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- Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Serie: Delphi Poets Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Charles Sorley is unique among the war poets in his precocious recognition of the horror of war, which would only be realised by Owen, Sassoon and Rosenberg after witnessing the Somme. His poetry is ambivalent, ironic and profound. It reveals him as a poet of marked individuality and an extraordinary maturity of mind, when considering he died at the age of twenty in the Battle of Loos in 1915. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Sorley’s complete works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Sorley’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Sorley’s life and poetry
* The complete works, with rare Juvenilia poems appearing here for the first time in digital print
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Sorley’s letters and a biography by his parents — spend hours exploring the poet’s personal correspondence
* Ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to see our wide range of poet titles
CONTENTS:
The Life and Poetry of Charles Sorley
Brief Introduction: Charles Sorley
Complete Works of Charles Sorley
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Biography and Letters
The Letters of Charles Sorley
Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of poetry titles or buy the entire Delphi Poets Series as a Super Set
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Seitenzahl: 596
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Charles Sorley
(1895-1915)
Contents
The Life and Poetry of Charles Sorley
Brief Introduction: Charles Sorley
Complete Works of Charles Sorley
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Biography and Letters
The Letters of Charles Sorley
The Delphi Classics Catalogue
© Delphi Classics 2022
Version 1
Browse the entire series…
Charles Sorley
By Delphi Classics, 2022
COPYRIGHT
Charles Sorley - Delphi Poets Series
First published in the United Kingdom in 2022 by Delphi Classics.
© Delphi Classics, 2022.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.
ISBN: 978 1 80170 055 9
Delphi Classics
is an imprint of
Delphi Publishing Ltd
Hastings, East Sussex
United Kingdom
Contact: [email protected]
www.delphiclassics.com
NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.
The Life and Poetry of Charles Sorley
Aberdeen, Scotland — Charles Sorley’s birthplace
Aberdeen in 1895, the year Sorley was born
Brief Introduction: Charles Sorley
The Scottish war poet Charles Hamilton Sorley (1895-1915) was born in Powis House Aberdeen, the son of the philosopher and University Professor William Ritchie Sorley. He was educated at King’s College School, Cambridge, and then like Siegfried Sassoon, at Marlborough College (1908-13). At Marlborough his favourite pursuit was cross-country running in the rain, a theme that appears in many of his pre-war poems, including Rain and The Song of the Ungirt Runners. In keeping with his strict Protestant upbringing, Sorley entertained strong views on right and wrong and on two occasions he volunteered to be punished for breaking school rules.
Before taking up a scholarship to study at University College, Oxford, Sorley spent several months in Germany from January to July 1914, three months of which were at Schwerin studying the language and local culture. Then he enrolled at the University of Jena, where he studied until the outbreak of World War I. After Germany declared war on Russia, Sorley was detained for an afternoon in Trier, but he was released on the same day and told to leave the country. He returned to England and immediately volunteered for military service in the British Army. He joined the Suffolk Regiment as a second lieutenant and was posted to the 7th Battalion, a Kitchener’s Army unit serving as part of the 35th Brigade of the 12th (Eastern) Division. He arrived on the Western Front in Boulogne, France on 30 May 1915 as a lieutenant, and served near Ploegsteert, where he was promoted to captain in August 1915.
Sorley was killed in action near Hulluch, having been shot in the head by a sniper during the final offensive of the Battle of Loos on 13 October 1915. Having no known grave at war’s end, he is commemorated on the CWGC Loos Memorial. His last poem was recovered from his kit after his death, and includes some of his most famous lines:
When you see millions of the mouthless deadAcross your dreams in pale battalions go
The poetry collection Marlborough and Other Poems was published in January 1916 and immediately became a critical success, with six editions appearing that year. A Collected Letters, edited by his parents, followed in 1919. Robert Graves, a contemporary of Sorley, described him in his book Goodbye to All That as “one of the three poets of importance killed during the war”. Sorley is regarded by some, including the Poet Laureate John Masefield (1878–1967), as the greatest loss of all the poets killed during the war. On 11 November 1985, he was among 16 Great War poets commemorated on a slate stone unveiled in Westminster Abbey’s Poet’s Corner.
Charles Sorley is unique among the war poets in his precocious recognition of the horror of war, which would only be realised by Owen, Sassoon and Rosenberg after witnessing the Somme. Due to his time in Germany, Sorley’s attitude toward the war was deeply conflicted. His poetry is ambivalent, ironic and profound. It reveals him as a poet of marked individuality and an extraordinary maturity of mind, when considering he died at the age of twenty.
Sorley (centre bottom) at Marlborough College in a class photo, c. 1913
Marlborough College, Wiltshire — Sorley was educated here from 1908-1913
Sorley, c. 1914
John Masefield in 1916
Complete Works of Charles Sorley
CONTENTS
Juvenilia
The Tempest
Verses for a C1 House Concert
The Massacre
Verse Letter to the Editor of ‘The Marlburian’
It was spring
Questions Expecting the Answer Yes Addressed to A.E.H.
Women who seek, obtain, employ Divorce
Marlborough and Other Poems (1919)
PREFACE
PART I. OF THE DOWNS
BARBURY CAMP
STONES
EAST KENNET CHURCH AT EVENING
AUTUMN DAWN
RETURN
RICHARD JEFFERIES
J. B.
THE OTHER WISE MAN
MARLBOROUGH
LE REVENANT
LOST
PART II. OF SCHOOL
RAIN
A TALE OF TWO CAREERS
WHAT YOU WILL
PART III. OF LIFE AND THOUGHT
A CALL TO ACTION
PEACE
THE RIVER
THE SEEKERS
ROOKS
ROOKS (II)
THE SONG OF THE UNGIRT RUNNERS
GERMAN RAIN
BRAND
PEER GYNT
TO POETS
IF I HAVE SUFFERED PAIN
WHOM THEREFORE WE IGNORANTLY WORSHIP
DEUS LOQUITUR
EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI
PART IV. OF WAR AND DEATH
ALL THE HILLS AND VALES ALONG
TO GERMANY
A HUNDRED THOUSAND MILLION MITES WE GO
TWO SONNETS
WHEN YOU SEE MILLIONS OF THE MOUTHLESS DEAD
THERE IS SUCH CHANGE IN ALL THOSE FIELDS
I HAVE NOT BROUGHT MY ODYSSEY
IN MEMORIAM S.C.W., V.C.
BEHIND THE LINES
QUIS DESIDERIO
ILLUSTRATIONS IN PROSE
NOTES
The first edition title page of Sorley’s only published book of verse
Juvenilia
The Tempest
[Believed to have been written when Sorley was aged 10 for a school magazine his sister was helping to prepare]
The tempest is coming, The sky is so dark,The bee has stopped humming And down flies the lark.
The clouds are all uttering Strange words in the sky;They are growling and muttering As if they would die.
Some forked lightning passes And lights up the place,The plains and the grasses, A glorious space.
It is like a story The light in the sky:A moment of glory And then it will die.
The rain is beginning, The sky is so dark,The bird has stopped singing And down flies the lark.
Verses for a C1 House Concert
[First published in The Marlburian, 29 July 1912.]
I’ve just received an awkward invitationAt really most confoundedly short notice,To make a kind of funeral oration(And try and feel for once like what a poet is) Upon these gentlemen who’ve spent their guineas In buying O.M. Colours down at Vinnie’s.
So Past and Present Members of C.1It’s just about high time that I begun.
First comes the bellower of Forty Years On,That charming song we’ll very soon shed tears on,I’d say much more about it if I’d time toWhose name I’ve tried, but cannot find a rhyme to,A terrifying Trojan, gaunt and hugeThat sometimes answers to the name of ScroogeTo see him chasing that old ball on LowerAnd then to see him when he tries to throw her! A sixty cap — and quite a nut at hockey Who heads the ball, he loves it, as a rule; I think we all could answer ‘Like a rock, he Is quite the best house-prefect in the school.’
Then the captain of Cricket,Whose keenness must pick it,A bowler whose taken of wickets a lot;And those splendid grey ‘barnes’, Sir,(As Cottley’s to answer
I thought that I’d better to give it him hot.)And I could write hymns onThat tie, blue and crimson,Which all of us are so delighted he’s got.Beyond all past memoriesIs his keenness on Emery’sAlways coaching and bowling to good and to bad:I’m certain that C. 1Will surely agree, oneAnd all, he’s the best cricket captain we’ve had.
If you ask how we managed to capture the hockey cupI answer ’twas Philpot that brought it to pass.Shall we get it next Lent Term? — unless we can lock it up??I wonder. For Philpot is leaving — alas!An excellent captainIncredibly wrapt inThe welfare of house — and he’s leaving alas!And the loss of heartinessNext term when we’re Billyless.Things will look like growing thinWhen we can no longer seeThat expansive rustic grinOn the Captain’s bed in B.
Next we shed a tear uponThe leaving of our Algernon.All, I think, agree with meMaltese Cross will hardly beQuite the same, since Clarke, A.D.‘s got an O.M. tie to goUp to ‘Pember — don’t you know?’
Next there comes a rare good fellow,Great performer on the ‘cello,Mighty singer too — and saysThat his name’s de Sausmarez:Whose heart is weak, or he’d have beenJust about a school ‘Fifteen’,Whose heart is weak, but none the less,It doesn’t touch his heartiness.
If you ask me again what has made College corps likeA regular army that never could yield:Why! It’s Field the Ferocious, or Walter the Warlike,Master Dashitt of ‘A’ House — our subaltern, Field.Swimmer and SubalternThanks for the trouble ta’enWith house-squad and swimming — fantastical Field!
And then that entire-ly excellent Dyer,With ‘Forty’ and Gymn Eight among other things.It’s simply uncannyThe way in which FannyBehaves if you put him near bars or near rings.His ‘kish’ is a billionBright hues of vermillionThe captain of Classroom, of F and of Gym,His pull-throughs and balancesShow us his talents, hisWonderful strength — and we’re now losing him.
Another thing that grieves us soreIs the loss of Cullimore,If you can imagine rightA monkey, clad in green and white,Who has shot in that Ashburton(Over which well draw a curtain),Who is leaving I believe,Whom we do not want to leave,Sitting with a huge grin on — Awfully sorry, Headington.
Then there’s Mann the bugler: Mann the golferMiddle IV Form Blood with every upper:And we’re sorry that we’ve got to offerOur farewells so soon as this House-supper.
Then there is Bengough, with eye like a hawk(And you should hear him — the way he can talk!)If they’d allowed him to play in House-MatchesGooch’s keen palm would have held all the catches,Gooch would have sent that velocipede rolling,Gooch would have shown what he thought of their bowling!
Then Monkland that wonder,Who bowls like the thunder,And doesn’t leave much of the other side thereYou were pretty hot onThe Lower of CottonAnd 7 for O is a bit of a scare.With pleasure all notedThat you’re re-promoted — A well-deserved hat-band on well-preserved hair!
Last of all, by no means least,Phillips, wily, sly, old beast:Phillips, sometimes known as ‘Nag’:Phillips somewhat of a wag,Phillips do you know we’re grievingThat your well-known face is leaving?
So here’s to each one of them, as I have said,From Cattley our Captain to Sanger our Head.From Dyer, the captain of classroom and Gym,To Philpot of hockey and Field who can swim,From Cullimore, Algernon Clarke and de Sausmarez,Gooch who a golfer and Mann who a drummer is,Monkland and Phillips and Headington tooHere’s to you all at this hearty house-brew!
The Massacre
[First published in The Marlburian, 17 October 1912.]
A rendering, in verse, of a dream of the author’s after a somewhat extravagant meal, for the details and sentiments of which he does not hold himself responsible
Now Vengeance is greater than Pity,And Falsehood is mightier than Honour,And Evil is fairer than Virtue,And Cursing is sweeter than Prayer:So plunder, dismantle the city,And bring desolation upon her;Nor heed what may harm nor may hurt you,But leave not a living soul there!
And they heard his command, and obeyed it;At night was the carnage begun,The city was ravaged and raided,By morning the carnage was done.And never were any men gayer,And never will men be so gay,For oh! it was sweet to the slayerTo sling and to slash and to slay!
And from every house there was pouringIn torrents a deep crimson flood;And down every street there was roaringA wonderful river of blood.And never a soul felt abhorrenceAt this misery, murder and pain;But the soldiers were drinking the torrentsAnd quaffing the blood of the slain!
But still in its dim desolationThe City lay wrapped in repose,And sorrow and loud lamentationFrom its citadel never up rose;And no sound of wailing nor weepingWas heard through the silence to creep,For lo! that great City was sleeping,And lo! it had died in its sleep.
Verse Letter to the Editor of ‘The Marlburian’
[First published on 25 February 1913.]
Dear Sir, — I write this note in answer To Mr Requiem’s effusion,Which simply doesn’t give a chance, sir, To the intrusion
Of that erection on the Mound, which Was built, I’m sure, by first-rate fingers,That charming chimney, sir, around which Sweet music lingers.
It brings us nearer to the life of The throbbing, great heart of the nation;It thrills us with the mighty strife of Illiquidation;
The Gods of Progress overcome it, The Spirit of the Age is o’er it.The thing is perfectly consummate, I just adore it!
For this asylum here of dunces Though quite innocuous (I’m sure allYour readers will agree at once) isvMost deadly rural.
But lately, there has been a series Of fresh events across our curtain,Which do remind us that the year is Turned 1913.
First, once when things were going slower Than fitted my idea of heaven,I looked, and lo! a motor mower Crossed the Eleven.
Next, funny red things long have glistened On walls; and when the place is blazing,You simply press a button — isn’t It most amazing?
(On looking over that last stanza I fear it needs some explanation.I meant those patent kill-fire cans, a Great innovation.)
Third on the list (there’s nothing like lists) Six members of the staff were latelyDiscovered to be motor-cyclists, Which pained us greatly.
And so we’re getting quite progressive Since that sweet chimney came among us. — And yet it could not be liked less if The thing had hung us!
For Mr Requiem tries to raise field And road and house and town to fight it,And quotes the everlasting Masefield, And gets excited.
These noises, sir, which now make you sick, (Who see not what a stuffy brute you’reBecoming), are the stirring music Of England’s future.
The time, the golden time, is coming When every tune and song and hymn, nay,All music, will be like the strumming Of this great chimney.
With beauties fading from before us, And vast machineries arriving,And all the world a shrieking chorus Of ceaseless striving —
I hail thee, Chimney, who wilt wipe all Aesthetic Rot away for ever,And sign myself — A STERN DISCIPLE OF LOUD ENDEAVOUR.
It was spring
[First published in The Letters of Charles Sorley (Cambridge University Press, 1919).]
It was spring. And we hoped in the spring For a glorious summer.And the summer came, yes, good old thing! But we found the new-corner
Was bright but in days of hope gone, But approaching (poor harlot)Threw us tattered raiment to don And gave others the scarlet.
So this is the end of it all! Of the sloth and the slumber,Of the hates that we hated like gall, And the loves, few in number.
And no one will now Pity say Or can back again wish us,Who have done nothing good in our day, And (what’s worse) nothing vicious.
We have fought for ourselves like black Hell, But, since we were our standard,Does it matter we have not fought well And weak failed, where we planned hard?
The time made us Outcast and Dunce, Though for Kingship intended.It might have been beautiful — once! But now it is ended.
December 1913
Questions Expecting the Answer Yes Addressed to A.E.H.
[First published in The Letters of Charles Sorley (Cambridge University Press, 1919).]
I wonder, does that ancient bell still clangWelcome to new arrivals every day,As up the hill and round, a small black gangWith their inevitable coffin stray,Decked out in black, with flowers in white array,And suitable stiff hats and heads that hang,And downcast eyes with ruts where tears have been,And all those other things which make Death mean?
And some strange sweaty creatures stop to seeOn those bald heights — strange bare-kneed passers-by,With scarves about their necks that they may be(Do they still think it?) comely to the eye,And say, In Marlborough they daily die,And gape and pass on downwards to brew tea.And having downward passed, do they still findA mimic city filled with men who mind?
Still haunt blear bearded men, whose eyes are ill,The basements? Does the man without a nameStill ride his washing waggon down the hillInto the laundry? Is it still his gameTo make in Court disturbance with the same?And do the Widow and the Curate stillGet up at Vosse’s, and go straight to cold,And feed on Lyall’s syrup coloured gold?
And on the Common is there still mock war,Where many minds are sacrificed to oneSmall Ball, and talk of it, not sorry forTheir meaningless behaviour? Is this doneStill? Do they still care whether they have won?And is there still a Folly called the CorpsAllowed out twice a week and thinking thenIt’s learning how to kill its fellow-men?
On Sundays are there thirty chosen onesWho wear white ties, because their lives are white,Who spurn the Wrong, nor eat Duck’s damp cream buns,But eat fair Knapton’s cakes, and choose the Right?And do they still on Saturdays at nightPut out all best clothes ready, tons and tons,For Sunday wear, because the Lord likes bestTo see his faithful worshippers well-dressed?
And say, is Classroom changed into a denOf bright-faced British youth that nobly triesTo follow in the steps of those great menWho always fig-leaves wear, or made-up ties,And sacrifice their lives to Exercise,
And clench their fists and feed on Force, and whenWorn out by muscular and manly toilRead chapters from clean, Christian, Conan Doyle?
And is there still a refuge, when each dayThe same small life, the same poor problems brings?Is there still change? O, is there still a wayOutward, across those many earth-risings,
A Comfort, and a place to find new things?And are the downs, and are the downs still grey?And is the Chapel still a house of sinWhere smiling men let false Religion in?
[N.B. Verse vi hopes for the Answer No.]
Women who seek, obtain, employ Divorce
[First published in The Letters of Charles Sorley (Cambridge University Press, 1919).]
Women who seek, obtain, employ DivorceAre only fit for men of Greed and Force.Women who take their Breakfast three hours lateAre only fit for men of Spite and Hate.Women who wear a Tea-gown all the timeAre only fit for men of Vice and Crime.But women such as get Divorced, and thenCome down to Break their Fast at e-lev-en,Garbed in a Tea-gown (ye Commandments Ten!) — Are only fit for Literary Men!
Marlborough and Other Poems (1919)
FOURTH EDITION TEXT, 1919
PREFACE
The call for a new edition of these poems gives an opportunity for issuing them in a form which is intended to be definitive.
They are now arranged in four groups according to subject. It is true that all of them perhaps might be described by the title of one of these groups, as poems of life and thought. But some owe their inspiration directly to nature — to the wind-swept downs which the author loved and which he looked upon as “wise” as well as “wide”; a few reflect the experiences of school life; yet others show how his spirit faced the great adventure of war and death. Within each group the poems are printed, as nearly as may be, in the order of their composition, the title-poem being restored to its proper chronological place. When the date, exact or approximate, is known, it has been given; in those cases in which the date specifies the day of the month, it has been taken from the author’s manuscript.
A single piece of imaginative prose is included amongst the poems. Other passages of prose were added to the third edition with the view of illustrating ideas occurring in the poems and prominent in the author’s mind. With the exception of a few sentences from an early essay, these prose passages are all taken from familiar letters. To the present edition a few notes have been appended, in which some topical allusions are explained and what is known about the origin of the separate pieces is told.
The frontispiece is from a drawing in chalks by Mr Cecil Jameson.
Of the author personally, and of what he was to his family and his friends, I do not speak. Yet I may quote the phrase used by a German lady in whose house he had been living for three months. “The time with him,” she wrote, “was like a holiday and a feast-day.” Many have felt what she put into words: though it was the graver moods of his mind that, for the most part, sought expression in his poems. I may also put on record here the main facts concerning his short life.
He was born at Old Aberdeen on 19th May 1895. His father was then a professor in the University of Aberdeen, and he was of Scottish descent on both sides. From 1900 onwards his home was in Cambridge. He was educated at Marlborough College, which he entered in September 1908 and left in December 1913, after obtaining a scholarship at University College, Oxford. Owing to the war he never went into residence at the University. After leaving school he spent a little more than six months in Germany, first at Schwerin in Mecklenburg and afterwards, for the summer session, at the University of Jena. He was on a walking tour on the banks of the Moselle when the European war broke out. He was put in prison at Trier on the 2nd August, but released the same night with orders to leave the country. After some adventures he reached home on the 6th, and at once applied for a commission in the army. He was gazetted Second Lieutenant in the Seventh (Service) Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment before the end of the month, Lieutenant in November, and Captain in the following August. He was sent to France with his battalion on 30th May 1915, and served for some months in the trenches round Ploegsteert. Shortly after he had entered upon his life there, a suggestion was made to him about printing a slim volume of verse. But he put the suggestion aside as premature. “Besides,” he added, “this is no time for oliveyards and vineyards, more especially of the small-holdings type. For three years or the duration of the war, let be.” Four months later his warfare was accomplished. His battalion was moved south to take part in the battle of Loos, and he fell on 13th October 1915, in an attack in which the “hair-pin” trench near Hulluch was captured by his company. “Being made perfect in a little while, he fulfilled long years.”
W. R. S.
Cambridge, March 1919
PART I. OF THE DOWNS
BARBURY CAMP
We burrowed night and day with tools of lead,Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ringAnd hurled the earth above. And Caesar said,“Why, it is excellent. I like the thing.”We, who are dead,Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing.
And here we strove, and here we felt each veinIce-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long.And here we held communion with the rainThat lashed us into manhood with its thong,Cleansing through pain.And the wind visited us and made us strong.
Up from around us, numbers without name,Strong men and naked, vast, on either handPressing us in, they came. And the wind cameAnd bitter rain, turning grey all the land.That was our game,To fight with men and storms, and it was grand.
For many days we fought them, and our sweatWatered the grass, making it spring up green,Blooming for us. And, if the wind was wet,Our blood wetted the wind, making it keenWith the hatredAnd wrath and courage that our blood had been.
So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hotWith joy and hate and battle-lust, we fellWhere we fought. And God said, “Killed at last then? What!Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell,(God said) stir not.This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell.”
So again we fight and wrestle, and againHurl the earth up and cast it in a ring.But when the wind comes up, driving the rain(Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rollingUp from the plain,This wild procession, this impetuous thing,
Hold us amazed. We mount the wind-cars, thenWhip up the steeds and drive through all the world,Searching to find somewhere some brethren,Sons of the winds and waters of the world.We, who were men,Have sought, and found no men in all this world.
Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly,Bringing, if any man can understand,Might to the mighty, freedom to the free;Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand,Wind that is we(We that were men) — make men in all this land,
That so may live and wrestle and hate that whenThey fall at last exultant, as we fell,And come to God, God may say, “Do you come thenMildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell?Why! Ye were men!Back to your winds and rains. Be these your heaven and hell!”
24 March 1913
STONES
This field is almost white with stones That cumber all its thirsty crust.And underneath, I know, are bones, And all around is death and dust.
And if you love a livelier hue — O, if you love the youth of year,When all is clean and green and new, Depart. There is no summer here.
Albeit, to me there lingers yet In this forbidding stony dressThe impotent and dim regret For some forgotten restlessness.
Dumb, imperceptibly astir, These relics of an ancient race,These men, in whom the dead bones were Still fortifying their resting-place.
Their field of life was white with stones; Good fruit to earth they never brought.O, in these bleached and buried bones Was neither love nor faith nor thought.
But like the wind in this bleak place, Bitter and bleak and sharp they grew,And bitterly they ran their race, A brutal, bad, unkindly crew:
Souls like the dry earth, hearts like stone, Brains like that barren bramble-tree:Stern, sterile, senseless, mute, unknown — But bold, O, bolder far than we!
14 July 1913
EAST KENNET CHURCH AT EVENING
I stood amongst the corn, and watched The evening coming down.The rising vale was like a queen, And the dim church her crown.
Crown-like it stood against the hills. Its form was passing fair.I almost saw the tribes go up To offer incense there.
And far below the long vale stretched. As a sleeper she did seemThat after some brief restlessness Has now begun to dream.
(All day the wakefulness of men, Their lives and labours brief,Have broken her long troubled sleep. Now, evening brings relief.)
There was no motion there, nor sound. She did not seem to rise.Yet was she wrapping herself in Her grey of night-disguise.
For now no church nor tree nor fold Was visible to me:Only that fading into one Which God must sometimes see.
No coloured glory streaked the sky To mark the sinking sun.There was no redness in the west To tell that day was done.
Only, the greyness of the eve Grew fuller than before.And, in its fulness, it made one Of what had once been more.
There was much beauty in that sight That man must not long see.God dropped the kindly veil of night Between its end and me.
24 July 1913
AUTUMN DAWN
And this is morning. Would you thinkThat this was the morning, when the landIs full of heavy eyes that blinkHalf-opened, and the tall trees standToo tired to shake away the dropsOf passing night that cling aroundTheir branches and weigh down their tops:And the grey sky leans on the ground?The thrush sings once or twice, but stopsAffrighted by the silent sound.The sheep, scarce moving, munches, moans.The slow herd mumbles, thick with phlegm.The grey road-mender, hacking stones,Is now become as one of them.Old mother Earth has rubbed her eyesAnd stayed, so senseless, lying down.Old mother is too tired to riseAnd lay aside her grey nightgown,And come with singing and with strengthIn loud exuberance of day,Swift-darting. She is tired at length,Done up, past bearing, you would say.She’ll come no more in lust of strife,In hedge’s leap, and wild bird’s cries,In winds that cut you like a knife,In days of laughter and swift skies,That palpably pulsate with life,With life that kills, with life that dies.But in a morning such as thisIs neither life nor death to see,Only that state which some call bliss,Grey hopeless immortality.Earth is at length bedrid. She isSupinest of the things that be:And stilly, heavy with long years,Brings forth such days in dumb regret,Immortal days, that rise in tears,And cannot, though they strive to, set.
* * * * * * *
The mists do move. The wind takes breath.The sun appeareth over there,And with red fingers hastenethFrom Earth’s grey bed the clothes to tear,And strike the heavy mist’s dank tent.And Earth uprises with a sigh.She is astir. She is not spent.And yet she lives and yet can die.The grey road-mender from the ditchLooks up. He has not looked before.The stunted tree sways like the witchIt was: ’tis living witch once more.The winds are washen. In the deepDew of the morn they’ve washed. The skiesAre changing dress. The clumsy sheepBound, and earth’s many bosoms rise,And earth’s green tresses spring and leapAbout her brow. The earth has eyes,The earth has voice, the earth has breath,As o’er the land and through the air,With wingéd sandals, Life and DeathSpeed hand in hand — that winsome pair!
16 September 1913
RETURN
Still stand the downs so wise and wide? Still shake the trees their tresses grey?I thought their beauty might have died Since I had been away.
I might have known the things I love, The winds, the flocking birds’ full cry,The trees that toss, the downs that move, Were longer things than I.
Lo, earth that bows before the wind, With wild green children overgrown,And all her bosoms, many-whinned, Receive me as their own.
The birds are hushed and fled: the cows Have ceased at last to make long moan.They only think to browse and browse Until the night is grown.
The wind is stiller than it was, And dumbness holds the closing day.The earth says not a word, because It has no word to say.
The dear soft grasses under foot Are silent to the listening ear.Yet beauty never can be mute, And some will always hear.
18 September 1913
RICHARD JEFFERIES
(LIDDINGTON CASTLE)
I see the vision of the Vale Rise teeming to the rampart Down,The fields and, far below, the pale Red-roofédness of Swindon town.
But though I see all things remote, I cannot see them with the eyesWith which ere now the man from Coate Looked down and wondered and was wise.
He knew the healing balm of night, The strong and sweeping joy of day,The sensible and dear delight Of life, the pity of decay.
And many wondrous words he wrote, And something good to man he showed,About the entering in of Coate, There, on the dusty Swindon road.
19 September 1913
J. B.
There’s still a horse on Granham hill,And still the Kennet moves, and stillFour Miler sways and is not still. But where is her interpreter?
The downs are blown into dismay,The stunted trees seem all astray,Looking for someone clad in grey And carrying a golf-club thing;
Who, them when he had lived among,Gave them what they desired, a tongue.Their words he gave them to be sung Perhaps were few, but they were true.
The trees, the downs, on either hand,Still stand, as he said they would stand.But look, the rain in all the land Makes all things dim with tears of him.
And recently the Kennet croons,And winds are playing widowed tunes. — He has not left our “toun o’ touns,” But taken it away with him!
October 1913
THE OTHER WISE MAN
(Scene: A valley with a wood on one side and a road running up to a distant hill: as it might be, the valley to the east of West Woods, that runs up to Oare Hill, only much larger. Time: Autumn. Four wise men are marching hillward along the road.)
One Wise Man
I wonder where the valley ends?On, comrades, on.
Another Wise Man
The rain-red road,Still shining sinuously, bendsLeagues upwards.
A Third Wise Man
To the hill, O friends,To seek the star that once has glowedBefore us; turning not to rightNor left, nor backward once looking.Till we have clomb — and with the nightWe see the King.
All the Wise Men
The King! The King!
The Third Wise Man
Long is the road but —
A Fourth Wise Man
Brother, see,There, to the left, a very aisleComposed of every sort of tree —
The First Wise Man
Still onward —
The Fourth Wise Man
Oak and beech and birch,Like a church, but homelier than church,The black trunks for its walls of tile;Its roof, old leaves; its floor, beech nuts;The squirrels its congregation —
The Second Wise Man
Tuts!For still we journey —
The Fourth Wise Man
But the sun weavesA water-web across the grass,Binding their tops. You must not passThe water cobweb.
The Third Wise Man
Hush! I say.Onward and upward till the day —
The Fourth Wise Man
Brother, that tree has crimson leaves.You’ll never see its like again.Don’t miss it. Look, it’s bright with rain —
The First Wise Man
O prating tongue. On, on.
The Fourth Wise Man
And thereA toad-stool, nay, a goblin stool.No toad sat on a thing so fair.Wait, while I pluck — and there’s — and here’sA whole ring...what?...berries?
(The Fourth Wise Man drops behind, botanizing)
The Wisest of the remaining Three Wise Men
O fool!Fool, fallen in this vale of tears.His hand had touched the plough: his eyesLooked back: no more with us, his peers,He’ll climb the hill and front the skiesAnd see the Star, the King, the Prize.But we, the seekers, we who seeBeyond the mists of transiency — Our feet down in the valley stillAre set, our eyes are on the hill.Last night the star of God has shone,And so we journey, up and on,With courage clad, with swiftness shod,All thoughts of earth behind us cast,Until we see the lights of God, — And what will be the crown at last?
All Three Wise Men
On, on.
(They pass on: it is already evening when the Other Wise Man limps along the road, still botanizing.)
The Other Wise Man
A vale of tears, they said!A valley made of woes and fears,To be passed by with muffled headQuickly. I have not seen the tears,Unless they take the rain for tears,And certainly the place is wet.Rain-laden leaves are ever lickingYour cheeks and hands... I can’t get on.There’s a toad-stool that wants picking.There, just there, a little up,What strange things to look uponWith pink hood and orange cup!And there are acorns, yellow — green...They said the King was at the end.They must have beenWrong. For here, here, I intendTo search for him, for surely hereAre all the wares of the old year,And all the beauty and bright prize,And all God’s colours meetly showed,Green for the grass, blue for the skies,Red for the rain upon the road;And anything you like for trees,But chiefly yellow, brown and gold,Because the year is growing oldAnd loves to paint her children these.I tried to follow... but, what do you think?The mushrooms here are pink!And there’s old clover with black polls,Black-headed clover, black as coals,And toad-stools, sleek as ink!And there are such heaps of little turnsOff the road, wet with old rain:Each little vegetable laneOf moss and old decaying ferns,Beautiful in decay,Snatching a beauty from whatever mayBe their lot, dark-red and luscious: till there pass’dOver the many-coloured earth a greyFilm. It was evening coming down at last.And all things hid their faces, covering upTheir peak or hood or bonnet or bright cupIn greyness, and the beauty faded fast,With all the many-coloured coat of day.Then I looked up, and lo! the sunset skyHad taken the beauty from the autumn earth.Such colour, O such colour, could not die.The trees stood black against such revelryOf lemon-gold and purple and crimson dye.And even as the trees, so IStood still and worshipped, though by evening’s birthI should have capped the hills and seen the King.The King? The King?I must be miles away from my journey’s end;The others must be now nearingThe summit, glad. By now they wendTheir way far, far, ahead, no doubt.I wonder if they’ve reached the end.If they have, I have not heard them shout.
1 December 1913
MARLBOROUGH
I
Crouched where the open upland billows down Into the valley where the river flows,She is as any other country town, That little lives or marks or hears or knows.
And she can teach but little. She has not The wonder and the surging and the roarOf striving cities. Only things forgot That once were beautiful, but now no more,
Has she to give us. Yet to one or two She first brought knowledge, and it was for herTo open first our eyes, until we knew How great, immeasurably great, we were.
I, who have walked along her downs in dreams, And known her tenderness, and felt her might,And sometimes by her meadows and her streams Have drunk deep-storied secrets of delight,
Have had my moments there, when I have been Unwittingly aware of something more,Some beautiful aspect, that I had seen With mute unspeculative eyes before;
Have had my times, when, though the earth did wear Her self-same trees and grasses, I could seeThe revelation that is always there, But somehow is not always clear to me.
II
So, long ago, one halted on his way And sent his company and cattle on;His caravans trooped darkling far away Into the night, and he was left alone.
And he was left alone. And, lo, a man There wrestled with him till the break of day.The brook was silent and the night was wan. And when the dawn was come, he passed away.
The sinew of the hollow of his thigh Was shrunken, as he wrestled there alone.The brook was silent, but the dawn was nigh. The stranger named him Israel and was gone.
And the sun rose on Jacob; and he knew That he was no more Jacob, but had grownA more immortal vaster spirit, who Had seen God face to face, and still lived on.
The plain that seemed to stretch away to God, The brook that saw and heard and knew no fear,Were now the self-same soul as he who stood And waited for his brother to draw near.
For God had wrestled with him, and was gone. He looked around, and only God remained.The dawn, the desert, he and God were one. — And Esau came to meet him, travel-stained.
III
So, there, when sunset made the downs look new And earth gave up her colours to the sky,And far away the little city grew Half into sight, new-visioned was my eye.
I, who have lived, and trod her lovely earth, Raced with her winds and listened to her birds,Have cared but little for their worldly worth Nor sought to put my passion into words.
But now it’s different; and I have no rest Because my hand must search, dissect and spellThe beauty that is better not expressed, The thing that all can feel, but none can tell.
1 March 1914
LE REVENANT
He trod the oft-remembered lane (Now smaller-seeming than before When first he left his father’s doorFor newer things), but still quite plain
(Though half-benighted now) upstood Old landmarks, ghosts across the lane That brought the Bygone back again:Shorn haystacks and the rooky wood;
The guide post, too, which once he clomb To read the figures: fourteen miles To Swindon, four to Clinton Stiles,And only half a mile to home:
And far away the one homestead, where — Behind the day now not quite set So that he saw in silhouetteIts chimneys still stand black and bare —
He noticed that the trees were not So big as when he journeyed last That way. For greatly now he passedStriding above the hedges, hot
With hopings, as he passed by where A lamp before him glanced and stayed Across his path, so that his shadeSeemed like a giant’s moving there.
The dullness of the sunken sun He marked not, nor how dark it grew, Nor that strange flapping bird that flewAbove: he thought but of the One....
He topped the crest and crossed the fence, Noticed the garden that it grew As erst, noticed the hen-house too(The kennel had been altered since).
It seemed so unchanged and so still. (Could it but be the past arisen For one short night from out of prison?)He reached the big-bowed window-sill,
Lifted the window sash with care, Then, gaily throwing aside the blind, Shouted. It was a shock to findThat he was not remembered there.
At once he felt not all his pain, But murmuringly apologised, Turned, once more sought the undersizedBlown trees, and the long lanky lane,
Wondering and pondering on, past where A lamp before him glanced and stayed Across his path, so that his shadeSeemed like a giant’s moving there.
LOST
Across my past imaginings Has dropped a blindness silent and slow.My eye is bent on other things Than those it once did see and know.
I may not think on those dear lands (O far away and long ago!)Where the old battered signpost stands And silently the four roads go
East, west, south and north, And the cold winter winds do blow.And what the evening will bring forth Is not for me nor you to know.
December 1914
PART II. OF SCHOOL
RAIN
When the rain is coming down,And all Court is still and bare,And the leaves fall wrinkled, brown,Through the kindly winter air,And in tattered flannels I‘Sweat’ beneath a tearful sky,And the sky is dim and grey,And the rain is coming down,And I wander far awayFrom the little red-capped town:There is something in the rainThat would bid me to remain:There is something in the windThat would whisper, “Leave behindAll this land of time and rules,Land of bells and early schools.Latin, Greek and College foodDo you precious little good.Leave them: if you would be freeFollow, follow, after me!”
When I reach ‘Four Miler’s’ height,And I look abroad againOn the skies of dirty whiteAnd the drifting veil of rain,And the bunch of scattered hedgeDimly swaying on the edge,And the endless stretch of downsClad in green and silver gowns;There is something in their dressOf bleak barren ugliness,That would whisper, “You have readOf a land of light and glory:But believe not what is said.’Tis a kingdom bleak and hoary,Where the winds and tempests callAnd the rain sweeps over all.Heed not what the preachers sayOf a good land far away.Here’s a better land and kindAnd it is not far to find.”
Therefore, when we rise and singOf a distant land, so fine,Where the bells for ever ring,And the suns for ever shine:Singing loud and singing grand,Of a happy far-off land,O! I smile to hear the song,For I know that they are wrong,That the happy land and gayIs not very far away,And that I can get there soonAny rainy afternoon.
And when summer comes again,And the downs are dimpling green,And the air is free from rain,And the clouds no longer seen:Then I know that they have goneTo find a new camp further on,Where there is no shining sunTo throw light on what is done,Where the summer can’t intrudeOn the fort where winter stood: — Only blown and drenching grasses,Only rain that never passes,Moving mists and sweeping wind,And I follow them behind!
October 1912
A TALE OF TWO CAREERS
I SUCCESS
He does not dress as other men,His ‘kish’ is loud and gay,His ‘side’ is as the ‘side’ of tenBecause his ‘barnes’ are grey.
His head has swollen to a sizeBeyond the proper size for heads,He metaphorically buysThe ground on which he treads.
Before his face of haughty graceThe ordinary mortal cowers:A ‘forty-cap’ has put the chapInto another world from ours.
The funny little world that lies’Twixt High Street and the MoundIs just a swarm of buzzing fliesThat aimlessly go round:
If one is stronger in the limbOr better able to work hard,It’s quite amusing to watch himAscending heavenward.
But if one cannot work or play(Who loves the better part too well),It’s really sad to see the ladRetained compulsorily in hell.
II FAILURE
We are the wasters, who have noHope in this world here, neither fame,Because we cannot collar lowNor write a strange dead tongue the sameAs strange dead men did long ago.
We are the weary, who beginThe race with joy, but early fail,Because we do not care to winA race that goes not to the frailAnd humble: only the proud come in.
We are the shadow-forms, who passUnheeded hence from work and play.We are to-day, but like the grassThat to-day is, we pass away;And no one stops to say ‘Alas!’
Though we have little, all we haveWe give our School. And no returnWe can expect for what we gave;No joys; only a summons stern,“Depart, for others entrance crave!”
As soon as she can clearly proveThat from us is no hope of gain,Because we only bring her loveAnd cannot bring her strength or brain,She tells us, “Go: it is enough.”
She turns us out at seventeen,We may not know her any more,And all our life with her has beenA life of seeing others score,While we sink lower and are mean.
We have seen others reap successFull-measure. None has come to us.Our life has been one failure. Yes,But does not God prefer it thus?God does not also praise success.
And for each failure that we meet,And for each place we drop behind,Each toil that holds our aching feet,Each star we seek and never find,God, knowing, gives us comfort meet.
The School we care for has not caredTo cherish nor keep our names to beMemorials. God hath preparedSome better thing for us, for weHis hopes have known, His failures shared.
November 1912
WHAT YOU WILL
O come and see, it’s such a sight,So many boys all doing right:To see them underneath the yoke,Blindfolded by the elder folk,Move at a most impressive rateAlong the way that is called straight.O, it is comforting to knowThey’re in the way they ought to go.But don’t you think it’s far more gayTo see them slowly leave the wayAnd limp and loose themselves and fall?O, that’s the nicest thing of all.1 love to see this sight, for thenI know they are becoming men,And they are tiring of the shrineWhere things are really not divine.
I do not know if it seems braveThe youthful spirit to enslave,And hedge about, lest it should grow.I don’t know if it’s better soIn the long end. I only knowThat when I have a son of mine,He shan’t be made to droop and pine,Bound down and forced by rule and rodTo serve a God who is no God.But I’ll put custom on the shelfAnd make him find his God himself.Perhaps he’ll find him in a tree,Some hollow trunk, where you can see.Perhaps the daisies in the sodWill open out and show him God.Or will he meet him in the roarOf breakers as they beat the shore?Or in the spiky stars that shine?Or in the rain (where I found mine)?Or in the city’s giant moan? — A God who will be all his own,To whom he can address a prayerAnd love him, for he is so fair,And see with eyes that are not dimAnd build a temple meet for him.
30 June 1913
PART III. OF LIFE AND THOUGHT
A CALL TO ACTION
I
A thousand years have passed away, Cast back your glances on the scene,Compare this England of to-day With England as she once has been.
Fast beat the pulse of living then: The hum of movement, throb of war,The rushing mighty sound of men Reverberated loud and far.
They girt their loins up and they trod The path of danger, rough and high;For Action, Action was their god, “Be up and doing” was their cry.
A thousand years have passed away; The sands of life are running low;The world is sleeping out her day; The day is dying be it so.
A thousand years have passed amain; The sands of life are running thin;Thought is our leader — Thought is vain; Speech is our goddess — Speech is sin.
II
It needs no thought to understand, No speech to tell, nor sight to seeThat there has come upon our land The curse of Inactivity.
We do not see the vital point That ’tis the eighth, most deadly, sinTo wail, “The world is out of joint” — And not attempt to put it in.
We see the swollen stream of crime Flow hourly past us, thick and wide;We gaze with interest for a time, And pass by on the other side.
We see the tide of human sin Rush roaring past our very door,And scarcely one man plunges in To drag the drowning to the shore.
We, dull and dreamy, stand and blink, Forgetting glory, strength and pride,Half — listless watchers on the brink, Half — ruined victims of the tide.
III
We question, answer, make defence,We sneer, we scoff, we criticize,We wail and moan our decadence,Enquire, investigate, surmise;
We preach and prattle, peer and pryAnd fit together two and two:We ponder, argue, shout, swear, lie — We will not, for we cannot, do.
Pale puny soldiers of the pen,Absorbed in this your inky strife,Act as of old, when men were men,England herself and life yet life.
October 1912
PEACE
There is silence in the evening when the long days cease,And a million men are praying for an ultimate releaseFrom strife and sweat and sorrow — they are praying for peace. But God is marching on.
Peace for a people that is striving to be free!Peace for the children of the wild wet sea!Peace for the seekers of the promised land — do we Want peace when God has none?
We pray for rest and beauty that we know we cannot earn,And ever are we asking for a honey-sweet return;But God will make it bitter, make it bitter, till we learn That with tears the race is run.
And did not Jesus perish to bring to men, not peace,But a sword, a sword for battle and a sword that should not cease?Two thousand years have passed us. Do we still want peace Where the sword of Christ has shone?
Yes, Christ perished to present us with a sword,That strife should be our portion and more strife our reward,For toil and tribulation and the glory of the Lord And the sword of Christ are one.
If you want to know the beauty of the thing called rest,Go, get it from the poets, who will tell you it is best(And their words are sweet as honey) to lie flat upon your chest And sleep till life is gone.
I know that there is beauty where the low streams run,And the weeping of the willows and the big sunk sun,But I know my work is doing and it never shall be done,Though I march for ages on. Wild is the tumult of the long grey street,O, is it never silent from the tramping of their feet?Here, Jesus, is Thy triumph, and here the world’s defeat, For from here all peace has gone.
There’s a stranger thing than beauty in the ceaseless city’s breast,In the throbbing of its fever — and the wind is in the west,And the rain is driving forward where there is no rest, For the Lord is marching on.
December 1912
THE RIVER
He watched the river running black Beneath the blacker sky;It did not pause upon its track Of silent instancy;It did not hasten, nor was slack, But still went gliding by.
It was so black. There was no wind Its patience to defy.It was not that the man had sinned, Or that he wished to die.Only the wide and silent tide Went slowly sweeping by.
The mass of blackness moving down Filled full of dreams the eye;The lights of all the lighted town Upon its breast did lie;The tall black trees were upside down In the river phantasy.
He had an envy for its black Inscrutability;He felt impatiently the lack Of that great law wherebyThe river never travels back But still goes gliding by;
But still goes gliding by, nor clings To passing things that die,Nor shows the secrets that it brings From its strange source on high.And he felt “We are two living things And the weaker one is I.”
He saw the town, that living stack Piled up against the sky.He saw the river running black On, on and on: O, whyCould he not move along his track With such consistency?
He had a yearning for the strength That comes of unity:The union of one soul at length With its twin-soul to lie:To be a part of one great strength That moves and cannot die.
* * * * * *
He watched the river running black Beneath the blacker sky.He pulled his coat about his back, He did not strive nor cry.He put his foot upon the track That still went gliding by.
The thing that never travels back Received him silently.And there was left no shred, no wrack To show the reason why:Only the river running black Beneath the blacker sky.
February 1913
THE SEEKERS
The gates are open on the roadThat leads to beauty and to God.
Perhaps the gates are not so fair,Nor quite so bright as once they were,When God Himself on earth did standAnd gave to Abraham His handAnd led him to a better land.
For lo! the unclean walk therein,And those that have been soiled with sin.The publican and harlot passAlong: they do not stain its grass.In it the needy has his share,In it the foolish do not err.Yes, spurned and fool and sinner strayAlong the highway and the way.
And what if all its ways are trodBy those whom sin brings near to God?This journey soon will make them clean:Their faith is greater than their sin.
For still they travel slowly byBeneath the promise of the sky,Scorned and rejected utterly;Unhonoured; things of little worth
