Poetry

As of old Phoenician men, to the Tin Isles sailing Straight against the sunset and the edges of the earth, Chaunted loud above the storm and the strange sea’s wailing, Legends of their people and the land that gave them birth⁠— Sang aloud to Baal-Peor, sang unto the horned maiden, Sang how they should come again with the Brethon treasure laden, Sang of all the pride and glory of their hardy enterprise, How they found the outer islands, where the unknown stars arise; And the rowers down below, rowing hard as they could row, Toiling at the stroke and feather through the wet and wary weather, Even they forgot their burden in the measure of a song, And the merchants and the masters and the bondsmen all together, Dreaming of the wondrous islands, brought the gallant ship along;

So in mighty deeps alone on the chainless breezes blown In my oracle of verses I will sing of lands unknown, Flying from the scarlet city where a Lord that knows no pity, Mocks the broken people praying round his iron throne, —Sing about the Hidden Country fresh and full of quiet green. Sailing over seas uncharted to a port that none has seen.

There is a house that most of all on earth I hate. Though I have passed through many sorrows and have been In bloody fields, sad seas, and countries desolate, Yet most I fear that empty house where the grasses green Grow in the silent court the gaping flags between, And down the moss-grown paths and terrace no man treads Where the old, old weeds rise deep on the waste garden beds. Like eyes of one long dead the empty windows stare And I fear to cross the garden, I fear to linger there, For in that house I know a little, silent room Where Someone’s always waiting, waiting in the gloom To draw me with an evil eye, and hold me fast⁠— Yet thither doom will drive me and He will win at last.

I heard the swallow sing in the eaves and rose All in a strange delight while others slept, And down the creaking stair, alone, tip-toes, So carefully I crept.

The house was dark with silly blinds yet drawn, But outside the clean air was filled with light, And underneath my feet the cold, wet lawn With dew was twinkling bright.

The cobwebs hung from every branch and spray Gleaming with pearly strands of laden thread, And long and still the morning shadows lay Across the meadows spread.

At that pure hour when yet no sound of man, Stirs in the whiteness of the wakening earth, Alone through innocent solitudes I ran Singing aloud for mirth.

Till I had found the open mountain heath Yellow with gorse, and rested there and stood To gaze upon the misty sea beneath, Or on the neighbouring wood,

—That little wood of hazel and tall pine And youngling fir, where oft we have loved to see The level beams of early morning shine Freshly from tree to tree.

Through the denser wood there’s many a pool Of deep and night-born shadow lingers yet Where the new-wakened flowers are damp and cool And the long grass is wet.

In the sweet heather long I rested there Looking upon the dappled, early sky, When suddenly, from out the shining air A god came flashing by.

And first, a marvel⁠—Who could have foretold That in the city which men called in scorn The Perfect City, Dymer could be born?

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There you’d have thought the gods were smothered down Forever, and the keys were turned on fate. No hour was left unchartered in that town, And love was in a schedule and the State Chose for eugenic reasons who should mate With whom, and when. Each idle song and dance Was fixed by law and nothing left to chance.

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For some of the last Platonists had founded That city of old. And mastery they made An island of what ought to be, surrounded By this gross world of easier light and shade. All answering to the master’s dream they laid The strong foundations, torturing into stone Each bubble that the Academy had blown.

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This people were so pure, so law-abiding, So logical, they made the heavens afraid: They sent the very swallows into hiding By their appalling chastity dismayed: More soberly the lambs in spring time played Because of them: and ghosts dissolved in shame Before their common-sense⁠—till Dymer came.

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At Dymer’s birth no comets scared the nation, The public crêche engulfed him with the rest, And twenty separate Boards of Education Closed round him. He was passed through every test, Was vaccinated, numbered, washed and dressed, Proctored, inspected, whipt, examined weekly, And for some nineteen years he bore it meekly.

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A little breeze came stirring to his cheek. He looked up to the window. A brown bird Perched on the sill, bent down to whet his beak With darting head⁠—Poor Dymer watched and stirred Uneasily. The lecturer’s voice he heard Still droning from the dais. The narrow room Was drowsy, over-solemn, filled with gloom.

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He yawned, and a voluptuous laziness Tingled down all his spine and loosed his knees, Slow-drawn, like an invisible caress. He laughed⁠—The lecturer stopped like one that sees A Ghost, then frowned and murmured, “Silence, please.” That moment saw the soul of Dymer hang In the balance⁠—Louder then his laughter rang.

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The whole room watched with unbelieving awe, He rose and staggered rising. From his lips Broke yet again the idiot-like guffaw. He felt the spirit in his finger tips, Then swinging his right arm⁠—a wide ellipse Yet lazily⁠—he struck the lecturer’s head. The old man tittered, lurched and dropt drown dead.

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Out of the silent room, out of the dark, Into the sum-stream Dymer passed, and there The sudden breezes, the high hanging lark The milk-white clouds sailing in polished air, Suddenly flashed about him like a blare Of trumpets. And no cry was raised behind him. His class sat dazed. They dared not go to find him.

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He hastened to one entry. Up the stair, Beneath the pillared porch, without delay, He ran⁠—then halted suddenly: for there Across the quiet threshold something lay, A bundle, a dark mass that barred the way. He looked again, and lo, the formless pile Under his eyes was moving all the while.

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And it had hands, pale hands of wrinkled flesh, Puckered and gnarled with vast antiquity, That moved. He eyed the sprawling thing afresh, And bit by bit (so faces come to be In the red coal) yet surely, he could see That the swathed hugeness was uncleanly human, A living thing, the likeness of a woman.

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In the centre a draped hummock marked the head; Thence flowed the broader lines with curve and fold Spreading as oak roots do. You would have said A man could hid among them and grow old In finding a way out. Breast manifold As of the Ephesian Artemis might be Under that robe. The face he did not see.

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And all his being answered, “Not that way!” Never a word he spoke. Stealthily creeping Back from the door he drew. Quick! No delay! Quick, quick, but very quiet!⁠—backward peeping Till fairly out of sight. Then shouting, leaping, Shaking himself, he ran⁠—as puppies do From bathing⁠—till that door was out of view.

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