g i n t h e e n d .W h a t t h e n is t h e c o m m o n m e a s u r e ? T o t a k e t h e w o r l da s i t i s, bu t me t a ph or i c a l l y , i n fo r mi n g t he c ha os of na t u r e w i t ha s ou l , qua l i f y i ng t r a ns i e nc e w i t h e t e rn i t y .

W he n f lowers a r e t h ou gh t s a nd l one l y pop l a r s f ou n t a i n s ofa s p i r i ng l ong i ng : w he n ou r a c t i ons a r e t he poe m o f w h i c h a l lge ogra ph i e s a nd a r c h i t e c t u r e s a nd e ve ry s c i e nc e a nd a l l t heu n c l a s s e d i n d i v i d u a l o d d s a n d e n d s a r e t h e w o r d s ; w h e n e v e nH e l e n ' s w h i t e v o l u p t u o u s n e s s m a t c h e s s o m e c a n d o u r o f t h e s o u l t he n i t w i l l ha ve be e n found , t he pe rma ne n t a nd l i v i nglove l ines s .I t i s no t a f a r - f e tc he d , de a r boug h t ge m ; no po m a n de r t ob e s m e l t o n l y w h e n t h e c r o w d b e c o m e s t o o s t i n k i n g l y i n s i s t e n t ;i t i s not a bi r th of rare oboes or viol ins , not vis ible only fromt e n t o s ix by s t a t e pe rmi s s i o n a t a no mi n a l c ha rg e , no t a t h i n gr ich ly ap ar t , but an e th ic , a w ay of be l ie f an d of pra c t i c e , o ff a i t h a nd w orks , me d i va l i n i t s i mp l i c a t i on w i t h t he ve ry

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thr ea ds of l ife. I desire no Pa ph ian cloister of pink m on ks .R ath er a rosy Brotherhood of Com mon Life , ea t ing , dr inking;m arry ing and g iv ing in ma rr iage ; ta k in g and taken in adul tery ;reading, thinking, and when thinking fai ls , feel ing immeasurablymore subt ly , somet imes perhaps crea t ing .Arduous search for one who is chained by his desires to deadcarcases, whose eyes are dimmed with tears by the slow heart-breaking twilights full of old family ghosts laid in lavender,whose despair cries out for opiate and ano dyn e, cravin g grosssleep or a place on the airy unsupported pinnacles which hangin the steri le upper chambers of ether.

Ventre a terre, head in airyour centaurs are your onlypoe ts. Their hoofs strike sparks from th e flints and they seeboth very near and immensely far .

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E R I C D I C K I N S O N

T H E I L E X G R O V EIN the noise of the surf that gets down to the bones of men Iloved you :In th e noise of the wind crying out l ike a beas t to th e h eath -moon ' s l i gh t ;And I loved the white of your body l ike milk on the foam of theb reakers ,And I dreamed your l imbs sped in hymnals to Lucet ius piercerof night .

Yea, the strength of your naked youth should shine pure in agrove of ilex :So wondrous, so perfect your youth in the beauty godlike ofma n ;And though I be tossed l ike a cockle in the tumult of years Iwould win you :Yea, though I be smote to the knees in the hoof-cloaked gladesof Pan.For the glamour of splendour, and truth of your nature is

perfect as beautyDrawn to the nets of the fishers who delve in meads sea deep :And Love, afloat in the swirl of the moon's high concourse, isshr ivenIf we two live perfect together before we are put to sleep.

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T U S C A N L O V E S O N G

H E I G H ho ! you l inger st i l l ;Oh, why do you stay,S imonet ta , my love , whom I k issed away,And dreaming my love to ki l l ?Ah, sadly speaks the day !W ithou t song the n ight I have w ai ted ,Without life until you comeWhy is i t you do not come ?The sun has sunk to his purple bed,The wind has jos tled the pop py 's head :Al l my p leasaunce wi th sorrow mated .

Heigh ho ! you linger stil l ;Oh, why do you s tay ,Simonetta, my love, whom I kissed away,And dreaming my love to ki l l ?Ah, sadly spea ks the day !O love, from pass ionate madnessI pass to a mist of tearsWhich arise in a night of fears.Ah, the summer noon saw you go to the town-

And what l ips now at the hem of your gownAnd I alone with sadness.Heigh ho ! you linger stil l :Oh, why do you s tay ,Sim one tta, my love, whom 1 kissed a wa y,And dreaming my love to ki l l ?Ah, sadly speaks the day !

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T H E M O T H E R ' S S O N G

I N y o u r e y e s I se e t h e l i g h t of t h e m o o n ,B u t b l a c k i n t h e m o o n ' s p l a yI s t h e d o o m o f a m o t h e r w h o w e a r e t h s o o nT h e r a i m e n t o f D e a t h ' s a r r a y ;O c al m w h i t e l a d y , w h a t d o y o u s a y

R i d i n g u n d e r t h e m o o n ?Hi s l o o m s a r e we a v i n g a n d n e v e r a r e s t i l l ,

A n d g a r m e n t s h e h a s i n h i s r o o mT h a t a s h a p e e m b r o i d e r s fr o m m o r n t o n i g h t

W i t h c u n n i n g w i z a r d sk i ll :Fo r a b r i d e De a t h sp i n s a d r e s s o f wh i t e

An d a b l a c k h e sp i n s f o r a g r o o m .O wi t c h - m a i d , s t r a i g h t i n t h e l i g h t of t h e m o o n

On y o u r f o a l o f m o t t l e d g r e y ,W h a t i s y o u r r e d e b e fo r e 1 swo o nI n t h e a r m s o f t h i s wh i t e d a y ?O c a lm w h i t e l a d y , w h a t d o y o u s a y

R i d i n g u n d e r t h e m o o n ?Ah , l o u d e r t h e l o o m s t h a t n e v e r a r e s t i l l ,

P l a i n e r t h e c l o t h i n h i s r o o mT h a t h e s h a k e s a t m o r n i n g a n d s m o o t h s a t n i g h t

W or k o f h i s t i r e l e ss sk i ll :Fo r t h e b r i d e t h e r o b e o f v i r g i n wh i t e ,

A n d t h e c a v e r n ' s h u e f o r t h e g r o o m .3 1

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O witch-maid, with sheen of the mountain-beech,Before you ride awayYou know of the night that shal l hush my speech,But what will you tell of the day ?O calm white lady, what is i t you sayRiding under th e m oon ?

B E A T A S O L I T U D OD EAR love, there never touched the world 's fa in t brea thUpon our p lay . He re wi th m y cheek to th ineI dwell in gardens west of the dawn and eastOf the moon ; beyond the pinnacles of t imeAn d life. Th e crim son trapp ing- bells of loveLend al l their notes to golden noons whereinWe race, breaking the whispered marge of poolsWith flash of fawn, and seeking all the mirthOf sum m er's l ips. 1 deem these chased hoursAnd six upon the skein of my sweet joyI 've threaded nowmore rare than or ient pear l sUpon the ivory of costly slaves.And music we have stolen subtler farThan reed-song's voice between the l ips of PanWhen from the sedges of the brook MolpeiaHe gathered i t to wake a humid noon.And did Death come with shri l ly t read and swift ,He would not spoil our blossomed t ime, my love,With ebon shade, for we should view a homeOf fret ted heights, a palace shaped by hands

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More cunning than Arabian slaves, and rearedEre monsters quarrel led on the high world 's ridge,Or sea orcs shrieked t he P olyp hem e for friend,Or t ime, or earth, or space made covenantTo shelter love, ere he with gentle sighHis reign began . He re with my cheek to thineI work the warp and woof of this one hourUnsull ied by the world 's faint breath, that whenUnto the world we must re turn , we mayIn rich recall forget the day's tired end,So dream of al l the magic wonder-worth enshrined.

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HAROLD J. MASSINGHAM

PILS DON PENWHEN I saw you across the valeSo many miles, O Pils don Pen,High , low, great , small , I sent you outSuch flocks of fancies then." A haugh ty b ronze of couchant l ion,Symbol of some slave people 's woe,Glowering on puny s t a tue t t e sOf jackal-hills below.

" A dark-winged pr ivateer ing c loud,B o u n d for the gold-fields of the sun,Sunk in some heavenly hurr icaneLies here and his last voyage done." The fortress of the robber winds,Whence they despoi l r ich autumn t reesA nd see the sun 's ambassadors ,Those shadows, bowing at your knees ." A hope far off but permanen t ,Fond image of melancholy ,W h e n May is too l ike October,W h e n we are sad and know not why." Form of imaginat ion 's self,Castle made visible of Spain,

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A monumental l ine of verse,A thought of tal l disdain." But now, my Gull iver, I 've cl imbedYour hai ry chest , and topped your crown,Then you ' re the Lat in adjec t ive ,But I 'm the Saxon noun." Your wind-scored eyes can spy that town,But I can see the hi l l beyond ;I 'm one straight hair on your big head,Bu t migh ty as a wand ." The child is father of the man,If you are tall , I am still more,If you'l l not grant me victory,I ' l l s tamp you t i l l you roar."

T O D O N Q U I X O T E

YOU saw the world a golden age,A country wench a Queen,What is dul l , wonted, formal , staleMagnificent H as Been ;Against you, zany of world 's stage,The m an of safety w ins ;But heaven shal l be your own t i l t -yard,Its palaces your inns.35

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T O W . H . D .

WHEN you have f lown the world ,In n ineteen n inety-n ine ,A Bird of Paradise,As rad iant as your l ine .The p ip ing auct ioneerWill sound your ancient name," Genuine copy wri tFrom D. to H. J . M."

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CHAMAN LALL

D R E A M SS TAND upon a precip ice ,Catch the cold starsIn the caverns of your eyes,Unti l the long night surely fi l ls with dreams :But then,W ha t need hav e you of dreams ?L E G E N D S

TH E bronze of his bodyFlashed through the marble hal lWhen the Egypt ian danced to music .Leaning idly against a pi l lar,With shy meaning hidden in her looks,She gazed upon the bronze of his body.Guard well your secret :O keen-eyed p ic turesque lady!There are ancient legends in your looks.

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D E P A R T U R EI

TH IS wind sighing recal ls certain things.I warned you :Beware of it :Passion has w ings ;And wil l return with the year 's returnLike a bird on migrant wings.This wind sighing recallsCerta in hal f-remembered th ings .I IY OU have left something of you behind,But you went wi th eager s tep ,Fearful , lest what you have left behindShould hal t your eager step.When the lean years br ing you back,Y ou will be as oneW ho has laughed the lean years wi th s t range m en ;Y ou will be different th en .IIIBEY ON D the ga t e of t he sunI shall not seek you :Before the last days are doneY ou have sung your last song,Y ou have p layed your las t tune ,Y ou have danced your s teps too soon.38

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I t is not easyWhen grea t moments a re so few :Beyond the ga te of the sunI shall not seek you.

T R E E S

TH E R E sways the Queen of ChinaIn her c loak of red embroideries ,You may go seek in far countriesWhere rocks, maybe, grow coloured treesTha t home the s to ry ing myna ,But f ind no trees in those countriesLike the red-robed Queen of China.

* * * *

I SAW a goddessIn a temple ,Carved in ivory,Bending grace GrcianOver a marble pool of water ,Where walls of black rockGlazed in the gloamingStr iking s i lence upon the gazer .39

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R U S S E L L G R E E NH I L L SA S I go inland,Lo ! m y hear t droopingAs a bird 's in the grove when the shadowfalls swoopingOf the hawk's wing down from a clouded sky.

For the hi l ls creep together,Murmuring , conspi r ing;Soli tude, poverty, sorrow desiringFor men that are born to dream and to d ie .A prison land-locked,A grave for the living,And the ancient warders, unsleeping, unforgiving,Cordon after cordon, massing behind me.I am in peri l ; I have left the sea.

D E F E A TI H A V E struggled in the aren a. I hav e pursu ed the elusivefoe. I have slashed at the quivering air , that flut teredagainst my brow l ike a thousand puny flags as i t thri l led withth e he at of the sun. I ha ve been deluded by th e bafflingR etia ry. The blood and sweat of th e com bat bre ath e over m yeyes in a swoon of nausea.And al l the t ime the dim circles of the amphitheatre have40

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looked on, imm obile , dissecting me with scruti ny. Pale mu tefaces, are you dea d ? W ill yo u no t cry out ?if it is onlyderis ion of m y li t t le pe tu lan t agonies. O drow n me in a c lamou rof scorn, c rush me with a tu m ul t of co nt em pt ! W hat ? Doyou n ot hold m e wo rthy even of scorn, even of con tem pt ?Still this implacab le s ilence ? W hy ! the n I will tu rn this swordaga ins t myself. Then I may sit with you and look on with you,cold, calm, silent.

P L E A D I N G

A RE we not a l l as unknown merchantmenCome from a distant haven, freighted allWith curious cargo of unsorted wares ?And if the ensign wavering over usChance at the f irs t to be unrecognised,W ha t m at t e r ? Sure ly noth ing can ensureThe worth of a ll the hidden merchandiseSave bu t to see. And if with out assayOne have dismissed a sea-worn argosy,Deep-laden as the ships of old that cameFrom Ophir ,Wave-weary, seeking the long harbourageSo often mir aged in th e clouds of hope . . .Well ! to the deep it must beat out again,Drive back into the weary silences.Why should one thwar t the Sower as he sows,Or burn the furrows ere the seed be sprung

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Even to the tender b lade ?There might have come the ful l corn in the ear,Sighing before the slow soft winds of night,Full harvest for a splendid garnering.Why should you be but one more broken dream,A melancholy memory t i l l the farEndings of earth and faltering fall of life ?

E S Q U I S S E S

TH E shadow of m y head on the wall overthere is four feet wide.Now I wonderHad I a brain as large as thatIf I should be God ?

Since you envelop m e, since you shea th me w ith pleasure,since whenever I wander through the pale underworld ofthought , I f ind that al l roads lead back to you, how then shouldI make poems to you ?Fo r do men fling pearls into the o pule nt sea ?

Is i t bu t th a t thou g iv 's t me ?No deeper,As one with another l ight ly,By chance, on a journey,With careless wit and word of careless jest,Neurot ic laughter .42

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Then, as l ight par t ing ?Oh ! is there nothing deeper ?I came along on my wayAnd I found a girl on my way,And she d id no t unders t and ;But she gave me a few kisses, words, and smilesTo help me on my way.And I went on my way.

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T. S. ELIOT

A C O O K I N G E G GP I P I T sate upright in her chairSome distance from where I was si t t ing ;Views of the Oxford CollegesLay on the tab le , wi th the kni t t ing .Daguerreotypes and s i lhouet tes ,Her g randfa the r and g rea t -g rea t -aun t s ,Supp orted on the mante lp ieceAn Invitation to the Danc e.

I shal l not want Honour in Heaven,For I shall meet Sir Philip SidneyAnd have talk with CoriolanusAnd other heroes of his kidney.I shal l not want Capital in Heaven,For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond,We two shal l l ie together, laptIn a five per cent Exchequer Bond.I shal l not want Society in Heaven,Lucrezia Borgia shal l be my Bride ;Her anecdotes wi l l be more amusingThan Pip i t ' s memory could provide .

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AT THE BOM B SHOPC L I F F O R D B A X Post PaidTwenty-Five Chinese Poems Is. 3d.

Paraphrased by Clifford Bax' Who is there now that could not understandHow men by everything they call their own,Do but weigh down the common weight of careThat rich or poor must bear ? ' A Winter's Night.

J O S I P K O S O RPeople of the Universe

Four Serbo-Croatian PlaysThe Woman, Pass ion's Furnace , Reconci l ia t ion, TheInvincible Ship.

M I L E S M A L L E S O NY o u t h A Play in Three Acts

' You will die unless you doFind a mate to whisper to. 'The Li t t le Whi te Thought

A Fantastic Scrap' A charming little play depicting the intercourse and conflictof various though ts in a man 's m indthe thought of somebody else's wealth, the thought of beauty, the thought of thegirl he loves, day dreams, etc.unified by a new thou ght ofthe purpose of life. 'A thenm.

P a d d l y P o o l s A Little Fairy Play' It gives in fairy lan guag e deepest m eanings . . anabiding joy both to children and to up-g rown folk.'Edwd. Carpenter.

6s. 6d.

Is. 8d.

Is. Id.

Is. Id.

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M I L E S M A L L E S O N Post PaidD C O . and B l a c k ' E l l Two Plays

[Ou t of print: seized by the War Office.]Maurice's Own Idea ALittle Dream Play Is. Id.Gerhart Hauptmann's Plays :

I . Before D awn The W eavers The Beaver CoatThe Conflagration

I I . Drayman HenschelRose BerndThe RatsI I I . The Reconciliation Lonely Lives ColleagueCramptonMichael KramerIV. Hannele The Sunken Bel lH enry of Aue

L A S C E L L E S A B E R C R O M B I ESpeculative Dialogues

Famine and PestilenceMinos and A GhostA Beggar andHis DogEar th and A CrowdLust and LoveSciencean d The WorldPhilosophy and The AngelTime andEterni ty

All th e above in Paper Wrappers, post paid, a t prices named.

HENDERSONS 6 6 CHARINGC R O S S R O A D L O N D O N

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C O T E R I ENo. I . MAY-DAY, 1919Half - a - CrownT h e B o m b S h o p