Aimée

WIFE AND COUNTRY

Dear, let me thank you for this:

That you made me remember, in fight,

England—all mine at your kiss,

At the touch of your hands in the night:

England—your giving’s delight.

MOTHER AND MATE

Lightly she slept, that splendid mother mine

Who faced death, undismayed, two hopeless years....

(“Think of me sometimes, son, but not with tears

Lest my soul grieve,” she writes. Oh, this divine

Unselfishness!) ...

Her favourite print smiled down—

The stippled Cupid, Bartolozzi-brown—

Upon my sorrow. Fire-gleams, fitful, played

Among her playthings—Toby mugs and jade....

And then I dreamed that—suddenly, strangely clear—

A voice I knew not, faltered at my ear:

“Courage!” ... Your own dear voice, loved since, and known!

And now that she sleeps well, come times her voice

Whispers in day-dreams: “Courage, son! Rejoice

That, leaving you, I left you not alone.”

MEETING

I came from the City of Fear,

From the scarred brown land of pain,

Back into life again ...

And I thought, as the leave-boat rolled

Under the veering stars—

Wind a-shriek in her spars—

Shivering there, and cold,

Of music, of warmth, and of wine—

To be mine

For a whole short week ...

And I thought, adrowse in the train,

Of London, suddenly near;

And of how—small doubt—I should find

There, as of old,

Some woman—foolishly kind:

Fingers to hold,

A cheek,

A mouth to kiss—and forget,

Forget in a little while,

Forget

When I came again

To the scarred brown land of pain,

To the sodden things and the vile,

And the tedious battle-fret.

My dear,

I cannot forget!

Not even here

In this City of Fear.

I remember the poise of your head,

And your look, and the words you said

When we met,

And the waxen bloom at your breast,

And the sable fur that caressed

Your smooth white wrists, and your hands ...

Remember them yet,

Here

In the desolate lands;

Remember your shy

Strange air,

And growing aware—

Who had reckoned love

Man’s toy for an hour—

Of love’s hidden power:

A thrill

That moved me to touch and adore

Some intimate thing that you wore—

A glove,

Or the flower

A-glow at your breast,

The frill

Of fur that circled your wrist ...

These, had my hands caressed;

These, not you, had I kissed—

Who had thought love’s fires

Only desires.

Dear,

That hidden power thrills in me yet.

There is never one hour—

Not even here

In this City of Fear—

When I quite forget.

MUSIC AND WINE

When the ink has dried on the pen,

When the sword returns to its sheath;

When the world of women and men,

And the waters around and beneath,

Char and shrivel and burn—

What will God give in return?...

Has He better to offer in heaven above

Than wine and music, laughter and love?

Laughter, music and wine,

The promise of love in your eyes ...

Sleeping, I dream them mine;

Waking, my spirit cries—

Here in the mud and the rain—

“God, give me London again!

I would lose all earth and the heavens above

For just one banquet of laughter and love.”

When my flesh returns to its earth,

When my pen is dust as my sword;

If one thing I wrought find worth

In the eyes of our kindly Lord,

I will only ask of His grace

That He grant us a lowly place

Where his warriors toast Him, in heaven above,

With wine and music, laughter and love.

THE GAMBLE

If man backs horses, plays cards or dice,

Or bets on an ivory ball,

He knows the rules, and he reckons the price—

Be it one half-crown, or his all.

(And it isn’t sense, and it isn’t pluck,

To double the stakes when you’re out of luck!)

If he plays—with his life for a limit—here,

It’s an even-money game:

He can lay on the Red—which is Conquered Fear,

Or the Black—which is Utter Shame.

(And there isn’t much choice between Reds and Blacks,

For Death throws “zero” whichever he backs.)

So that whether man plays for the red gold’s wealth

Where the little ball clicks and spins,

Or hazards his life in the black night’s stealth

When machine-gun fire begins—

It’s a limited gamble; and each of us knows

What he stands to lose ere the tables close.

But woman’s gamble—(there’s only one:

And it takes some pluck to play,

When the rules are broke ere the game’s begun;

When, lose or win, you must pay!)—

Is a double wager on human kind,

A limitless risk—and she goes it blind.

For she stakes, at love, on a single throw,

Pride, Honour, Scruples and Fears,

And dreams no lover can hope to know,

And the gold of the after-years.

(And all for a man; and there’s no man lives

Who is worth the odds that a woman gives.)

So that since you hazarded this for me

On the day love’s die was cast,

I’ll love you—gambler!—while “fours” beat three;

And I’ll lay on our love to last,

So long as a man will wager a price

On a horse or a card or the ball or the dice.

NINON AND ROSES

Here, in a land where hardly a rose is,

Silkiest blossoms of broidered flowers

Brush my cheek as each tired eye closes,

Haunt my sleep through the desolate hours.

Roses never of nature’s making,

Roses loved for a rose-red night,

Roses visioned at dawn-light’s breaking

Veiling a bosom as roses white!

Why does the ghost of you linger and stay with me—

Ghost of the rose-buds that perfumed our bed,

Ghost of a rose-girl who blossomed to play with me—

Here in a land where the roses are dead?

Day-time and night-time the death-flower blazes,

Saffron at gun-lip and orange and red,

Here where June’s rose-tree lies shattered as May’s is,

Here where I dream of the nights that are dead—

Nights that were sweet with the scent and the touch of you,

Rose-girl in ninon with buds at your breast,

Rose-girl who promised and granted so much of you,

All that was tender and all that was best.

Growl of the guns cannot shatter the dream of you,

Banish the thought of one exquisite hour,

Or the scent of your hair in the dawn, or the gleam of you

White as white roses through roses a-flower.

PARTING

Times more than once, all ways about the world,

Have I clasped hands; waved sorrowful good-bye;

Watched far cliffs fading, till my sea-wake swirled

To mingle bluely with a landless sky:

Then—even as the sea-drowned cliffs behind—

Felt sorrow drowning into memory;

And heard, in every thrill of every wind,

New voices welcoming across the sea.

Until it seemed nor land nor love had power

To hold my heart in any firm duress:

Grieving, I sorrowed but a little hour;

Loving, I knew desire’s sure faithfulness:

Until, by many a love dissatisfied,

Of each mistrustful and to each untrue,

I found—as one who, having long denied,

Finds faith at last—this greater Love, in you.

Parting? We are not parted, woman mine!

Though hands have clasped, though lips have kissed good-bye;

Though towns glide past, and fields, and fields of brine—

My body takes the warrior-way, not I.

I am still with you; you, with me; one heart;

One equal union, soul to certain soul:

Time cannot sever us, nor sorrow part,

Nor any sea, who keep our vision whole.

How can I grieve, who know your spirit near;

Who watch with newly understanding eyes

This England of your giving, newly dear,

Sink where my sea-wake swirls to darkling skies?

Lilac, her cliffs have faded into mist....

Yet still I hold them white in memory,

Feeling, against these lips your lips have kissed,

The home-wind thrilling down an English sea.