Poems

When Adam went from Paradise He saw the Sword and ran; The dreadful shape, the new device, The pointed end of Paradise, And saw what Peril is and Price, And knew he was a man.

When Adam went from Paradise, He turned him back and cried For a little flower from Paradise; There came no flower from Paradise; The woods were dark in Paradise, And not a bird replied.

For only comfort or contempt, For jest or great reward, Over the walls of Paradise, The flameless gates of Paradise, The dumb shut doors of Paradise, God flung the flaming sword.

It burns the hand that holds it More than the skull it scores; It doubles like a snake and stings, Yet he in whose hand it swings He is the most masterful of things, A scorner of the stars.

When I came back to Fleet Street, Through a sunset nook at night, And saw the old Green Dragon With the windows all alight, And hailed the old Green Dragon And the Cock I used to know, Where all good fellows were my friends A little while ago;

I had been long in meadows, And the trees took hold of me, And the still towns in the beech-woods, Where men were meant to be. But old things held; the laughter, The long unnatural night, And all the truth they talk in hell, And all the lies they write.

For I came back to Fleet Street, And not in peace I came; A cloven pride was in my heart, And half my love was shame. I came to fight in fairy-tale, Whose end shall no man know— To fight the old Green Dragon Until the Cock shall crow!

Under the broad bright windows Of men I serve no more, The groaning of the old great wheels Thickened to a throttled roar; All buried things broke upward; And peered from its retreat, Ugly and silent, like an elf, The secret of the street.

They did not break the padlocks, Or clear the wall away. The men in debt that drank of old Still drink in debt to-day; Chained to the rich by ruin, Cheerful in chains, as then When old unbroken Pickwick walked Among the broken men.

Still he that dreams and rambles Through his own elfin air, Knows that the street's a prison, Knows that the gates are there: Still he that scorns or struggles Sees, frightful and afar. All that they leave of rebels Rot high on Temple Bar.

All that I loved and hated, All that I shunned and knew, Clears in broad battle lightning, Where they, and I, and you, Run high the barricade that breaks The barriers of the street, And shout to them that shrink within, The Prisoners of the Fleet.

To J.S.M.

EXTRACT FROM A ROMANCE WHICH IS NOT YET WRITTEN AND PROBABLY NEVER WILL BE.

The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine; God brought it burning from the sod To be a sign and signal rod That they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again.

The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey, The purple wine of Paradise, But we have better at the price; It's wine they praise in Paradise, It's cider that they pray.

The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End, The apple wine of Hereford, Of Hafod Hill and Hereford, Where woods went down to Hereford, And there I had a friend.

The soft feet of the blessed go In the soft western vales, The road the silent saints accord, The road from Heaven to Hereford, Where the apple wood of Hereford Goes all the way to Wales.

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day, There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away, And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide, Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride. The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars. With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars, Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above, The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love. Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain, You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.

The chance of battle changes—so may all battle be; I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me. I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes. She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine; The sunset never loved me; the wind was never mine. Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse? Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress. O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown, You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day, They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way, I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers. As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers. How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave. Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave. Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie, When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky. The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose,— You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.

Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich, uncounted loans, What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones? My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease, Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas. To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given, The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven. The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see. To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me: One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath: You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

Heaven shall forgive you Bridge at dawn, The clothes you wear—or do not wear— And Ladies' Leap-frog on the lawn And dyes and drugs, and petits verres. Your vicious things shall melt in air...... But for the Virtuous Things you do, The Righteous Work, the Public Care, It shall not be forgiven you.

Because you could not even yawn When your Committees would prepare To have the teeth of paupers drawn, Or strip the slums of Human Hair; Because a Doctor Otto Maehr Spoke of "a segregated few"— And you sat smiling in your chair— It shall not be forgiven you.

Though your sins cried to—Father Vaughan, These desperate you could not spare Who steal, with nothing left to pawn; You caged a man up like a bear For ever in a jailor's care Because his sins were more than two...... I know a house in Hoxton where It shall not be forgiven you.

Princess, you trapped a guileless Mayor To meet some people that you knew... When the Last Trumpet rends the air It shall not be forgiven you.

They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward— It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored— I rose politely in the club And said, "I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?"

The new world's wisest did surround Me; and it pains me to record I did not think their views profound, Or their conclusions well assured; The simple life I can't afford, Besides, I do not like the grub— I wait a mash and sausage, "scored"— Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found, Anger and clamorous accord, And virtues growing from the ground, And fellowship of beer and board, And song, that is a sturdy cord. And hope, that is a hardy shrub, And goodness, that is God's last word— Will someone take me to a pub?

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword To see the sort of knights you dub—Is that the last of them—O Lord! Will someone take me to a pub?

I have not read a rotten page Of "Sex-Hate" or "The Social Test," And here comes "Husks" and "Heritage".... O Moses, give us all a rest! "Ethics of Empire"!... I protest I will not even cut the strings, I'll read "Jack Redskin on the Quest" And feed my brain with better things.

Somebody wants a Wiser Age (He also wants me to invest); Somebody likes the Finnish Stage Because the Jesters do not jest; And grey with dust is Dante's crest, The bell of Rabelais soundless swings; And the winds come out of the west And feed my brain with better things.

Lord of our laughter and our rage. Look on us with our sins oppressed! I, too, have trodden mine heritage, Wickedly wearying of the best. Burn from my brain and from my breast Sloth, and the cowardice that clings, And stiffness and the soul's arrest: And feed my brain with better things.

Prince, you are host and I am guest, Therefore I shrink from cavillings.... But I should have that fizz suppressed And feed my brain with better things.

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours—on the wall— Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay—My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and grey— Perhaps the rector's mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H.G. Wells has found that children play. And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The sky is blue with summer and the sun, The woods are brown as autumn with the tan, It might as well be Tropics and be done, I might as well be born a copper Khan; I fashion me an oriental fan Made of the wholly unreceipted bills Brought by the ice-man, sleeping in his van (A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

I read the Young Philosophers for fun —Fresh as our sorrow for the late Queen Anne— The Dionysians whom a pint would stun, The Pantheists who never heard of Pan. —But through my hair electric needles ran, And on my book a gout of water spills, And on the skirts of heaven the guns began (A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

O fields of England, cracked and dry and dun, O soul of England, sick of words, and wan!— The clouds grow dark;—the down-rush has begun. —It comes, it comes, as holy darkness can, Black as with banners, ban and arriere-ban; A falling laughter all the valley fills, Deep as God's thunder and the thirst of man: (A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

Prince, Prince-Elective on the modern plan Fulfilling such a lot of People's Wills, You take the Chiltern Hundreds while you can— A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills.