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September, 1919.o. 2.

COTERIE

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COTERIE

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LONDON: HENDERSONS, SIXTY-SIX CHARING CROSS ROAD.Allison

COTERIE

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CO NT RIB UT OR S who des i re the re turn of re jectedMSS. are reques ted to enclose a s tampedaddressed envelope.

A L L L I T E R A R Y C O N T R I B U T I O N S f or p u b li c a-t ion in COTERIE should be addressed to ChamanLal l , 66, Char ing Cross Road, London, W.C. 2 .

A L L O T H E R C O MMU N I C A T I O N S shou ld beaddressed to Hendersons , 66, Char ing Cross Road,L ondon , W .C . 2 .

COTERIE i s publ i shed Quar ter ly , pr ice 2s . 8d. , pos tfree. Yea rly subsc ription, 10s. 8d., po st free.

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C O T E R IE , September, 1919, No . 2Cover De sign : A . Allinson

I . Conrad A ike n :Co un te rpo in t : P r i apus and the Poo lI I . W ilfred Childe :I . Ch an t of H im w ho wa s CrucifiedI I . Abaris : A R hap sodyI I I . Rose Blanche des AubesI I I . Rich ard Ald ing ton :Minor Exaspera t ionsI. The Occu lt is tsI I . Valhal laI I I . My ColonelIV. Break ing -Po in tIV . Draw ing : He nri Gaudier-BrzeskaV. He rbe r t Read :I . SmokerI I . In t he Wes t R id ingV I . R. C. Tre velya n :I . Cloud-birthI I . A Chi ld 's Bi r thdayV I I . Joh n Gould Fle tcher :I . A t SunriseI I . The Fores t o f NightV II I . H . J . Mass ingham :I . W arand PeaceI I . Sors Ex i tu raIX . D raw ing s : Cora GordonX . T . W . Ea rp :U r b a n i t yX I . Russ ell G reen :I . Ave Atq ue ValeI I . E m b a n k m e n t N o c t u r n eIII. SongIV. Sol i tude

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CONRAD AIKEN

C O U N T E R P O I N T : P R I A P U S A N D T H E PO O L. . . W AS God, the n, so derisive, as to shape usIn the image of Priapus ? . . .(Priapus ? Who was he ?)Are we never to be left by our desires,But forever try to warm our foolish heartsAt these illusory fires ? . . .(Priapus! do you mean a terminal figureIn a garden by a sea ?)It is strange !for one so easily conceivesA quieter world, in which the flesh and dustAre contented, do not hunger, or thirst, or lust . . .(Priapus ! Well, I don't know who you mean . . .Do you intimate God played some trick upon us ? . . .I will tell you about a pool that I have seen!It is very old, it is very deep and clear,No one knows how deep it is.The ancient trees are about it in an ancient forest,It is a pool of mysteries!). . . I t is puzzling, none the less, to und erstandHow God, if He is less or more than flesh,Could have devised for us, walking in His garden,The delicate imperfections of this mesh ! . . .(When it is clear, the pool reflects the trees;Look down, and you will see the flight of a birdAmong the wavering boughs ! But when a breezeComes slowly from that wood, the pool is stirredAnd a shadow like the skeleton of a cloudShivers like a ghost across it, puffs and passes . . .When it is still the sky comes back again,And at the fringes it reflects the grasses.)

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. . . Must we always, l ike Priapus in a wood,In the underbrush of our perp lexi t ies ,Pu rsu e our m aidens ,pursuer and pu rsued ? . . .(I wil l not say i t is not sometimes t roubled !I t is very o l d : s t rang e th ing s are imaged ther e .Out of i t s depths a t n ight the s tars have bubbled ;And in to those depths maidens have hung thei r ha i r .Leaves have fa l len in to i t wi thout numberAnd never been found again . . .Birds have sung above i t in the ancient t rees . . .And somet imes ra indrops fa l l upon i t , and thenThere are rings of si lver upon i t , spreading and fading,Delicately intersect ing . . .But i f you return again when the sky is cloudless,Yo u will find it clear again, an d coldly reflecting . . .Reflect ing the si lent t rees of the ancient forest ,And the ancient leaves ready to fal l once more,And the b lue sky under the leaves , o ld and empty ,And the savage grasses along the shore ! . . . ). . . P r iapus , himself, was never disenchanted . . .Why, then , d id God permi t us to be hauntedBy this sense of imperfections ? . . .(But can a pool remember i ts reflect ions ?Th a t i s t he th in g tha t t roub les me !Does i t rem em ber th e c loud th at fal ls upon i t ?Or the indignat ion of a t ree ? . . .Or suppose tha t once th e image of P r iap usFell quivering in ferocious sunlight thereAs he came suddenly upon i t from his forest ,With fir-cones in his hair,Would the pool , through the s i lences thereaf ter ,Recal l tha t v is i ta t ion and be s t i r redAny more than i t would hear and heed the laughterOf a swinging ape, or the singing of a bird ?)

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. . W as God the n, so derisive as to shape u sIn the image of Priapus ? . . .(It is very old, it is very deep and clear,No one knows how deep it is !The ancient trees are about it in an ancient forest,It is a pool of mysteries.)

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W I L F R E D C H I L D EC H A N T O F H I M W H O W A S C R U C I F I E D

I WILL go forth like a flame over the hill-country of Anglia ;and be as it were a white flame in the scarlet streets of theCity of Hild :To raise up a noise of laughter w here there ha s been w ailing;to give roses instead of tears and instead of wounds to sowkisses:To issue forth in the morning like the white Sun out of hisfiery tab er na cle : to shine forth upon the young green of thewheat, to cause it to spring up and ripen and to bear bread :To burn like the golden Moon in the violet vaults of theevening : to smile upon the mouths of lovers and to melt thehigh hearts in their breasts :To ripen the apple t il l i t turn rud dy on the tre e ; to ripenth e poem in th e womb of the p oet's mind ; to ad orn the flowerwith honey and to draw thither the bee :To fill the mouths of babes with honey and to cause thevirgins to conceive kings :To go forth in the morning like a sword of Delight, to be aSpear of Anger at noon, and to return in the evening like a

wh ite Ox of Counsel, moon -browed, carrying man y sheaves!

A B A R I S : A R H A P S O D YW HA T plaintive magic, I wonder, dipped those old roofsin so rich a scarlet and out of what romantic mysterywere evolved those rambling and peculiar lanes ? What wistfulChild-God, weary of His toys, set up for a jest this fantasticcity by the sea and dyed it in gold and vermilion, in sea-blueand the dust of pearls, darkening its leaning alleys with richmirk and setting the children of the fishermen to brawl and

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pipe in its twisted alleys like elfin dolls, painted and flaxen-haired ? And over i t al l did He not set up an Abbey, carvenout of si lver and with alabaster adorned, ful l of shaven mento chant and sing, t i l l He grew weary of their ecstat ic musicand b rok e the i r house wi th a ha m m er ; so th a t t he wh i t e sea -mew s scream now w here the incense used to r ise and th e brow n-sai led fishing-boats go out to sea now with no haloed imagesin the ir bow s ? Yes , certa inly ou t of th e mind of a drea m ingChild-God, weary of His own gardens of Azure, issued forththo se scarlet gables, an d from th e jewelled my stery of Hissadness came forth this sea-ci ty, where she l ies l ike a fret tedand mis ty Rose on the golden confines of Autumn, on waterswhere float the white breasts of clamorous gulls , betwixt thehea th -c oun t ry and th e sea !

R O S E B L A N C H E D E S A U B E SFR O M E a s t a w a y s h e c a meWith the fa in t dawn-t ide f lame,What t ime the cocks were crowing,And the rivers of morning flowing :And she bore in her bare handsThe pe r fume o f Ho ly L an ds ;In her garments l ingered the myrrhMen burn a t God 's Sepulchre .Knee-deep in marish flowers,In those pale twil ight hours,The lowing oxen heardThe magic of her word.In cities of hushed bells,Abbeys and c i tadels ,Her fragrant footsteps litSweet legends infini te.

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Beau ty was come aga inIn to the courts of menOut of the ashen painAnd anguish of men slain.With ivory fee t she t rod ,Like a Messenger of God ;The wi ld anemonesGreeted her , and young t rees .Whi ter than Death , more fa i r ,She burned through the s t i l l a i r :The star-eyed MarigoldsOpened their chal iced folds.Out of the East she came,A si lver taper-flameOf del ica te dreaming Day,Whi t e Rose f rom Eas t away !

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R I C H A R D A L D I N G T O N

M I N O R E X A S P E R A T I O N SI . T H E O C C U L T I S T S .

FIN D lov e so ve ry difficult a deed,Theirs is so pure , so educa t iona l .God ! I 'v e been sensua l enough ,You can ca l l me beas t ,But these , these f inger- twitchers , neck-paddlers ,These " souls " wi th w ris ts an d anklesB u t n o i n w a r d s !Spi t c lean your mouth , Ca l igu la ;At leas t I ' l l se t my tee thDeep in the Dead Sea apple ,Not snif f and tongue and pa t i tL ike an eunuch m onkey .

Borne, 1912.I I . V A L H A L L A .

TH E w ar-worn heroes ta ke the ir res tIn th e mess ante - roo m . . .Some sprawl as leep by the s tove ,Some play br idge on green tables ,Some read nove ls ,Mournful ly peer ing thro ugh sm oky a ir .Thus , O Athene , do the high heroes ,Even as Odysseus and the noble Menelaus ,Rest from the toils of war.

Newhaven, 1918.13

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I I I . M Y COLONEL.

M Y colonel has several dabs of bright colourOver his left top pocket;He walks with harassed dignity;H is gaze of intelligence is decep tive There is nothing in his headBut a precis of King's Regs.,Crime sheets and military handbooks.Every day he talks seriously to poor foolsWho have stayed out too late at nightOr lost a rifle or forgotten to shave;Nearly every day he condemns to prisonSome weak-minded son of CainFor an absurd triviality.I have never spoken unofficially to my colonelBu t I suspect he is even more imbecile tha n I hav e painted him .

Newhaven, 1918.

I V. BREAKI NG- POI NT.H AVE I still three friends in the worldUntainted by moral cowardice,By respect for institutions ?I will dance a solemn war dance,Crouching down, beating my hands,Solemnly stamping my feet;I will dance on the grave of prosperity.I lust for the scalp of smug security,To rattle the bones of the bourgeois.

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I will make mock of brass hats and brass buttons.At a serious ceremonial momentWhen the hero of a hundred newspapers(The general who never saw the line)Is inspecting a motionless brigade,I will pierce the shocked airWith a laugh of preposterous ribaldry.I will sneer at this silly war(I ha ve suffered, I can do as 1 please),I will sneer at its bastard pomp,Expose its flatulent hypocrisy.O, I could charm the high godsWith a more than Aristophanic levity,Deploy before their histrionic cachinnationsThe biggest fraud in history;O, I could play hell with this epochHad I still three friends in the worldUntainted by moral cowardice,By respect for institutions.

Newhaven, 1918.

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HENRI GAUDIER-BRZESKA

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H E R B E R T R E A D

S M O K E RTH R E E e l a b o ra t e c o o n sIntone a melody . . .

Yakky-hikky-doolah . . .Above the bleary swoon of smokeThe lamps l ike greasy moonsPreside with indecision.B e n e a t h t h e m,Reflect ing the l ight of greasy moons,The oi ly bright faces of the audienceGrimace and s ing .Moved in some current of laughter,Their elast ic cheeksOscillate from a rock of skullsLike sea-anemones.

The blue Hawaiian bay . . .The rhythm of th is songRipples the pool of shiny faces.Ul t imate echoesQuaver in the melon domes of annal ists .

I N T H E W E S T R I D I N G

CANCROID i r rad ia t ionOf gri t ty gray hovel-blocks over the dull greenE x c a v a t e d h i l l s ;The neat sheenOf the sunlit serrated roofs of the millsAgainst blue pyramids of vi t reous furnace-cinders.

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Squat gas-cyl indersSink in th e clutch of hexa gona l frames. An hyd raulic pu m pWi th up -sob and down-sumpGlistens and flickers in its cavernous shed,Impell ing essential bloodThrough the b lack deadCarcase of th e land . A sulph urou s hoodCaps a l lcowl of an ear th-monk 's medi ta t ion .

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R . C . T R E V E L Y A NC L O U D - B I R T H

FROM a peak of GlaramaraI watch the clouds mist-born on Bow Fell 's precipices,Insensibly forming, swelling and severing,Then one by one drift ing away on the windTo be lost from sight in the East .Vainly I t ry to fix in memoryThe image of each transi tory cloud-shape.Easier i t were to rememberThe thoughts tha t are born in the mis ty chasms of my mind,Ceaselessly forming and changing,Then float ing away to fade into the past .

A C H I L D ' S B I R T H D A YS IX years ago to-day, when firstOn my senses the l ight burst ,When my mind became awareOf strange brightness everywhere,Did I then shut my eyes in fright ,An d shrink b ack in to friendly nig ht ?Or in t roubled, sulky moodDid I stare, and bl ink, and brood,Teased by changing mysteriesT ha t mo cked the q uest ion of m y eyes ?Or in gladness and amazeQuietly did I l ie and gaze,Til l drowsiness upon me crept ,An d with pleasu re t i red I slept ?Or was then my mind so smallIt had no room for thoughts at al l ,But as a leaf or flower might,Thro ugh wide eyes drank in th e l ight ?

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J O H N G O U LD F L E T C H E R

A T S U N R I S E

A WAVE hung over the c i ty l ike an enormous c loudCrested wi th smoky foam, and menaced h im wi th death :But he did not fear, for he had been blown out upon the skyLike a t i red swallow travel l ing to i ts nest against the eaves,And through the great green wave, as tonished, reso lu te ,He plunged . . .The l ight went out and there was nothing leftB ut th e grinding clash of waters , th e whirl ing drift of spr ay :Then he arose and sawThat the waters beat s t ra ight downTil l the houses of the ci ty were invaded, washed away,And there aroseOut of the surf and eddies no more men, but gods.Gods with white laughter crowned arose and fought and sang,Nak ed as t im e, thro ug h the b l inding dr i f t th a t bea t abo ut

thei r knees ,They pel ted each other with snowballs torn from a comet 's tai l ,They screamed and shook wi th laughter , they hugged anddanced and sang,And a l l about the bare horizon rangWith the g lory tha t no memory could assa i l .Yet al l the while he lay st i l l as death, st i l l as death,St i l l as white waters lapping soft ly under a lagging morn,A t i red swallow blown from i ts nest against the eaves,He lay and l istened secret ly, and st i l l the gusty breathOf thunderous laughter crashed about the cloudless sky t i l lnoon .

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T H E F O R E S T O F N I G H T

I N the valley of vision are villages hidden in sleep,In the valley of vision are whip-poor-wills crying aloud,And a chill wind, fli t t ing and sombre, brushes the tops of thet reesIn the val ley of vision, where the pale l ight is outspread.Slow drags the lagging October moonUp through the mis tslowly waverGolden trees, whispering, chat tering,Tra i l ing the i r heavy branches .Southward through the pale mis tThe moon sleeps on lake and on river,Motionless, brokenly gleamingDown stretches of desolate forest .In the val ley of vision are passionate cries through the night :Th e whip-poo r-will neve r ceases his m ourn ful, far-off co m pl ai nt :The trees creak an d trai l their grea t branch es, th e dry, sl idingsound of a snakeMoves for an ins tan t am id the withered an d pun gen t grasses ;Afar in the stil lness there is the harsh crack of a branchAnd a start le d leap in the darknes s ;Then stillness again but for a soft-hooting owlComing from nowhere to t rouble an instant the si lence.Death broods under the yel low October moon,Death broods so lemnlyOver the world of dropping leaves, and grassesBri t t le and thin in the forest .De a th is ve ry qu ie t ;I t takes with scarcely a whisperSorrowful autumn leaves and years and seasons,And mournful rivers meandering off to the marshes.

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In the val ley of vision a black cloud scuds over the moon,Like a dark c lo th suddenly dropped upon a face tha t i s s i len t ;And the mournful sul len forestLies st i l l and holds i ts breath :The plumes of the funeral cypressNo longer lonesomely wave to the white-shining marshes,And shadows walk out of the forestAnd slowly cl imb up to the hi l ls .Pass ion has b lo t ted ou t the waning October m oon ;Passion and sorrowHave st i fled the shining skyTo the las t s tar ' s g l immer.Pass ion th at seeks in de athFor love remembersIts old inevitable fai lure,And breaks in floods of tears.In the val ley of vision the l ightning stalks through the night ,With winds howling and rains plashing and crash of branches ;And, when the morning r i ses ,The val ley is l ike a tomb,With i t s ne twork of naked branchesSwung over lofty columns,And dry leaves spreading a carpetFor men unre turn ing , foot fa l l s tha t never come back,Dark longings for beautyUt t e r ly b roken and sha t t e red ,Dogging them down to the val leyWhence there rises no cry of a bird nor a whisper to break theirbleak sleep.

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H. J . MASSINGHAM

W A R A N D P E A C E

TH E Y died in mill ions : yes, th at m ore m ay die,Fo r a few cove tous old me n ? for a lie ?Fo r fun ? for th e jargo n of policy ?For a petitio principii ?To make the S ta te more heathen idol thanWo rshipped th e H i t t i te or Assyrian ?Fo r nou ght ? Fo r the n ig ht m are Chimra r ides ?Or for old Tr av es ty t o slap his sides ?For the effective use of irony ?To supply b ishops wi th new blasphemy,Contracts to swindlers, fallacies to fools,Thoughts to wise men that harrow them l ike ghouls ,Pe r cent , to frenzy, dividend s to dea th ?To cosen that cheat l i fe who gave us breath ?Fo r some huge pa rad ox forged into laws ?Because there was no o ther way ? Because . .W ha t the n ? 'Tis p i t i fu l ; b ut the y are dead .Flesh is grass ; the re is no mo re to be said,Or we pt . I tel l you they are blessed who stoleHence, from this Lock Hospital of the soul .

S O R S E X I T U R A

L I T T L E oak-treeTw o inches high ;You live, insect,One d ay, t he n die ;Old, very old oakNow rots away;You, li t t le insect,Are bo rn nex t day .

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Death , you a re buxom,Caesar, you're dead,And o ld Morta l i tyCreeps home to bed .But are you any o lder ,O cheru b Love ?Is your beard whi terO God above ?

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CORA GORDON

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T. W. E AR P

U R B A N I T YA FTER d inne r , a l i t t l e b randyFor medi ta t ion would be handy ;W aite r ! A doub le cognac, please !Now I can si t and take my ease,Observing, with post-prandial face,The various people in this place.Next me, the lady wi th a fan ,Si t t ing by tha t weak-chinned young man,A Surb i ton o r Kew Euphemia ,Has been brought here to see Bohemia .Half in fright, half in disgust,She gazes hard, for gaze she must ,Across a t a young smart town-ladyAll too bright and al l too shady ;The girl laughs louder when she stares.Discussing int imate affairs,A woman in a flaring hatSmiles on an amorous lump of fat ,There in th e co rn er ; fa r ther on ,Si t t ing alone, and woe-begoneBecause not ye t qu i te drunk, a boyWho comes in search of love and joy,Anxiously hoping tha t he ' l l dareHai l the next g i r l who passes there .Beyond him, looking l ike a saint ,Si t s a young ar t i s t who doesn ' t pa in t ,Talking to one who lets you know i tThat by his hair he is a poet . Those two t i red men, who 's day 's work 's done ,Have come in here to see some fun;They watch a woman in the d is tanceTaking the l ine of least resistance,

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Because she 's got enough to payThe dr inks tha t he lp her to be gay . Not heeding her, just opposi te,Two big b lack-bearded Frenchmen s i t ,Impassively p laying dominoes ;And so on, down the various rows,Table on table, I can seeAn inf in i te humani ty ,And meet , where 'er my gaze is bent ,The curious, the indifferent ,The drunk, the hal f-drunk, and the lus t ing .O soul , and i t ' s to these I 'm t rus t ingYour l i t t le hour ' twixt dark and dark ,And le t t ing smoulder out your sparkFitful ly here in this false l ight ;To these , because the London n ightHere to this festering place drives inCreatures of loneliness and sin,And crushes us within i ts gripTo a despairing fellowship.O better any place or doomThan si t t ing in the lonely room,With London lying al l about ,With siren London holding outPromise of all i ts many blisses,Laughter and ta lk and dr inks and k isses ;For though this whole place seems to l ieLike a painted smile, you can 't denyIt ' s be t ter than the sound of bel l sThat through a desolate at t ic swells,Bet ter than b lank house-fronts tha t s tareIn to the s t ree ts whi le you pass there ,Bet ter than s tarvel ing ghosts of t reesOut in the square, or l ights that freezeAnd s tab you wi th the i r sharp b lue ray ,Bet ter than hear ing , far away,

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Another haunted crea ture 's fee tUpon the echoing pavement beat .Here at least there is a shel terFrom the night , in this queer welter,And a refuge from yourself.Here, the l i t t le sceptic elfWho pursues you with self-doubtingYou've at last a chance of rout ing ;For the indiv idual grows d im,Merged into the general swim,And to the spiri t of the crowdThe l i t t le private plaint is bowed.So we si t and smoke and pick upSounds of laughter , oa th , and h iccup,London 's ch i ldren , London 's los t ,Foam o ' the c i ty , h i ther tossed ,Thinking that th ings aren ' t so bad ,Soothed by l iqueurs, and each one gladBecause he sees a neighbour near,Because we ' re a l l together here ,Dreading but the c lock up there ,Murmuring but th is one prayer ,As the hands move towards the chime Save u s, God, from closing-time !

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R U S S E L L G R E E N

A V E A T Q U E V A L E

A ND you wil l stand in the remembered placeAnd hear new winds sigh their old refrainOf love that comes and goes i ts way againAnd beauty tha t endures for a space .Over the northern moors of long agoThe dying memories will slowly fade like stars,One by one,And in their place memories I do not know.

E M B A N K M E N T N O C T U R N E

S W IF T dream s of var iable gold convergeFrom those far lamps on l i fe 's circumferenceInto the egocentre of the sense.Beneath the dreams the dead b lack waters surgeFrom hil ls they have forgotten to the sea,The distant , unseen, legendary sea.So be i t ! Let sun and s tars , fu ture and pa st ,Circle aroun d m y sol i tary pleasure !Let al l created beauty find i ts measureIn demiurgic self! Yet, at the last ,Now do I fear lest circle and centre goTogether down that si lent underflow.

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S O N G

IWENT from boarding-house to boarding-house ." Do you sing ? " asked th ey . " Do you sing ? "

" Yes ! I sin g," said I. " Yes ! I sing !But my song is not of this world,And my music is not of men.It is not song that would rouseThe feet of men to a fling.The kind of song that I singW ould m ake yo u sleep in your chairs !The first wild curve of the wingOf th e first swift sw allow of spr ing ;Or the wind that blows on the fenIn November sunsets and baresThe last gray willow of leavesAnd murmurs under the eavesAnd m urm urin g goes from our ken ;The beauty deep in the hear tWhisper ing day af ter dayAs I go along on my way.Are these a song for you,O boarders ?Or would you prefer a newBrig ht th ing from t he last revu e ? "

S O L I T U D EH ELL poured through woman 's soul i t s lev i ty ,Dissolving evi l into luscious vapoursTo infect all ea rth . O victory !O peaceful penetrat ion !Levi ty ! Thy name i s woman.W here are the s t rong a nd s i len t s t ream s ?W here is th e glory of th e vas t extre m es,The asymptotes of the immorta l soul ,

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Sweeping down paths of the speedful universe,Dy nam ic , s low, ponderous , good ?" Th ey should n ot m ar ry t i l l the y 'r e thirty-five " ;(And yet she takes advantage of her sex) ." I think i t 's real ly good to be al ive."Oh God, oh God, forfend this agony !Dyke off the sl ime of this advancing t ide !Oh God immortal , ki l l us in the prideOf our stil l beautiful youth before we fall ,Before we fal l into this t ide of t rash,Seawrack and drift ing corks and chips of woodSeething along the fringe of the great seas,The clean, great seas.De ath , de ath , is be t t er tha n th is agony,To be possessed by the desire of trash !Barbar ians we are , nude on the ear th ,Crying for strips of gaudy fripperyThat would not burn even in the fi re of hel l .O l i t t le flames ! jets in the catacombs,Light jets of nauseous gas throwing small shadowsTo daze the wits of men who should know bet ter !

* * * *

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E R I C D I C K I N S O N

T H E E N T H U S I A S T

NOW , who is th a t curiou s old m an ?He examines a ca ta logueAs though he would swim in i t .He searches l ike that every dayI bel ieve i t 's a quest ion of man's immortal i ty.See, but now he has turned ;With head se t back he seeks the campani le .Tenderly he caresses his moustacheAs an abbot a stoup of malvoisie.Behind the goggling glassesPleonast ical ly obtuse expression.His crown is baldYet a Pachmann se t t i ngLends a flavour of geniusTo cheeks amazingly tex tured .Grave, curious old man in the Bodleian,How calm you s tand !Ye t what i s th a t spark le , I w onder ,That gleam of the i risIs some demon down leapingFrom a r im o ' the s tars ,Grave, curious old man in the Bodleian ?Yet your pardon, s i r ,Upsta i rs an in t r igue a t tends meA m at te r of Degas :" Danseuses a leur to i le t te ."You unders t andNow if only you were a bal let-master,Grave, prying old man in the Bodleian !

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CHAMAN LALLT H E M A N W H O W A S A F R A I D

II HAVE heard the i r laughter , I have seen thei r tears ,I have heard the mad rush of yearsWithout hope or fears .W as i t in vain tha t the t ide ebbed aw ay ?Why did the t ide s l ink awayLike a shy man afraid to stay ?I thou gh t I would ta ke a walk across th e san dsWhen the sands are dry , the t ide far away,I thought , half-way, I would greet old Omar,I would work a great Sin and say :Life is but a gay misnomerFor the th ings one may not te l l ;And if in the end it is not wellI thought I would f ind the UnknownIn a wayside carven stone,And I would touch i ts broken feet .( I hold no Damascene sword in hand,How should I turn in to a dark lane ,To do h igh deeds maybe wi th Tamerlane ?) .And so the tide of my desires(Drift and wane)Slinked awayLike a shy man afraid to stay.

I IONE came to me and sa id ,(As one in a difficulty might lose his head):" W h a t hav e we two lef t to feelSpen ding our lives like wome n at t he wheel ?D id we no t scale th e moon and em pty th e stars in oneexperience ?

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Our days were l ike the seaWhen the sea is gold and ivory,Inlaid with cloud and sun.Is th a t p as t and done ?Did we not pave our y outh wi th qu est ions ?We are desola te , beref t ;The re is not ano the r quest ion left.

II ISHOULD God s tare one in the faceAnd bl ink His eye with perfect lack of graceAs God might blink across a coffinWhilst hired mourners t rai l their grinAlong cobbled streets(Tra i l ing l ike o ld women);And should Death go hurry ing by ,What would the four roses and a lily signify ?Or the pose of a Mazarin with his mace,The huddled volumes in your case ,The four gestures in your face ?

IV

E TERNITY one day wi l l pay you an af ter-d inner ca l lWhen jes t ing guests are gathered in the hal l ;He in his hat , she with her shawl !Beneath the jest , as i f i t were a shawl,You wi l l mee t E te rn i ty ;And you wil l ask the meaning of i t al l ;And of ten thousand years penci l led in a phrase,Or i t may be in a woman 's pra ise ."Is there a m eaning after al l ?* * * *

I am Aln asch ar t i re d of vag ue desires ;I sha ll forever d rift with m y desires :I shal l forever bui ld a golden chamber in the waters.34

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HELEN ROOTHAM(The Editor regrets that the article to which the following translations from" Les Illuminations," by Arthur Rimbaud, are appended as quotations, hasbeen held over for a subsequent issue.)

M A R I N E

CHARIOTS of s i lver and of copper .Prows of steel and of silverBeat the foam,Lift the stems of the brambles.The s t reams of the barren par t sAnd the immense t racks of the ebbFlow c i rcu lar ly towards the eas t ,Towards the pi l lars of the forest ,Towards the pi les of the jet ty ,Against whose angle are hurled whirlpools of l ight .Behind the opera-bouffe huts one hears the cascade.There are Catherine-wheels and revolving suns inthe orchards , and in the a l leys near the m az e; the set t ing sun paints the sky with green and red.There a re Hora t ian nymphs wi th the i r ha i r d ressedin the style of the First Empire, Siberian roundelays,and Chinese ladies painted by Boucher.

ME T R O P O L I T A N

FROM the indigo strai ts to the seas of Ossian, on the roseand orange sands which have been washed by the wine-coloured sky, crys tal b ouleva rds hav e j us t arisen, inhab i tedforthw ith by young, poor families. The y are fed a t t hefrui terer 's . The re is noth ing rich. A tow n !Flying from the bi tuminous desert , f lying in a disorderedrout with masses of shift ing fog surging hideously towards a

bending, changing sky (a sky formed of the black sinistervapour which the mourn ing ocean brea thes ou t ) a re he lmets ,wheels , boa ts and cruppers .A bat t le !35 C 2

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Raise your head ; see this arched wooden bridge, these lastfew ki tchen-gardens , these coloured masks l ighted up by thelamp which the cold night lashes, the giggling ninny naiad inthe loud dress down by the r iver , the phosphorescent turn ip-heads amongst the pea-p lants , and the o ther phantasmagoria .The coun t ry !There are roads bordered with rai l ings and walls which canscarcely contain their groves, with atrocious flowers whichone is supposed to cal l one 's brothers and sisters, damask of adamning languorpossessions of a fabled aristocracy, ul t ra-rhenan, Japanese or Guarinno, the proper sor t of people toreceive th e music of th e ancien ts. The re are inns which wil lnever open again,there are princesses, and if you are not toobored , there i s th e s tud y of the s tars . Hea ven !There was the morning when, wi th Her , you s t ruggledamongst those banks of snow, those green-l ipped crevasses,th a t ice, those black flags and blue ray s, and the purple perfumesof the polar sun.Thy force !

B A R B A R I C

L ONG after days and seasons, long after t he crea tures andthe count r ies ,The scarlet pavilion was set up on the silk of the seas and ofthe Arct ic flowers (which are not).There arose remembrances of the fanfares of old heroicdays ,which s t i l l a t tack our hear t s and our heads ,far f romassassins of old.Behold ! The scarlet pavilion set up on the silk of the seasand of the Arctic flowers (which are not).Th e brasiers scat terin g the ir showers of ho ar frost.O hdelight!Those fi res with sudden gusts and showers ofdiam ond s, thr ow n off by th e hea rt of th e world eternal ly carbonised for us.Oh world !

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(How far are we from those by-gone haunts and flames thatwe hear and feel!)Th e glowing fires and th e foam on the w aters ! The mu sicof the whirling of bottomless gulfs, and the clash of icebergsagainst the s tars !Oh Delight , oh W orld, oh M us ic! An d ther e, shapes,vapo urs , ha i r and eyes f loa ting in the v a s t ! And tears , whi teand ho t ! Oh De l igh t ! and woma n ' s vo ice reaching to thedepths of Arctic caves and volcanoes . . . The Pavilion. . . .

F L OWE R S

SEATED on a golden stair , amongst si lken cords, greygauzes, green velvets, and crystal disks which blacken inthe sun-l ike bronzeI watch the foxglove open on a groundof filigree-work of silver, eyes an d hair . Pieces of yellow goldl ie sca t tered upon the agate , mahogany p i l la rs support a domeof emeralds, white sat in bouquets and slender twigs of rubiesencircle the water-l i ly.Like a blue-eyed god sculptured in snow, the sea and the skyal lure to the marble terraces the crowd of strong young roses.

D E M O C R A C Y"THE flag is in keeping with th e unclean landscap e, an dour jargon drowns the sound of the drum."" A t certain centre s we will enco urage t he most cynicalpro st i tu t ion . W e will crush logical rebel l ion."" Le t us go to dusty and ex hausted cou nt r iesp ut ourse lvesat the service of monstrous industrial or mil i tary exploi tat ions."" To our nex t meet inghere no m at te r where ! Conscripts of good intent ion, we shal l have a ferocious philosophy.Dunces shal l be devotees of knowledge, sybari tes enthusiastsfor com fo rt ; and for this bus y world the re shall be dissolut ion.This is real progress ! Forward ! March ! "

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E D I T H S I T W E L LW H A T T H E G O O S E -G I R L S A I D A B O U T

T H E D E A N

TURN again , turn again ,Goose Clothi lda, Goosie Jane.Bright wooden waves of people creakFrom houses buil t with coloured straw'sOf h e a t ; Dean Pa pp us ' long nose snoresHarsh as a hautbois , marshy-weak.The wooden waves of people creakThrough the fields all water-sleek.And in among the straws of l ightThose bumpkin hautbois-sounds take f l ight .Whence he l ies snoring l ike the moonClownish-white al l afternoon.Beneath the t rees ' a rsenica lSha rp woodwind tun es ; heret ical Blown l ike the wind 's mane(Creaking woodenly again).His wandering thoughts escape l ike geeseTil l he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,And clouds of wool join the bright raceFor scat tered old simplici t ies.

"TOURNEZ, TOURNEZ, BON CH EV AU XDE BOIS"

TURN, tu rn aga in ,A pe's blood in eac h vein !The people tha t passSeem castles of glass,

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The old and the goodGiraffes of blue wood,The soldier , the nurse,Wooden-face and a curse,Are shadowed with plumageLike birds , by the gloomage .Blond hair l ike a c lown'sTh e mu sic floatsdrownsThe creaking of ropes,The breaking of hopes .The wheezing, the old,Like harm oniu ms scold ;Go to Babylon , R ome ,The brain-cells called home,The grave , new Jerusa lemW rinkled Methusa lem !From our f loating hairDerived the first fairAnd queer inspirationOf music , the nationOf br ight-plumed t reesAnd harpy-shril l breeze . . .

* * * *Turn , tu rn aga in ,Ap e 's blood in each vein !

B Y C A N D L E L I G H TH OUSES red as f lower of bean,Flickering leaves and shadows lean !Panta lone , l ike a parrot ,Sa t and grumbled in the garre tSat and growled and grumbled ti l lMoon upon the window-sil lLike a red geraniumScented his ba ld c ranium.39

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Said Brighel la , meaning wel l :" Pack your box andgo to He l l !H ea t wi ll cure your rheu m at ism ! " . . .Si lence crowned this opt imismNot a sound and not a wai l :But the fire (lush leafy vale)Watched the angry fea thers f ly .Panta lone 'gan to cryCould not , would not , pack his box !Shadows (curtseying hens and cocks)Pecking in the at t ic gloomTried to smo ther his tai l -plum e . . .Ti l l a cockscomb candle-flame

Crowing loudly, died : Dawn came.

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W A L T E R S I C K E R T

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W . R O T H E N S T E I NI

D R. S E A L .

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W . R O T H E N S T E I NI I

A N D R E G I D E .

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LAWRENCE ATKINSON

S T I L L L I F E .

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A . E . C O P P A R D

T H E S T R E A M SH IDDEN by sweet bushes , where b looms an acacia t ree ,Let a river be turning among i ts rocks :I would s i t on the br idge and th ink my thoughtsThe red streams of my heart to be going aboutIn riot among the rocks of the mindAnd to be c loven by themUnti l the l ight was smit ten from the hi l ls ,And l i t t le splashing starsWere come to be walk ing wi th the moon.Now in this quiet house,When the door and the half-door are bol ted,The woman with down-fal len hair smiles strangely towards meThe clock is ticking,The bird hops in i ts cage,The chi ld st i rs not from i ts slumberBeautiful are her glances to meAs she l ights the tal l candle.

W I S H E SA Y , I may wound my heels on the stones of the street ,And break my heart for the things far out in the world,But ever the wish of my mind waits for a thrust from meThat wil l not come.H ow could I receive m y wishes, who had bu t the h ea rt of a hen ?And l ived but looking at things, and sighing for thingsWith the cry of a vexed bird, lonelyOn thi s flat st ra nd of th e sea ?

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But to l ie down now, now in the sand of the shore, and watchthe p l ane ,The flying plane that hums at the hinge of heaven,Or crawls like a fleaIn the sk in of the holy dog;And let me be covered with your caresses, green wanderingwave ,Your curving sea be spi l led in my empty heart ,Lest I l ive vainly on :This is my wish indeed.

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L. A. G. STRONG

T O A N O S E(After the Spanish of Villegas)

TH E R E w as a nose g rew on a m an(Stuck on with glue, ye might suppose),A corpulent an ' c le rkly nose ,A scythe , an ' i t a ha iry one .A sund ia l v i sage tu rn ed abou t ,A chemis t ' s bo t t l e th ink in ' ha rd :An e lephant ' s gob, would add a yardTo Ovid , o ld Rome ' s snou ted ba rd .'Twas l ike the beak of a ship of oldA pyramid blessed with the sense o ' smell .The whole ten tr ibes into one nose rolled,A nose whose l imit 'd fa il ye to te ll .Ye could damn, O swaggerin ' nose so bold,The Jews ' High Pr ies t h imse lf to Hel l .

E E N A - M E E N A - M I N A - M OE E N A m e e n a m i n a m o ,Catch a nigger by 'ees toe :If 'e 'olleys let 'n go.OUT spells out.And o ut you m ust go :You'm of i t , O !Chi ldren playing on the green.Joe Treguddick, dea thly i l l ,Hears them very c lear ly s t i l l .Silently with blinking eyesTwo grea t sons have dragged his bedTo the window, t i l l he dies .

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Now he is wandering in his fieldsWhere al l things lose their certain shape . . .The cows in munching quiet l ie ,And on the orange of the skyThe trees stand out l ike scissored crape.W i th deep , coo l b rea ths he d r inks the n ig h t :Then in a sudden sweat of painHe twis ts upon h is bed again .The chi ldren 's voices die away,And seldom now the footsteps pass :A hobnai led t read upon the roadFalls sudden si lent on the grass.St i l l with throb and throb of painHe hears the chi ldren at their playChanting insistent in his brain :Coughs : and w ith a whist l ing bre ath ,Though he knows how the count wil l fal l ,Turns to p l ay the game wi th Dea th .Turns to the last game of al l .

E e n a m e e n a m i n a m o ,Catch a nigger by 'ees toe :If 'e 'olleys let 'n go.OUT spells out .And ou t you mus t go :Yo u'm of i t , Joe !

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N I N A H A M N E T T

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A L D O U S H U X L E YL E D A

B R O W N and br ight as an agate , mounta in-cool ,Eurotas singing sl ips from pool to pool;Dow n rocky gull ies ; th ro ugh th e cavernous p inesAnd chestnut groves ; down where the te rraced v inesAnd gardens overhang ; th ro ugh val leys greyWith ol ive t rees, into a soundless bayOf the gean. Silent and asleepLie those pools now : b u t w here the y dream most deep ,Men sometimes see ripples of shining hairAnd the young grace of bodies pale and bare,Shimmering far downthe ghosts these mirrors holdOf al l the beauty they beheld of old,White l imbs and heavenly eyes and the hair 's r iver of gold.For once these banks were peopled : Spartan girlsLoosed here their maiden girdles and their curls,And stooping o 'er the level water stoleHis darl ing mirror from the sun through wholeRapturous hours of gazing . The first starOf all this milky constellation, farLovelier than any nymph of wood or green,Was she whom Tyndarus had made h is queenFor her sheer beauty and subt ly moving graceLeda, the fairest of our mortal race.Hymen had l i t h i s torches but one weekAbout her bed (and st i l l o 'er her young cheekPassed rosy shadows of those thoughts tha t spedAcross her mind, stil l virgin, stil l unwed,For al l her body was her own no more),When Leda wi th her maidens to the shoreOf br ight Eurotas came, to escape the heatOf summer noon in waters coolly sweet .

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What a re the ir boas ted pleasures ? I am queenTo the most royal king the world has seen ;Therefore I should, if any woman might,Know a t i t s fu l l tha t exquis i te de l ight .Yet these few days s ince I was made a wifeHave he ld more bi t te rness than a l l my l i fe ,W hile I was ye t a chi ld ." Th e grea t br igh t tea rsSlipped thr ou gh her lashes. " Oh, m y childish yea rs !Years that were all my own, too sadly few,W hen I was happ y and y e t neve r knewHo w hap py t i l l to-d ay ! " H er maide ns cameAbout her as she wept , whisper ing her name,Leda , swee t Leda , wi th a hundred dearCaressing words to soothe her heavy cheer.At last she s tarted up with a f ierce prideUp on her face. " I am a qu ee n, " she cried," Bu t ha d forgo tten i t a while ; an d you ,Wenches of mine, you were forgetful too.Und ress me. W e would ba the ourself." So proudA queen she s tood, tha t a l l her maidens bowedIn t rembling fear and scarce ly dared approachTo do her b idding . B ut a t las t th e broochPinned a t her shoulder is undone , the wideGirdle of s i lk benea th her breas ts unt ied ;The tunic fa lls about her feet, and sheSteps from the crocus folds of drapery,Dazz l ingly naked, in to the warm sun.God-like she s tood ; then broke into a run,Leaping and laughing in the l ight , as thoughLife through her veins coursed with so swift a f lowOf generous blood and fire that to remainToo long in s ta tued queenliness were painTo tha t quick soul , avid of speed and joy.She ran, easily bounding, l ike a boy,Narrow of haunch and slim and firm of breast .

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Lovelier she seemed in motion than at rest ,If that might be, when she was never less,Moving or st i l l , than perfect lovel iness.At last , with cheeks afire and heaving flank,She checked her race , and on the r iver ' s bankStood looking down at her own echoed shapeAnd at the fish that , aimlessly agape,Hung midway up their heaven of flawless glass,Like angels wait ing for eterni ty to pass.Leda drew breath and p lunged ; her gasping crySplashed up ; the water circled brokenlyOu t from t h at p early shud der of dippe d l imbs ;The gl i t tering pool laughed up i ts flowery brims,And everything, save the poor fish, rejoiced :Their idiot contemplat ion of the Moist ,The Cold, the Watery, was in a t riceEnded when Leda broke thei r c rys ta l paradise .Jove in his high Olympian chamber layHugely supine , s t r iv ing to charm awayIn sleep the long, intolerable noon.But heedless Morpheus st i l l withheld his boon,And Jove upon his si lk-pavil ioned bedTossed wrathful and aw ake . His fevered headSwarmed with a thousand fancies, which forecastDelights to be, or savoured pleasures past .Closing his eyes, he saw his eagle swift,Headlong as his own thunder, stoop and l i ftOn p in ions upward labouring the pr izeOf beauty ravished for the envious skies.He saw again tha t br ight , adul terous pai r ,Trapped by the l imp ing husband unaware ,Fast in each other 's arms, and faster in the snareAnd laughed remem bering . Somet imes h is thou ghtWent wandering over the ear th and soughtFamil iar p lacestemples by the sea ,

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Cities and islands ; here a sacred treeAnd there a cavern of shy nymphs. He rol ledAbout his bed, in many a rich foldCrumpl ing h is Babylonian cover le t ,And yawn ed and stre tche d. Th e smell of his own sweatBrought back to mind h is Libyan deser t - faneOf mott led grani te , with i ts endless t rainOf pi lgrim camels, reeking towards the skyAm mo nian incense to h is horned de i ty ;The while their masters worshipped, offeringHuge teeth of ivory, while some would bringTheir Ethiop wivessleek wineskins of black si lk ,Jel l ied and huge from drinking asses ' milkThrough years of t ropical idleness, to prayFor offspring (whom he ever sent awayWith prayers unanswered , les t the i r ebon raceMight breed and blacken the earth 's comely face).Noon pressed on him a hot ter, heavier weight .O Love in Idleness ! how cel ibateH e fe l t ! Libido l ike a nemesisScourged him with i tching memories of bl iss .The sat in of imagined skin was sleekAnd supply warm against his l ips and cheek,And deep within soft hair 's dishevel led duskHis eyelids fluttered ; like a flowery muskThe scent of a young body seemed to floatFa in t ly about h im, c lose and ye t remoteFor perfume and the essence of music dwellIn o ther worlds among the asphodelOf un em bo die d life. Th en all ha d flown ;H is drea m had melted. In his bed, alone,Jove sweat ing lay and moaned, and longed in vainTo st i l l the pulses of his burning pain.In sheer despair at last he leapt from bed,Opened the window and th rus t fo r th h is head

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In to Oly mp ian ethe r. One fierce frownRifted the clouds, and he was looking downInto a gulf of azure calm ; the rackSee thed round abou t , t empes tuous ly b l ack ;But the god 's eye could ho ld i t s angry thunders back .There lay the world , down through the chasmed b lue ,St re tched ou t f rom edge to edge un to h is v iew;And in the mids t , b r igh t as a summer 's dayA t brea th less noon , the M edi te rranean lay ;And Ocean round the world 's dim fringes tossedHis g laucous waves in mis t and d is tance los t ;And Pontus and the l ivid Caspian seaStirred in their nightmare sleep uneasi ly .And ' twixt the seas rol led the wide fert i le land,Dappled wi th green and t rac ts o f tawny sand ,And rich, dark fallows and fields of flowers aglowAn d th e w hite , chan geless silences of snow ;While here and there towns, l ike a l iving eyeUnclosed on earth 's bl ind face, towards the skyGlanced the i r b r igh t consc ious be au ty . Y et the s igh tOf his fair earth gave him but small del ightNow in his rest lessness : i ts beauty couldDo nought to quench the fever in his blood.Desire lends sharpness to his searching eyes;Over the world his focussed passion fliesQuicker than chasing sunl ight on a dayOf s torm and go lden Apri l . Fa r awayH e sees th e t ranqu i l r ivers of the Ea s t ,Mirrors of many a st range barbaric feastWhere un-Hel len ic dancing-g i r l s contor tTheir yel low l imbs, and gibbering masks make sportUnder the moons of many-co loured l igh tThat swing their lantern-frui tage in the nightOf overa rching t rees . To him it seemsAn al ien world, peopled by insane dreams.

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But these a re no th ing to the monst rous shapesNot men so much as bas ta rdy of apesT ha t me et his eyes in Africa. Betw eenLeaves of grey fungoid pulp and poisonous green,White eyes from black and browless faces stare.Dryads with star-flowers in their woolly hairDance to the flaccid clapping of their ownBlack dangling dugs through forests overgrown,Pl at te d w ith wr i thing creepers. Horrified,He sees them how they leap and dance, or gl ide,Glimpse after black glimpse of a satin skin,Among unthinkable flowers, to pause and grinOut through a t rel l is of suppurat ing l ips,Of mot t led ten tac les barbed a t the t ipsAnd b loa ted hands and wat t les and red lobesOf pendulous grist le and enormous probesOf pinked and slashed and tasselled flesh . . . H e t u r n sN orth w ard his sickened sight . The desert bur nsAll l ife aw ay . H ere in th e forked sh adeOf twin-humped towering dromedaries la id ,A few gaunt folk are sleeping : fierce they seemEven in sleep and rest less as they dream.He would be fearful of a desert brideAs of a brown asp at his sleeping side,Fearful of her white teeth and cunning arts .Fur ther , ye t fu r ther , to the u l t imate par t sOf the wide earth he looks, where Bri tons goPain ted among the i r swamps, and th rough the snowHuge hairy snuffl ing beasts pursue their preyFierce men, as ha i ry and as huge as they .Bewi ldered furrows deepen the Thunderer ' s scowl :This world so vast , so variously foulWho can have made i t s ug l iness ? In whatRevol t ing fancy were the Forms begot

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Of al l these mo nsters ? W ha t strange dei tySo barbarously not a Greek !was heWho could mismake such beings in his ownDistor ted image. Na y, the Greeks a loneW ere me n ; in Greece alone were bodies fair,Minds come ly. In th a t al l -but-island ther e,Cleaving the blue sea with i ts promontories,Lies the world's hope, the seed of all the gloriesThat are to be ; there, too, must surely l iveShe who alone can medicinably giveEase wi th her beauty to the Thunderer ' s pa in .Downwards he bends his fiery eyes again,Glaring on He llas. Like a bea m of light,His in tent g lances touch the mounta in heightWith passing flame and probe the val leys deep,Rift the dense forest and the age-old sleepOf vaulted antres on whose pebbly floorGallop th e loud-hoofed Cen taurs ; and th e roarOf more than human shout ing undergroundPulses in living palpable waves of soundFrom wall to wall , unt i l i t rumbles outIn to th e air ; and at th a t hollow shoutThat seems an ut terance of the whole vast hi l l ,The shepherds cease their laughter and are st i l l .Cit ies asleep under the noonday skyStir at the p assage of his burning eye ;And in the i r huts the s tar t led peasants b l inkAt the swift f lash that bursts through every chinkOf wattled walls, hearkening in fearful wonderThrough lengthened seconds for the crash of thunder-W hich follows n o t : the y are the more afraid.Jov e seeks am ain . Many a count ry maid ,Whose sandalled feet pass down famil iar waysAmong the ol ives, but whose spiri t s t raysThrough lovel ier lands of fancy suddenlyStarts broad awake out of her dream to see

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A light that is not of the sun, a l ightDarted by l iv ing eyes , consc iously br igh t ;She sees and feels i t l ike a subtle flameMant l ing her l imbs wi th fear and maiden shameAnd stran ge desire . Long ing and terri f ied,She hides her face, l ike a new-wedded brideWho feels rough hands that seize and hold her fast ;And swooning falls . Th e terrible l ight has passed ;She wakes ; the sun st i l l shines, the ol ive t reesTremble to whispering si lver in the breezeAnd all is as i t was, save she aloneIn whose dazed eyes this deathless l ight has shone :For never, never from this day forth wil l sheIn earth 's poor passion find fel ici ty ,Or love of m ort al m an . A god 's desireH as seared her so u l ; noug ht bu t the same s t rong f ireCan kindle the dead ash to l i fe again,And all her years will be a lonely pain.Many a thousand had he looked upon ,Tho usand s of m orta l s , you ng and o ld ; bu t none Virgin, or young ephebus, or the flowerOf womanhood cul led in i ts ful l -blown hourCould p lease the Thunderer ' s s igh t o r touch h is mind :The longed-for loveliness was yet to find.Had beauty f led , and was there no th ing fa i rU nde r th e moon ? Th e fury of despairRaged in the breas t o f heaven 's Almighty Lord ;He gnashed his foamy teeth and rol led and roaredIn bul l-l ike ago ny. Th en a grea t calmDescended on him : cool and heal ing balmTouched h is imm orta l fu ry . H e had sp iedYoung Leda where she stood, poised on the river-side.Even as she broke the r iver ' s smooth expanse ,Leda was conscious of that hungry glance,

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And knew it for an eye of fearful powerThat d id so ho t and thunderously lour ,She knew not whence, on her frai l nakedness.Jov e 's hea r t he ld bu t one th o u g h t : he m ust possessThat perfect form or diepossess or die.Unheeded prayers and supplicat ions fly ,Thick as a flock of birds, about his ears,An d smoke of incense ris es ; bu t he hear sNought but the soft fal ls of that melodyWhich is the speech of Leda ; he can seeNought bu t tha t a lmost sp i r i tua l g raceW hich is her body, and th a t heaven ly faceW here gay , sweet thoug hts sh ine th roug h , and eyes a re br igh tWith pur i ty and the sou l ' s inward l igh t .H av e her he m u s t : th e teas le -fingered burrSticks not so fast in a wild beast 's tangled furAs that insistent longing in the soulOf migh ty Jov e . Gods , men, ear th , heaven , the wholeVast universe was blot ted from his thoughtAnd nought remained bu t Leda 's l aughter , noughtB ut L ed a's eyes. Magnified by his lust,She was th e whole world now ; h ave her he m ust , he m u s t . . .His spiri t worked : how should he gain his endW ith most del iciousness ? W ha t be t ter friend,What counsel lor more subt le could he findThan lovely Aphrodite , ever kindTo hapless lovers, ever cunning, too,In al l the tortuous ways of love to doAnd p lan the bes t ? To Paphos then ! His wi l lAn d act were o n e ; an d straig ht , invisible ,He s tood in Paphos , b rea th ing the languid a i rBy A phro dite 's couch. O heave nly fairShe was , and smooth and marvel lous ly young !On Tyrian si lk she lay, and purple hungAbout her bed in folds of fluted light

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And shadow, dark as wine . Two doves , more whi teEven than the whi te hand on the purp le ly ingLike a pale flower wearily dropped, were flyingWith wings that made an odoriferous st i r ,Dropping fa in t dews of bakkar i s and myrrh ,Musk and the soul of sweet flowers cunninglyRavished from t rans ien t pe ta l s as they d ie .Two stripl ing cupids on her ei ther handStood near with winnowing plumes and gent ly fannedHer hot , love-fevered cheeks and eyel ids burning.Another , c rouched a t the bed 's foo t , was tu rn ingA mass of sca t te red parchmentsvows or p la in tsOr g lad t r iumphant thanks which Venus ' sa in ts ,Martyrs and heroes on her al tars st rewedWith b i t te res t t ears o r g i f t s o f g ra t i tude .From the p i le heaped a t Aphrodi te ' s fee tThe boy would take a leaf, and in his sweet,Clear voice would read what mortal tongues can tel lIn stammering verse of those ineffablePleasures and pains of love, heaven and ut termost hel l .Jove hidden stood and heard him read these l inesOf vo t ive t hanksCypris , this l i t t le s i lver lamp to thee

I dedicate .It was my fel low watcher, shared with meThose swift , short hours, when raised above my fateIn Sphenura 's whi te a rms I d rankOf immor t a l i t y ." A pret ty lamp, and I wil l have i t p lacedBeside the narrow bed of some too chasteSister of virgin Artemis, to beA night-long witness of her cruel ty .Read me ano the r , boy ," and Venus ben tHer ear to l i s ten to th i s shor t l ament .Cypris , Cypris , I am betrayed !

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Under the same wide mant le la idI found th em , faithless, shameless pair !Making love with tangled hair ." Alas," the goddess cried, " nor god, nor man,Nor medicinable balm, nor magic canCast out the demon jealousy, whose breathWithers the rose of l i fe , save only t ime and death."Another sheet he took and read again.Farewell to love, and hail the long, slow painOf memory tha t backward tu rns to joy .O I have danced enough and enough sung;My feet shal l be st i l l now and my voice mute;Thine are these withered wreaths, this Lydian flute ,

Cypris ; I once wa s yo ung .And p i teous Aphrodi te wept to th inkHow fad ingly upon dea th 's very br inkBeauty and love take hands for one short kissAnd then the wreaths are dust , the bright-eyed bl issPerished, and th e flute st i ll . " Re ad on, read on ."But ere the page could start , a l ightning shoneSuddenly th rough the room, and they were wareOf some great terrible presence looming there.And i t took shapehuge l imbs, whose every l ineA symbol was of power and strength divine,And i t was Jove . " Da ughter , I co m e," sa id he ," For counsel in a case that touches meClose, to th e very li fe ." And he straigh twa yTold her of all his restlessness that dayAnd of his sight of Leda, and how greatW as his desire. An d so in close de ba teSa t th e two gods, plann ing their rape ; while she,Who was to be their vict im, joyouslyLaughed like a child in the sudden breathless chillAnd splashed and swam, forgetting every il l

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And every fear and al l , save only this :That she was young and i t was perfect bl issTo be al ive where suns so goldenly shineAnd bees go drunk wi th f ragrant honey-wine ,And the cicadas sing from morn t i l l nightAnd rivers run so cool an d pure an d brigh t . . .Stretched al l her length, arms under head, she layIn the deep grass, while the sun kissed awayTh e drop s th a t sleeked her skin. Slender an d fineAs those old images of the gods that shineWith smooth-worn s i lver , pol i shed through the yearsBy the touching l ips of countless worshippers,He r body was ; and the sun 's golden hea tClothed her in softest f lame from head to feetAnd was her mant le , tha t she scarcely knewTh e conscious sense of nak edn ess. Th e blue,Far hi l ls and the faint fringes of the skyShimmered and pulsed in the heat uneasi ly ,And hidden in the grass, cicadas shri l lDizzied the air with ceaseless noise, unt i lA l istener might wonder i f they criedIn his own head or in the world outside.Somet imes she shut her eyel ids , and wrapped roundIn a red darkness, with the muffled soundAnd throb of b lood beat ing wi th in her bra in ,Savoured intensely to the verge of painHer own young l i fe, hoarded i t up behindHer shuttered eyes, unt i l , too long confined,I t burs t them open and her pr i soned soulFlew forth and took possession of the wholeExquis i te world about her and was madeA pa rt of i t . Meanwhi le her ma idens p layed,Singing an ancient song of death and birth,Seed-t ime and harvest , o ld as the grey ear th ,And moving to the i r music in a dance

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As imm emoria l . A num bing t ranc eCame gradual ly over her, as thoughFlake after downy-feathered flake of snowHad muffled all her senses, drifting deepAnd warm and qu ie t .

From this ai l -but sleepShe started into l i fe again ; the skyWas ful l of a st range tumult suddenlyBeating of mighty wings and shrill-voiced fearAnd the hoarse scream of rapine following near.In the high windlessness above her flew,Dazzl ingly white on the untroubled blue,A splendid swan, with outstretched neck and wingSpread fathom wide, and closely followingAn eagle, taw ny and black. This god-like pairCircled and swooped through the calm of upper air ,The eagle st riking and the white swan st i l l'Scap ing as though by happy mirac leThe imm inen t t a lons . Fo r t he twen t i e th t imeThe furious hunter stooped, to miss and cl imbA mounting spiral into the height again.He hung there poised, eyeing the grassy plainFar, far beneath, where the girls ' upturned facesWere l ike white flowers that bloom in open placesAm ong the scarce ly budde d woods . And theyBrea th less ly watched and wa i ted ; long he lay ,Becalmed upon that t ideless sea of l ight ,While the great swan with slow and creaking fl ightWent s lan t ing down towards safe ty , where the s t reamShines through the t rees below, with glance and gleamOf blue serial eyes that seem to giveSense to the sight less earth and make i t l ive.Th e ponderous wings bea t on and no pursu i t :St i ff as the painted ki te that guards the frui t ,Afloat o 'er orchards ripe, the eagle yet

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Hung as at anchor, seeming to forgetHis uncaught prey, his rage unsat isfied.St i l l , quiet , dead . . . and then the quickest-eyedH ad lost h im . Like a s tar unsphered , a s toneDropped from the vaul t o f heaven , a javel in thrown,H e swooped upon h is prey . Dow n, down he came,And through his plumes with a noise of wind-blown flameLoud roared the a ir . Fro m Led a 's l ips a cryBroke, and she hid her faceshe could not see him die,Her lovely, hapless swan. Ah, had she heard ,Even as the eagle hurt led past , the wordTh at t reacherou s pa i r exchanged. " Pe ace ," cr ied the swan," Peac e, da ug hte r. All m y stre ng th wil l soon be gone,Wasted in tedious flying, ere I comeWhere my desi re ha th se t i t s on ly home."" Go," said the eagle, " I have played my part ,Roused pi ty for your pl ight in Leda's heart ,(Pi ty the mother of voluptuousness) .G o, father Jove ; be happy ; for successA t t e n d s t h i s mo me n t . " On the queen 's numbed senseFell a glad shout that ended sick suspense,Bidding her l i f t once more towards the l ightHer eyes, by pi ty closed against a sightOf b lood and deathher eyes , how happy nowTo see the swan still safe, while far below,Brought by the force of his eluded strokeSo near to earth that with his wings he wokeA gust whose sudden si lvery motion st i rredThe meadow grass, st ruggled the sombre birdOf rage an d rap ine. Lo ud his scream an d hoarseWith baffled fury as he urged his courseUpwards again on thresh ing p in ions wide .But the fair swan, not daring to abide

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This last assaul t , dropped with the speed of fearTo wa rds th e river. Like a winged spear,Outstretching his long neck, rigid and straight ,Aimed a t where Leda on the bank d id wai tWith open arms and k ind , upl i f ted eyesAn d voice of ten de r pi ty , dow n he fl ies.Nearer, nearer, terribly swift , he spedDirect ly at the queen ; then widely spreadResist ing wings, and breaking his descent'Gainst i ts own wind, al l speed and fury spent ,The great swan flut tered slowly down to restAnd sweet securi ty on Leda 's breas t .Menacingly the eagle wheeled above her ;But Leda, l ike a noble hearted loverKeeping h is ch i ld-beloved from tyrannous harm,Stood o 'er the swan and, with one slender armImperiously l i f ted, waved awayThe savage foe, stil l hungry for his prey.Baffled at last, he mounted out of sightAnd the sky was voidsave for a single whiteSwan's feather moulted from a harassed wingThat down, down, wi th a rhythmic balancingFrom side to side dropped sleeping on the air .Down, slowly down over that dazzl ing pair,Whose different grace in union was a birthOf unimagined beauty on the ear th :So lovely tha t the maidens s tanding roundD ared scarcely look. Couched on th e flowery grou ndYoung Leda lay, and to her side did pressThe swan's proud-arching opulent lovel iness,Stroking the snow-soft plumage of his breastWith fingers slowly drawn, themselves caressedBy the warm softness where they l ingered, lothTo brea k aw ay. Somet imes against the i r growthRuffling the feathers inlaid like lit t le scales

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On his sleek nec k, th e po inte d finger-nailsRasped on the warm, dry , puckered sk in beneath ;And feel ing i t she shuddered, and her teethGra ted on edge ; for there was something s t rangeAnd snake-l ike in th e tou ch . H e, in excha ngeGave back to her, st retching his eager neck,For every kiss a l i t t le amorous peck ;Rubbing his si lver head on her gold t resses,And with the nip of horny dry caressesLeaving upon her young whi te breas t and cheekAnd arms the red pr in t of h is p layfu l beak .Closer he nestled, mingling with the slimAusteri ty of virginal flank and l imbHis curved and florid beauty, t i l l she fel tThat downy warmth s t r ike through her f lesh and mel tThe bones and marrow of her s t rength away.One l i fted arm bent o 'er her brow, she layWith l imbs re laxed , scarce brea th ing , death ly s t i l l ;Save when a quick , involuntary thr i l lShook her sometimes with passing shudderings,As thou gh some han d had p lucked th e aching s t r ingsOf life itself, t ense wi th expectancy .And over her the swan shook slowly freeThe folded glory of his wings, and madeA white-walled tent of soft and luminous shadeTo be her vei l and keep her from the shameOf nak ed l ight and th e sun 's noo nda y flame.Hushed lay the ear th and the wide , care less sky .Then one sharp sound, tha t might have been a cryOf u tmost p leasure or of u tmost pa in ,Broke sobbing forth, and al l was st i l l again.

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A. ODLE

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AT THE BOMB SHOPJ O S I P K O S O RPeo ple of the Universe 6s. 6d .

Four Serbo-Croatian PlaysThe Woman, Pass ion 's Furnace , Reconci l ia t ion, TheInvincible Ship.

In Preparation.H E R M A N H E I J E R M A N ST h e Good H o p e A Play in Four Acts 2S. 2d .T h e R i s i n g Sun A Play in Four Acts 2S. 2 d .

C L I F F O R D B A XS q u a r e P e g s A Rhymed Fantasy for Two Girls 2 S . 8 d .

N . E V R E I N O FT he Theatre of the Soul A Monodrama in One Act Is. Id.

HENDERSONS 66 CHARINGC R O S S R O A D L O N D O N

T H E W H I T E F R I A R S P R E S S , L T D . , L O N D O N A N D T O N B R I D G E .

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