Gigantic houses, tattered by all time,
Raise their immense and ruined bulk and height
In one unending universal street,
Against a strange and sunken yellow sky
—Like sunset trickling through into the sea,
Down to the depths—yellow and grey and green.
Blind windows face the interminable road;
Innumerable those windows seem to stretch
All smeared and stained and stamped with time and blood,
—Stains that seem faces—horrid twitching masks
Moving their lewd derisive lips and tongues,
Spitting out treacheries with vampire lips—
Or eyes that gaze from far blank-stretching walls
—The tortured eyes of those who see their death
Approaching æon-by-æon along this road.
Behind the walls sound voices whispering
Of dire and hidden, carefully hidden, thoughts—
Cruel, wicked and unfathomable things
That lie behind this infamy of stone.
Then clamour, shrieking voices, or a pause
That falls like lead through the suspended air;
Broken by laughter—rending piercing sounds
That seem to tear the fabric of our minds.
Slinking along these wicked, stricken walls,
I reached a shining distant point of light.
And glory came—vast and unending light,
Rays—flashing, writhing rays of light.
And then the music sounded. Ah, that sound!
Cadences rose and fell unendingly—
Quivering, shining waves of sound and sight—
Sounds of the universe—the cries of space
And planets tumbling wildly round our world
—Showing the meaning of the meaningless.
"God and eternity"—strange flashing sounds
The whirl of time, "Melchisedec"—"Glory of God"
And space—the universe—like framing words—
"Gog and Magog"—"Infinity"—the rush of waters
And the sky comes down.
Down with the splintering stars.
1916-1919.
BOOK II
GREEN FLY
WAR-HORSES
How they come out
—These Septuagenarian Butterflies—
After resting
For four years!
Surely they are more spirited
Than ever?
Their enamelled wings
Are rusty with waiting
—Their eyelids
Sag a little
Like those of a bloodhound;
But they swim gaily into the limelight.
Oh, these war-horses!
They have seen it through.
Theirs has been a splendid part!
The waiting—the weariness!
For the Queens of Sheba
Are used to courts and feasting;
But for four years
Platitudes have remained
Uncoined,
For there have been few parties
And only
Three stout meals
A day.
But now
They have come out.
They have preened
And dried themselves
After their blood-bath.
Old men seem a little younger,
And tortoise-shell combs
Are longer than ever;
Earrings weigh down aged ears;
And Golconda has given them of its best.