GUARDS!

A Review in Hyde Park 1913. The Crowd Watches.

WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and blue-tinted in the distance, Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey- green park Rests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of guards Smouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay- onets' slant rain. Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horse Guarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh, And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslant In tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling—ineffable tedium! So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space, With white plumes blinking under the evening grey sky. And suddenly, as if the ground moved The red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply.

EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS

The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see! in the flush of a march Softly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir from the arch Of shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward shades of our night Encroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and throb of delight. The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing red breast of approach Upon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit- tering, dark threats that broach Our beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and closed warm lips, and dark Mouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck of our bark. And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the busbies are gone. But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from out of oblivion Knows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the red-swift waves of the sweet Fire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of retreat.

THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING

THE chime of the bells, and the church clock striking eight Solemnly and distinctly cries down the babel of children still playing in the hay. The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and great In shadow, covering us up with her grey. Like drowsy children the houses fall asleep Under the fleece of shadow, as in between Tall and dark the church moves, anxious to keep Their sleeping, cover them soft unseen. Hardly a murmur comes from the sleeping brood, I wish the church had covered me up with the rest In the home-place. Why is it she should exclude Me so distinctly from sleeping with those I love best?

LAST HOURS

THE cool of an oak's unchequered shade Falls on me as I lie in deep grass Which rushes upward, blade beyond blade, While higher the darting grass-flowers pass Piercing the blue with their crocketed spires And waving flags, and the ragged fires Of the sorrel's cresset—a green, brave town Vegetable, new in renown. Over the tree's edge, as over a mountain Surges the white of the moon, A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain, Pressing round and low at first, but soon Heaving and piling a round white dome. How lovely it is to be at home Like an insect in the grass Letting life pass. There's a scent of clover crept through my hair From the full resource of some purple dome Where that lumbering bee, who can hardly bear His burden above me, never has clomb. But not even the scent of insouciant flowers Makes pause the hours. Down the valley roars a townward train. I hear it through the grass Dragging the links of my shortening chain Southwards, alas!

TOWN

LONDON Used to wear her lights splendidly, Flinging her shawl-fringe over the River, Tassels in abandon. And up in the sky A two-eyed clock, like an owl Solemnly used to approve, chime, chiming, Approval, goggle-eyed fowl. There are no gleams on the River, No goggling clock; No sound from St. Stephen's; No lamp-fringed frock. Instead, Darkness, and skin-wrapped Fleet, hurrying limbs, Soft-footed dead. London Original, wolf-wrapped In pelts of wolves, all her luminous Garments gone. London, with hair Like a forest darkness, like a marsh Of rushes, ere the Romans Broke in her lair. It is well That London, lair of sudden Male and female darknesses Has broken her spell.

AFTER THE OPERA

DOWN the stone stairs Girls with their large eyes wide with tragedy Lift looks of shocked and momentous emotion up at me. And I smile. Ladies Stepping like birds with their bright and pointed feet Peer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out of the wreckage, And among the wreck of the theatre crowd I stand and smile. They take tragedy so becomingly. Which pleases me. But when I meet the weary eyes The reddened aching eyes of the bar-man with thin arms, I am glad to go back to where I came from.

GOING BACK

THE NIGHT turns slowly round, Swift trains go by in a rush of light; Slow trains steal past. This train beats anxiously, outward bound. But I am not here. I am away, beyond the scope of this turning; There, where the pivot is, the axis Of all this gear. I, who sit in tears, I, whose heart is torn with parting; Who cannot bear to think back to the departure platform; My spirit hears Voices of men Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences, And more than all, the dead-sure silence, The pivot again. There, at the axis Pain, or love, or grief Sleep on speed; in dead certainty; Pure relief. There, at the pivot Time sleeps again. No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected Silence of men.

ON THE MARCH

WE are out on the open road. Through the low west window a cold light flows On the floor where never my numb feet trode Before; onward the strange road goes. Soon the spaces of the western sky With shutters of sombre cloud will close. But we'll still be together, this road and I, Together, wherever the long road goes. The wind chases by us, and over the corn Pale shadows flee from us as if from their foes. Like a snake we thresh on the long, forlorn Land, as onward the long road goes. From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out; Through the poplars the night-wind blows; Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about As the wind asks whither the wan road goes. Away in the distance wakes a lamp. Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows. But they come no nearer, and still we tramp Onward, wherever the strange road goes. Beat after beat falls sombre and dull. The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows What will be in the final lull When we find the place where this dead road goes. For something must come, since we pass and pass Along in the coiled, convulsive throes

Of this marching, along with the invisible grass That goes wherever this old road goes. Perhaps we shall come to oblivion. Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone Down the endless slope where the last road goes. If so, let us forge ahead, straight on If we're going to sleep the sleep with those That fall forever, knowing none Of this land whereon the wrong road goes.

BOMBARDMENT

THE TOWN has opened to the sun. Like a flat red lily with a million petals She unfolds, she comes undone. A sharp sky brushes upon The myriad glittering chimney-tips As she gently exhales to the sun. Hurrying creatures run Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower. What is it they shun? A dark bird falls from the sun. It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast Flower: the day has begun.

WINTER-LULL

Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed Into awe. No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed Vibration to draw Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed. A crow floats past on level wings Noiselessly. Uninterrupted silence swings Invisibly, inaudibly To and fro in our misgivings. We do not look at each other, we hide Our daunted eyes. White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside. It all belies Our existence; we wait, and are still denied. We are folded together, men and the snowy ground Into nullity. There is silence, only the silence, never a sound Nor a verity To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!