Twelve Songs
I. Song of the Beggars "O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma on the platinum benches With somersaults and fireworks, the roast and the smacking kisses" Cried the cripples to the silent statue, The six beggared cripples. "And Garbo's and Cleopatra's wits to go astraying, In a feather ocean with me to go fishing and playing, Still jolly when the cock has burst himself with crowing" Cried the cripples to the silent statue, The six beggared cripples. "And to stand on green turf among the craning yellow faces Dependent on the chestnut, the sable, the Arabian horses, And me with a magic crystal to foresee their places" Cried the cripples to the silent statue, The six beggared cripples. "And this square to be a deck and these pigeons canvas to rig, And to follow the delicious breeze like a tantony pig To the shaded feverless islands where the melons are big" Cried the cripples to the silent statue, The six beggared cripples. "And these shops to be turned to tulips in a garden bed, And me with my crutch to thrash each merchant dead As he pokes from a flower his bald and wicked head" Cried the cripples to the silent statue, The six beggared cripples. "And a hole in the bottom of heaven, and Peter and Paul And each smug surprised saint like parachutes to fall, And every one-legged beggar to have no legs at all" Cried the cripples to the silent statue, The six beggared cripples. Spring 1935 II. O lurcher-loving collier, black as night, Follow your love across the smokeless hill; Your lamp is out, the cages are all still; Course for heart and do not miss, For Sunday soon is past and, Kate, fly not so fast, For Monday comes when none may kiss: Be marble to his soot, and to his black be white. June 1935 III. Let a florid music praise, The flute and the trumpet, Beauty's conquest of your face: In that land of flesh and bone, Where from citadels on high Her imperial standards fly, Let the hot sun Shine on, shine on. O but the unloved have had power, The weeping and striking, Always: time will bring their hour; Their secretive children walk Through your vigilance of breath To unpardonable Death, And my vows break Before his look. February 1936 IV. Dear, though the night is gone, Its dream still haunts today, That brought us to a room Cavernous, lofty as A railway terminus, And crowded in that gloom Were beds, and we in one In a far corner lay. Our whisper woke no clocks, We kissed and I was glad At everything you did, Indifferent to those Who sat with hostile eyes In pairs on every bed, Arms round each other's necks Inert and vaguely sad. What hidden worm of guilt Or what malignant doubt Am I the victim of, That you then, unabashed, Did what I never wished, Confessed another love; And I, submissive, felt Unwanted and went out. March 1936 V. Fish in the unruffled lakes Their swarming colors wear, Swans in the winter air A white perfection have, And the great lion walks Through his innocent grove; Lion, fish and swan Act, and are gone Upon Time's toppling wave. We, till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock, The goodness carefully worn For atonement or for luck; We must lose our loves, On each beast and bird that moves Turn an envious look. Sighs for folly done and said Twist our narrow days, But I must bless, I must praise That you, my swan, who have All the gifts that to the swan Impulsive Nature gave, The majesty and pride, Last night should add Your voluntary love. March 1936 VI. Autumn Song Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse's flowers will not last, Nurses to their graves are gone, But the prams go rolling on. Whispering neighbors left and right Daunt us from our true delight, Able hands are forced to freeze Derelict on lonely knees. Close behind us on our track, Dead in hundreds cry Alack, Arms raised stiffly to reprove In false attitudes of love. Scrawny through a plundered wood, Trolls run scolding for their food, Owl and nightingale are dumb, And the angel will not come. Clear, unscalable, ahead Rise the Mountains of Instead, From whose cold, cascading streams None may drink except in dreams. March 1936 VII. Underneath an abject willow, Lover, sulk no more: Act from thought should quickly follow. What is thinking for? Your unique and moping station Proves you cold; Stand up and fold Your map of desolation. Bells that toll across the meadows From the sombre spire Toll for these unloving shadows Love does not require. All that lives may love; why longer Bow to loss With arms across? Strike and you shall conquer. Geese in flocks above you flying. Their direction know, Icy brooks beneath you flowing, To their ocean go. Dark and dull is your distraction: Walk then, come, No longer numb Into your satisfaction. March 1936 VIII. At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, The delicious story is ripe to tell the intimate friend; Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my friend, there's never smoke without fire. Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of the migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye. For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall, The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall, The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss, There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this. April 1936 IX. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. April 1936 X. O the valley in the summer where I and my John Beside the deep river would walk on and on While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love, And I leaned on his shoulder; "O Johnny, let's play": But he frowned like thunder and he went away. O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall When we went to the Matinee Charity Ball, The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud; "Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day": But he frowned like thunder and he went away. Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera When music poured out of each wonderful star? Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down Over each silver or golden silk gown; "O John I'm in heaven," I whispered to say: But he frowned like thunder and he went away. O but he was fair as a garden in flower, As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower, When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart; "O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey": But he frowned like thunder and he went away. O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover, You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other, The sea it was blue and the grass it was green, Every star rattled a round tambourine; Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay: But you frowned like thunder and you went away. April 1937 XI. Roman Wall Blues Over the heather the wet wind blows, I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose. The rain comes pattering out of the sky, I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why. The mist creeps over the hard grey stone, My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone. Aulus goes hanging around her place, I don't like his manners, I don't like his face. Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish; There'd be no kissing if he had his wish. She gave me a ring but I diced it away; I want my girl and I want my pay. When I'm a veteran with only one eye I shall do nothing but look at the sky. October 1937 XII. Some say that love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world round, And some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway-guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like classical stuff? Does it stop when one wants to quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't ever there: I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn' in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, Or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on the door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love. January 1938
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