The Wild Knight and Other Poems

THE FISH

 
Dark the sea was: but I saw him,
  One great head with goggle eyes,
Like a diabolic cherub
  Flying in those fallen skies.
 
 
I have heard the hoarse deniers,
  I have known the wordy wars;
I have seen a man, by shouting,
  Seek to orphan all the stars.
 
 
I have seen a fool half-fashioned
  Borrow from the heavens a tongue,
So to curse them more at leisure —
  – And I trod him not as dung.
 
 
For I saw that finny goblin
  Hidden in the abyss untrod;
And I knew there can be laughter
  On the secret face of God.
 
 
Blow the trumpets, crown the sages,
  Bring the age by reason fed!
(He that sitteth in the heavens,
  'He shall laugh' – the prophet said.)
 

GOLD LEAVES

 
Lo! I am come to autumn,
  When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
  The year and I are old.
 
 
In youth I sought the prince of men,
  Captain in cosmic wars,
Our Titan, even the weeds would show
  Defiant, to the stars.
 
 
But now a great thing in the street
  Seems any human nod,
Where shift in strange democracy
  The million masks of God.
 
 
In youth I sought the golden flower
  Hidden in wood or wold,
But I am come to autumn,
  When all the leaves are gold.
 

THOU SHALT NOT KILL

 
I had grown weary of him; of his breath
And hands and features I was sick to death.
Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;
I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.
And he must with his blank face fill my life —
Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.
 
 
But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through
A voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.'
'This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,
What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll
There is some living thing for whom this man
Is as seven heavens girt into a span,
For some one soul you take the world away —
Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'
 
 
Then I cast down the knife upon the ground
And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.
I turned and laughed: for there was no one by —
The man that I had sought to slay was I.
 

A CERTAIN EVENING

 
That night the whole world mingled,
  The souls were babes at play,
And angel danced with devil.
  And God cried, 'Holiday!'
 
 
The sea had climbed the mountain peaks,
  And shouted to the stars
To come to play: and down they came
  Splashing in happy wars.
 
 
The pine grew apples for a whim,
  The cart-horse built a nest;
The oxen flew, the flowers sang,
  The sun rose in the west.
 
 
And 'neath the load of many worlds,
  The lowest life God made
Lifted his huge and heavy limbs
  And into heaven strayed.
 
 
To where the highest life God made
  Before His presence stands;
But God himself cried, 'Holiday!'
  And she gave me both her hands.
 

A MAN AND HIS IMAGE

 
All day the nations climb and crawl and pray
  In one long pilgrimage to one white shrine,
Where sleeps a saint whose pardon, like his peace,
  Is wide as death, as common, as divine.
 
 
His statue in an aureole fills the shrine,
  The reckless nightingale, the roaming fawn,
Share the broad blessing of his lifted hands,
  Under the canopy, above the lawn.
 
 
But one strange night, a night of gale and flood,
  A sound came louder than the wild wind's tone;
The grave-gates shook and opened: and one stood
  Blue in the moonlight, rotten to the bone.
 
 
Then on the statue, graven with holy smiles,
  There came another smile – tremendous – one
Of an Egyptian god. 'Why should you rise?
  'Do I not guard your secret from the sun?
 
 
The nations come; they kneel among the flowers
  Sprung from your blood, blossoms of May and June,
Which do not poison them – is it not strange?
  Speak!' And the dead man shuddered in the moon.
 
 
Shall I not cry the truth?' – the dead man cowered —
  Is it not sad, with life so tame and cold,
What earth should fade into the sun's white fires
  With the best jest in all its tales untold?
 
 
'If I should cry that in this shrine lie hid
  Stories that Satan from his mouth would spew;
Wild tales that men in hell tell hoarsely – speak!
  Saint and Deliverer! Should I slander you?'
 
 
Slowly the cowering corse reared up its head,
  'Nay, I am vile … but when for all to see,
You stand there, pure and painless – death of life!
  Let the stars fall – I say you slander me!
 
 
'You make me perfect, public, colourless;
  You make my virtues sit at ease – you lie!
For mine were never easy – lost or saved,
  I had a soul – I was. And where am I?
 
 
Where is my good? the little real hoard,
  The secret tears, the sudden chivalries;
The tragic love, the futile triumph – where?
  Thief, dog, and son of devils – where are these?
 
 
I will lift up my head: in leprous loves
  Lost, and the soul's dishonourable scars —
By God I was a better man than This
  That stands and slanders me to all the stars.
 
 
'Come down!' And with an awful cry, the corse
  Sprang on the sacred tomb of many tales,
And stone and bone, locked in a loathsome strife,
  Swayed to the singing of the nightingales.
 
 
Then one was thrown: and where the statue stood
  Under the canopy, above the lawn,
The corse stood; grey and lean, with lifted hands
  Raised in tremendous welcome to the dawn.
 
 
'Now let all nations climb and crawl and pray;
  Though I be basest of my old red clan,
They shall not scale, with cries or sacrifice,
  The stature of the spirit of a man.'
 

THE MARINER

 
The violet scent is sacred
  Like dreams of angels bright;
The hawthorn smells of passion
  Told in a moonless night.
 
 
But the smell is in my nostrils,
  Through blossoms red or gold,
Of my own green flower unfading,
  A bitter smell and bold.
 
 
The lily smells of pardon,
  The rose of mirth; but mine
Smells shrewd of death and honour,
  And the doom of Adam's line.
 
 
The heavy scent of wine-shops
  Floats as I pass them by,
But never a cup I quaff from,
  And never a house have I.
 
 
Till dropped down forty fathoms,
  I lie eternally;
And drink from God's own goblet
  The green wine of the sea.
 

THE TRIUMPH OF MAN

 
I plod and peer amid mean sounds and shapes,
  I hunt for dusty gain and dreary praise,
  And slowly pass the dismal grinning days,
Monkeying each other like a line of apes.
 
 
What care? There was one hour amid all these
  When I had stripped off like a tawdry glove
  My starriest hopes and wants, for very love
Of time and desolate eternities.
 
 
Yea, for one great hour's triumph, not in me
  Nor any hope of mine did I rejoice,
  But in a meadow game of girls and boys
Some sunset in the centuries to be.
 

CYCLOPEAN

 
A mountainous and mystic brute
No rein can curb, no arrow shoot,
Upon whose domed deformed back
I sweep the planets scorching track.
 
 
Old is the elf, and wise, men say,
His hair grows green as ours grows grey;
He mocks the stars with myriad hands.
High as that swinging forest stands.
 
 
But though in pigmy wanderings dull
I scour the deserts of his skull,
I never find the face, eyes, teeth.
Lowering or laughing underneath.
 
 
I met my foe in an empty dell,
His face in the sun was naked hell.
I thought, 'One silent, bloody blow.
No priest would curse, no crowd would know.'
 
 
Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed,
Watched for the fame of that poor field;
And in that flower and suddenly
Earth opened its one eye on me.
 

JOSEPH

 
If the stars fell; night's nameless dreams
  Of bliss and blasphemy came true,
If skies were green and snow were gold,
  And you loved me as I love you;
 
 
O long light hands and curled brown hair,
  And eyes where sits a naked soul;
Dare I even then draw near and burn
  My fingers in the aureole?
 
 
Yes, in the one wise foolish hour
  God gives this strange strength to a man.
He can demand, though not deserve,
  Where ask he cannot, seize he can.
 
 
But once the blood's wild wedding o'er,
  Were not dread his, half dark desire,
To see the Christ-child in the cot,
  The Virgin Mary by the fire?
 

MODERN ELFLAND

 
I Cut a staff in a churchyard copse,
  I clad myself in ragged things,
I set a feather in my cap
  That fell out of an angel's wings.
 
 
I filled my wallet with white stones,
  I took three foxgloves in my hand,
I slung my shoes across my back,
  And so I went to fairyland.
 
 
But Lo, within that ancient place
  Science had reared her iron crown,
And the great cloud of steam went up
  That telleth where she takes a town.
 
 
But cowled with smoke and starred with lamps
  That strange land's light was still its own;
The word that witched the woods and hills
  Spoke in the iron and the stone.
 
 
Not Nature's hand had ever curved
  That mute unearthly porter's spine.
Like sleeping dragon's sudden eyes
  The signals leered along the line.
 
 
The chimneys thronging crooked or straight
  Were fingers signalling the sky;
The dog that strayed across the street
  Seemed four-legged by monstrosity.
 
 
'In vain,' I cried, 'though you too touch
  The new time's desecrating hand,
Through all the noises of a town
  I hear the heart of fairyland.'
 
 
I read the name above a door,
  Then through my spirit pealed and passed:
'This is the town of thine own home,
  And thou hast looked on it at last.'