The Wild Knight and Other Poems

E.C.B

Before the grass grew over me,  I knew one good man through and through,And knew a soul and body joined  Are stronger than the heavens are blue.A wisdom worthy of thy joy,  O great heart, read I as I ran;Now, though men smite me on the face,  I cannot curse the face of man.I loved the man I saw yestreen  Hanged with his babe's blood on his palms.I loved the man I saw to-day  Who knocked not when he came with alms.Hush! – for thy sake I even faced  The knowledge that is worse than hell;And loved the man I saw but now  Hanging head downwards in the well.

THE DESECRATERS

Witness all: that unrepenting,  Feathers flying, music high,I go down to death unshaken  By your mean philosophy.For your wages, take my body,  That at least to you I leave;Set the sulky plumes upon it,  Bid the grinning mummers grieve.Stand in silence: steep your raiment  In the night that hath no star;Don the mortal dress of devils,  Blacker than their spirits are.Since ye may not, of your mercy,  Ere I lie on such a hearse,Hurl me to the living jackals  God hath built for sepulchres.

AN ALLIANCE

This is the weird of a world-old folk,  That not till the last link breaks,Not till the night is blackest,  The blood of Hengist wakes.When the sun is black in heaven,  The moon as blood above,And the earth is full of hatred,  This people tells its love.In change, eclipse, and peril,  Under the whole world's scorn,By blood and death and darkness  The Saxon peace is sworn;That all our fruit be gathered,   And all our race take hands,And the sea be a Saxon river   That runs through Saxon lands.Lo! not in vain we bore him;   Behold it! not in vain,Four centuries' dooms of torture   Choked in the throat of Spain,Ere priest or tyrant triumph —  We know how well – we know —Bone of that bone can whiten,  Blood of that blood can flow.Deep grows the hate of kindred,  Its roots take hold on hell;No peace or praise can heal it,  But a stranger heals it well.Seas shall be red as sunsets,  And kings' bones float as foam,And heaven be dark with vultures,  The night our son comes home.

THE ANCIENT OF DAYS

A child sits in a sunny place,  Too happy for a smile,And plays through one long holiday  With balls to roll and pile;A painted wind-mill by his side  Runs like a merry tune,But the sails are the four great winds of heaven,  And the balls are the sun and moon.A staring doll's-house shows to him  Green floors and starry rafter,And many-coloured graven dolls  Live for his lonely laughter.The dolls have crowns and aureoles,  Helmets and horns and wings.For they are the saints and seraphim,  The prophets and the kings.

THE LAST MASQUERADE

A wan new garment of young green  Touched, as you turned your soft brown hair  And in me surged the strangest prayerEver in lover's heart hath been.That I who saw your youth's bright page,  A rainbow change from robe to robe,  Might see you on this earthly globe,Crowned with the silver crown of age.Your dear hair powdered in strange guise,  Your dear face touched with colours pale:  And gazing through the mask and veilThe mirth of your immortal eyes.

THE EARTH'S SHAME

Name not his deed: in shuddering and in haste  We dragged him darkly o'er the windy fell:That night there was a gibbet in the waste,    And a new sin in hell.Be his deed hid from commonwealths and kings,  By all men born be one true tale forgot;But three things, braver than all earthly things,    Faced him and feared him not.Above his head and sunken secret face  Nested the sparrow's young and dropped not dead.From the red blood and slime of that lost place    Grew daisies white, not red.And from high heaven looking upon him,  Slowly upon the face of God did comeA smile the cherubim and seraphim    Hid all their faces from.

VANITY

A wan sky greener than the lawn,  A wan lawn paler than the sky.She gave a flower into my hand,  And all the hours of eve went by.Who knows what round the corner waits  To smite? If shipwreck, snare, or slurShall leave me with a head to lift,  Worthy of him that spoke with her.A wan sky greener than the lawn,  A wan lawn paler than the sky.She gave a flower into my hand,  And all the days of life went by.Live ill or well, this thing is mine,From all I guard it, ill or well.One tawdry, tattered, faded flowerTo show the jealous kings in hell.

THE LAMP POST

Laugh your best, O blazoned forests,  Me ye shall not shift or shameWith your beauty: here among you  Man hath set his spear of flame.Lamp to lamp we send the signal,  For our lord goes forth to war;Since a voice, ere stars were builded,  Bade him colonise a star.Laugh ye, cruel as the morning,  Deck your heads with fruit and flower,Though our souls be sick with pity,  Yet our hands are hard with power.We have read your evil stories,  We have heard the tiny yellThrough the voiceless conflagration  Of your green and shining hell.And when men, with fires and shouting,  Break your old tyrannic pales;And where ruled a single spider  Laugh and weep a million tales.This shall be your best of boasting:  That some poet, poor of spine.Full and sated with our wisdom,  Full and fiery with our wine,Shall steal out and make a treaty  With the grasses and the showers,Rail against the grey town-mother,  Fawn upon the scornful flowers;Rest his head among the roses,  Where a quiet song-bird sounds,And no sword made sharp for traitors,  Hack him into meat for hounds.

THE PESSIMIST

You that have snarled through the ages, take your answer and go —I know your hoary question, the riddle that all men know.You have weighed the stars in a balance, and grasped the skies in a span:Take, if you must have answer, the word of a common man.Deep in my life lies buried one love unhealed, unshriven,One hunger still shall haunt me – yea, in the streets of heaven;This is the burden, babbler, this is the curse shall cling,This is the thing I bring you; this is the pleasant thing.'Gainst you and all your sages, no joy of mine shall strive,This one dead self shall shatter the men you call alive.My grief I send to smite you, no pleasure, no belief,Lord of the battered grievance, what do you know of grief?I only know the praises to heaven that one man gave,That he came on earth for an instant, to stand beside a grave,The peace of a field of battle, where flowers are born of blood.I only know one evil that makes the whole world good.Beneath this single sorrow the globe of moon and sphereTurns to a single jewel, so bright and brittle and dearThat I dread lest God should drop it, to be dashed into stars below.You that have snarled through the ages, take your answer and go.

A FAIRY TALE

All things grew upwards, foul and fair:The great trees fought and beat the airWith monstrous wings that would have flown;But the old earth clung to her own,Holding them back from heavenly wars,Though every flower sprang at the stars.But he broke free: while all things ceased,Some hour increasing, he increased.The town beneath him seemed a map,Above the church he cocked his cap,Above the cross his feather flewAbove the birds and still he grew.The trees turned grass; the clouds were riven;His feet were mountains lost in heaven;Through strange new skies he rose alone,The earth fell from him like a stone,And his own limbs beneath him farSeemed tapering down to touch a star.He reared his head, shaggy and grim,Staring among the cherubim;The seven celestial floors he rent,One crystal dome still o'er him bent:Above his head, more clear than hope,All heaven was a microscope.

A PORTRAIT

Fair faces crowd on Christmas night  Like seven suns a-row,But all beyond is the wolfish wind  And the crafty feet of the snow.But through the rout one figure goes  With quick and quiet tread;Her robe is plain, her form is frail —  Wait if she turn her head.I say no word of line or hue,  But if that face you see,Your soul shall know the smile of faith's  Awful frivolity.Know that in this grotesque old masque  Too loud we cannot sing,Or dance too wild, or speak too wide  To praise a hidden thing.That though the jest be old as night,  Still shaketh sun and sphereAn everlasting laughter  Too loud for us to hear.

FEMINA CONTRA MUNDUM

The sun was black with judgment, and the moon        Blood: but betweenI saw a man stand, saying, 'To me at least        The grass is green.'There was no star that I forgot to fear        With love and wonder.The birds have loved me'; but no answer came —        Only the thunder.Once more the man stood, saying, 'A cottage door,        Wherethrough I gazedThat instant as I turned – yea, I am vile;        Yet my eyes blazed.'For I had weighed the mountains in a balance,        And the skies in a scale,I come to sell the stars – old lamps for new —        Old stars for sale.'Then a calm voice fell all the thunder through,        A tone less rough:'Thou hast begun to love one of my works        Almost enough.'

TO A CERTAIN NATION

We will not let thee be, for thou art ours.  We thank thee still, though thou forget these things,For that hour's sake when thou didst wake all powers  With a great cry that God was sick of kings.Leave thee there grovelling at their rusted greaves,  These hulking cowards on a painted stage,Who, with imperial pomp and laurel leaves,  Show their Marengo – one man in a cage.These, for whom stands no type or title given  In all the squalid tales of gore and pelf;Though cowed by crashing thunders from all heaven.  Cain never said, 'My brother slew himself.'Tear you the truth out of your drivelling spy,  The maniac whom you set to swing death's scythe.Nay; torture not the torturer – let him lie:  What need of racks to teach a worm to writhe?Bear with us, O our sister, not in pride,  Nor any scorn we see thee spoiled of knaves,But only shame to hear, where Danton died,  Thy foul dead kings all laughing in their graves.Thou hast a right to rule thyself; to be  The thing thou wilt; to grin, to fawn, to creep:To crown these clumsy liars; ay, and we  Who knew thee once, we have a right to weep.

THE PRAISE OF DUST

'What of vile dust?' the preacher said.  Methought the whole world woke,The dead stone lived beneath my foot,  And my whole body spoke.'You, that play tyrant to the dust,  And stamp its wrinkled face,This patient star that flings you not  Far into homeless space.'Come down out of your dusty shrine  The living dust to see,The flowers that at your sermon's end  Stand blazing silently.'Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones,  Lichens like fire encrust;A gleam of blue, a glare of gold,  The vision of the dust.'Pass them all by: till, as you come  Where, at a city's edge,Under a tree – I know it well —  Under a lattice ledge,'The sunshine falls on one brown head.  You, too, O cold of clay,Eater of stones, may haply hear  The trumpets of that day'When God to all his paladins  By his own splendour sworeTo make a fairer face than heaven,  Of dust and nothing more.'

THE BALLAD OF THE BATTLE OF GIBEON

Five kings rule o'er the Amorite,Mighty as fear and old as night;Swathed with unguent and gold and jewel,Waxed they merry and fat and cruel.Zedek of Salem, a terror and glory,Whose face was hid while his robes were gory;And Hoham of Hebron, whose loathly face isHeavy and dark o'er the ruin of races;And Piram of Jarmuth, drunk with strange wine,Who dreamed he had fashioned all stars that shine;And Debir of Eglon wild, without pity,Who raged like a plague in the midst of his city;And Japhia of Lachish, a fire that flameth,Who did in the daylight what no man nameth.These five kings said one to another,'King unto king o'er the world is brother,Seeing that now, for a sign and a wonder,A red eclipse and a tongue of thunder,A shape and a finger of desolation,Is come against us a kingless nation.Gibeon hath failed us: it were not goodThat a man remember where Gibeon stood.'Then Gibeon sent to our captain, crying,'Son of Nun, let a shaft be flying,For unclean birds are gathering greedily;Slack not thy hand, but come thou speedily.Yea, we are lost save thou maintain'st us,For the kings of the mountains are gathered against us.'Then to our people spake the Deliverer,'Gibeon is high, yet a host may shiver her;Gibeon hath sent to me crying for pity,For the lords of the cities encompass the cityWith chariot and banner and bowman and lancer,And I swear by the living God I will answer.Gird you, O Israel, quiver and javelin,Shield and sword for the road we travel in;Verily, as I have promised, pay ILife unto Gibeon, death unto Ai.'Sudden and still as a bolt shot rightUp on the city we went by night.Never a bird of the air could say,'This was the children of Israel's way.'Only the hosts sprang up from sleeping,Saw from the heights a dark stream sweeping;Sprang up straight as a great shout stung them,And heard the Deliverer's war-cry among them,Heard under cupola, turret, and steepleThe awful cry of the kingless people.Started the weak of them, shouted the strong of them,Crashed we a thunderbolt into the throng of them,Blindly with heads bent, and shields forced before us,We heard the dense roar of the strife closing o'er us.And drunk with the crash of the song that it sung them,We drove the great spear-blade in God's name among them.Redder and redder the sword-flash fell.Our eyes and our nostrils were hotter than hell;Till full all the crest of the spear-surge shocking us,Hoham of Hebron cried out mocking us,'Nay, what need of the war-sword's plying,Out of the desert the dust comes flying.A little red dust, if the wind be blowing —Who shall reck of its coming or going?'Back the Deliverer spake as a clarion,'Mock at thy slaves, thou eater of carrion!Laughest thou at us, in thy kingly clowning,We, that laughed upon Ramases frowning.We that stood up proud, unpardoned,When his face was dark and his heart was hardened?Pharaoh we knew and his steeds, not fasterThan the word of the Lord in thine ear, O master.Sheer through the turban his wantons wove him,Clean to the skull the Deliverer clove him;And the two hosts reeled at the sign appalling,As the great king fell like a great house falling.Loudly we shouted, and living and dying.Bore them all backward with strength and strong crying;And Caleb struck Zedek hard at the throat,And Japhia of Lachish Zebulon smote.The war-swords and axes were clashing and groaning,The fallen were fighting and foaming and moaning;The war-spears were breaking, the war-horns were braying,Ere the hands of the slayers were sated with slaying.And deep in the grasses grown gory and sodden,The treaders of all men were trampled and trodden;And over them, routed and reeled like cattle,High over the turn of the tide of the battle,High over noises that deafen and cover us,Rang the Deliverer's voice out over us.'Stand thou still, thou sun upon Gibeon,Stand thou, moon, in the valley of Ajalon!Shout thou, people, a cry like thunder,For the kings of the earth are broken asunder.Now we have said as the thunder says it,Something is stronger than strength and slays it.Now we have written for all time later,Five kings are great, yet a law is greater.Stare, O sun! in thine own great glory,This is the turn of the whole world's story.Stand thou still, thou sun upon Gibeon,Stand thou, moon, in the valley of Ajalon!'Smite! amid spear-blades blazing and breaking.More than we know of is rising and making.Stab with the javelin, crash with the car!Cry! for we know not the thing that we are.Stand, O sun! that in horrible patienceSmiled on the smoke and the slaughter of nations.Thou shalt grow sad for a little crying,Thou shalt be darkened for one man's dying —Stand thou still, thou sun upon Gibeon,Stand thou, moon, in the valley of Ajalon!'After the battle was broken and spentUp to the hill the Deliverer went,Flung up his arms to the storm-clouds flying,And cried unto Israel, mightily crying,'Come up, O warriors! come up, O brothers!Tribesmen and herdsmen, maidens and mothers;The bondman's son and the bondman's daughter,The hewer of wood and the drawer of water,He that carries and he that brings,And set your foot on the neck of kings.'This is the story of Gibeon fight —Where we smote the lords of the Amorite;Where the banners of princes with slaughter were sodden.And the beards of seers in the rank grass trodden;Where the trees were wrecked by the wreck of cars,And the reek of the red field blotted the stars;Where the dead heads dropped from the swords that sever,Because His mercy endureth for ever.

'VULGARISED'

All round they murmur, 'O profane,  Keep thy heart's secret hid as gold';But I, by God, would sooner be  Some knight in shattering wars of old,In brown outlandish arms to ride,  And shout my love to every starWith lungs to make a poor maid's name  Deafen the iron ears of war.Here, where these subtle cowards crowd,  To stand and so to speak of love,That the four corners of the world  Should hear it and take heed thereof.That to this shrine obscure there be  One witness before all men given,As naked as the hanging Christ,  As shameless as the sun in heaven.These whimperers – have they spared to us  One dripping woe, one reeking sin?These thieves that shatter their own graves  To prove the soul is dead within.They talk; by God, is it not time  Some of Love's chosen broke the girth,And told the good all men have known  Since the first morning of the earth?

THE BALLAD OF GOD-MAKERS

A bird flew out at the break of day  From the nest where it had curled,And ere the eve the bird had set  Fear on the kings of the world.The first tree it lit upon  Was green with leaves unshed;The second tree it lit upon  Was red with apples red;The third tree it lit upon  Was barren and was brown,Save for a dead man nailed thereon  On a hill above a town.That right the kings of the earth were gay  And filled the cup and can;Last night the kings of the earth were chill  For dread of a naked man.'If he speak two more words,' they said,  'The slave is more than the free;If he speak three more words,' they said,  'The stars are under the sea.'Said the King of the East to the King of the West,  I wot his frown was set,'Lo; let us slay him and make him as dung,  It is well that the world forget.'Said the King of the West to the King of the East,  I wot his smile was dread,'Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,  It is well that our god be dead.'They set the young man on a hill,  They nailed him to a rod;And there in darkness and in blood  They made themselves a god.And the mightiest word was left unsaid,  And the world had never a mark,And the strongest man of the sons of men  Went dumb into the dark.Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,  Incense and gold and myrrh,And they thronged above the seraphim,  The poor dead carpenter.'Thou art the prince of all,' they sang,  'Ocean and earth and air.'Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,  And hid in the dead man's hair.'Thou art the sun of the world,' they cried,  'Speak if our prayers be heard.'And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair,  And it seemed that the dead man stirred.Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry  From all nations under heaven,And a master fell before a slave  And begged to be forgiven.They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes  The ancient wrath to see;And the bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair,  And lit on a lemon-tree.

AT NIGHT

How many million stars there be,That only God hath numberéd;But this one only chosen for meIn time before her face was fled.Shall not one mortal man alive    Hold up his head?

THE WOOD-CUTTER

We came behind him by the wall,  My brethren drew their brands,And they had strength to strike him down —  And I to bind his hands.Only once, to a lantern gleam,  He turned his face from the wall,And it was as the accusing angel's face  On the day when the stars shall fall.I grasped the axe with shaking hands,  I stared at the grass I trod;For I feared to see the whole bare heavens  Filled with the face of God.I struck: the serpentine slow blood  In four arms soaked the moss —Before me, by the living Christ,  The blood ran in a cross.Therefore I toil in forests here  And pile the wood in stacks,And take no fee from the shivering folk  Till I have cleansed the axe.But for a curse God cleared my sight,  And where each tree doth growI see a life with awful eyes,  And I must lay it low.

ART COLOURS

On must we go: we search dead leaves,  We chase the sunset's saddest flames,The nameless hues that o'er and o'er  In lawless wedding lost their names.God of the daybreak! Better be  Black savages; and grin to girdOur limbs in gaudy rags of red,  The laughing-stock of brute and bird;And feel again the fierce old feast,  Blue for seven heavens that had sufficed,A gold like shining hoards, a red  Like roses from the blood of Christ.

THE TWO WOMEN

Lo! very fair is she who knows the ways  Of joy: in pleasure's mocking wisdom old,The eyes that might be cold to flattery, kind;  The hair that might be grey with knowledge, gold.But thou art more than these things, O my queen,  For thou art clad in ancient wars and tears.And looking forth, framed in the crown of thorns,  I saw the youngest face in all the spheres.

THE WILD KNIGHT

The wasting thistle whitens on my crest,The barren grasses blow upon my spear,A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faithAnd love of fruitless things: yea, of my love,Among the golden loves of all the knights,Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous,The love of God:        I hear the crumbling creedsLike cliffs washed down by water, change, and pass;I hear a noise of words, age after age,A new cold wind that blows across the plains,And all the shrines stand empty; and to meAll these are nothing: priests and schools may doubtWho never have believed; but I have loved.Ah friends, I know it passing well, the loveWherewith I love; it shall not bring to meReturn or hire or any pleasant thing —Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots.Earthquake and plague have burst on it in vainAnd rolled back shattered —        Babbling neophytes!Blind, startled fools – think you I know it not?Think you to teach me? Know I not His ways?Strange-visaged blunders, mystic cruelties.All! all! I know Him, for I love Him. Go!So, with the wan waste grasses on my spear,I ride for ever, seeking after God.My hair grows whiter than my thistle plume,And all my limbs are loose; but in my eyesThe star of an unconquerable praise:For in my soul one hope for ever sings,That at the next white corner of a roadMy eyes may look on Him…        Hush – I shall knowThe place when it is found: a twisted pathUnder a twisted pear-tree – this I sawIn the first dream I had ere I was born,Wherein He spoke…        But the grey clouds come downIn hail upon the icy plains: I ride,Burning for ever in consuming fire.

THE WILD KNIGHT

A dark manor-house shuttered and unlighted, outlined against a pale sunset: in front a large, but neglected, garden. To the right, in the foreground, the porch of a chapel, with coloured windows lighted. Hymns within.

Above the porch a grotesque carved bracket, supporting a lantern. Astride of it sits CAPTAIN REDFEATHER, a flagon in his hand.

REDFEATHERI have drunk to all I know of,To every leaf on the tree,To the highest bird of the heavens,To the lowest fish of the sea.What toast, what toast remaineth,Drunk down in the same good wine,By the tippler's cup in the tavern,And the priest's cup at the shrine?

[A Priest comes out, stick in hand, and looks right and left.]

VOICES WITHINThe brawler …PRIESTHe has vanishedREDFEATHERTo the stars.

[The Priest looks up.]

PRIEST [angrily].What would you there, sir?REDFEATHERGive you all a toast.

[Lifts his flagon. More priests come out.]

I see my life behind me: bad enough —Drink, duels, madness, beggary, and pride,The life of the unfit: yet ere I dropOn Nature's rubbish heap, I weigh it all,And give you all a toast —

[Reels to his feet and stands.]

The health of God!

[They all recoil from him.]

Let's give the Devil of the Heavens His due!He that made grass so green, and wine so red,Is not so black as you have painted him.

[Drinks.]

PRIESTBlaspheming profligate!

REDFEATHER [hurls the flagon among them.]

          Howl! ye dumb dogs,I named your King – let me have one great shout,Flutter the seraphim like startled birds;Make God recall the good days of His youthEre saints had saddened Him: when He came backConqueror of Chaos in a six days' war,With all the sons of God shouting for joy …PRIESTAnd you – what is your right, and who are you,To praise God?REDFEATHER        A lost soul. In earth or heavenWhat has a better right?PRIEST        Go, pagan, go!Drink, dice, and dance: take no more thought than blindBeasts of the field…REDFEATHER        Or … lilies of the field,To quote a pagan sage. I go my way.

PRIEST [solemnly].