Part 4 (2/2)

Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing, We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth; Again the busy trade in the halyards singeth Sun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing; The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring; In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost, And the starry south rolls over until no ghost Remaineth of us and all our pitiful daring; For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour, His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies, Soundless, within her unsounded caves, forever She broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace, And our grey cruisers holds in mind no more Than the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore.

SONG

What is the worth of war In a world that turneth, turneth About a tired star Whose flaming centre burneth No longer than the s.p.a.ce Of the spent atom's race: Where conquered lands, soon, soon Lie waste as the pale moon?

What is the worth of art In a world that fast forgetteth Those who have wrung its heart With beauty that love begetteth, Whose faint flames vanish quite In that star-powdered night Where even the mighty ones s.h.i.+ne only as far suns?

And what is beauty worth, Sweet beauty, that persuadeth Of her immortal birth, Then, as a flower, fadeth: Or love, whose tender years End with the mourner's tears, Die, when the mourner's breath Is quiet, at last, in death?

Beauty and love are one, Even when fierce war clashes: Even when our fiery sun Hath burnt itself to ashes, And the dead planets race Unlighted through blind s.p.a.ce, Beauty will still s.h.i.+ne there: Wherefore, I wors.h.i.+p her.

THE HAWTHORN SPRAY

I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray, One moment only, spilling creamy blossom, While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom, Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.

The branch was still; but, in my heart, a pain Than the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, only Remembering days in a far land and lonely When I had never hoped for summer again.

THE PAVEMENT

In bitter London's heart of stone, Under the lamplight's s.h.i.+elded glare.

I saw a soldier's body thrown Unto the drabs that traffic there

Pacing the pavements with slow feet: Those old pavements whose blown dust Throttles the hot air of the street, And the darkness smells of l.u.s.t.

The chaste moon, with equal glance, Looked down on the mad world, astare At those who conquered in sad France And those who perished in Leicester Square.

And in her light his lips were pale: Lips that love had moulded well: Out of the jaws of Pa.s.schendaele They had sent him to this nether h.e.l.l.

I had no stone of scorn to fling, For I know not how the wrong began-- But I had seen a hateful thing Masked in the dignity of man:

And hate and sorrow and hopeless anger Swept my heart, as the winds that sweep Angrily through the leafless hanger When winter rises from the deep....

I would that war were what men dream: A crackling fire, a cleansing flame, That it might leap the s.p.a.ce between And lap up London and its shame.

To LYDIA LOPOKOVA

HER GARLAND

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