Complete Works of Wilfred Owen Page 5
Methought, how fair! What music in her moan!
Ye, too, have sometimes wished her near;
Loved a chill dampness round thy path, and known
Her voice, which like a weary wind and lone,
Fled through the woods with lamentation drear.
But think not, if your life-blood still is warm,
That ye have looked upon Despondency.
Ye have but seen her in another’s eye,
As Perseus fearfully beheld the form
Of Gorgon, mirrored in the stilly well.
There may ye guess the beauty of that Head,
The pallor and the mystery - but the Dread
Ye feel not, n6r the horror, nor the spell.
But, face to face, she fixed on me her stare:
Woe, woe, my blood has never moved since then;
Down-dragged like corpse in sucking, slimy fen,
I sank to feel the breath of that Despair.
With Autumn mists, and hand in hand with Night,
She came to me. But at the break of day,
Went not again, but stayed, and yet doth stay.
‘- O Horror, doth not Pain take note of light
And darkness, - doth he not hold off betimes,
And yield his victim for an hour to Sleep?
Then why dost thou, O Curst, the long night steep
In bloodiness and stains of shadowy crimes?’
She hears my cry, and mutters yet,
‘No rest, no rest for thee, O Slave of mine’;
Till I do hate myself and would resign
My life to pay a murderer’s awful debt.
Out, out to moorlands, from such thoughts I flee
And seek the balm that fair fresh woods distil.
There find I all things in a hushèd thrill
For dread of that grey fiend that walks with me.
She leads me forth, and poisons autumn eves
With hellish scenes; shows me an aged tree
Bending and groaning in its agony
Before a wind tormenting it for leaves;
Spreads out a wild strange sky where towering shapes,
Black and chaotic, choke the sickening day.
Voices moan round; and from the sodden clay
Mist-shrouds crawl up, in token that there gapes
A grave for me at hand.
Aching with fears,
I stumble towards the town, whose distant lights
Glint feebly and go out, and glint again,
Like some retreating ship’s unto the ken
Of a lost man, who, sinking, feebly fights
Alone in the wide waste behind.
The murmuring tone
Of busy streets a moment gladdens me;
But there, too, comes the Spirit secretly;
At feasts I see her shade, and am alone
With thoughts of pain and nothing hear but her.
So that I may not handle a keen knife,
But flashes to the mind a fearful use
That men have made of it, to loose
The heavy-weighted burden of their life
And make an end. But Death is not the end:
No death for such as thou, O Chatterton!
Until the Second Death; and I do shun
The thought that death is misery’s friend.
Since my dread Ghost has once a finger laid
Upon my flesh, and left a burning mark;
This mark (saith she) shall fester on, and cark
Till Death draw near, and halting, shade
His withering eyes, and know the Sign.
O dense
The darkness that shall flood around me then;
Denser the clouds of biting arrows, when
Vile devil-broods to torments bear me hence!
O BELIEVE THAT GOD GIVES YOU ALL THAT HE PROMISES
O — believe that God gives you
All that he promises,
A Saviour who forgives you,
A perfect Saviour,
A Saviour full of power
On the earth and in the heavens,
A Saviour whose presence
Alone makes happy.
This Saviour will make you live
As he has lived.
You will be able to follow him everywhere
Without being conquered.
Right to the end, in the conflict,
His arm will protect you
And in the dark valley
He will lead you.
LITTLE CLAUS AND BIG CLAUS
There dwelled within a village, once, two men,
Whose names alike were Claus. Four stalwart mares
Had one; the other but a single nag.
Wherefore the richer wight Big Claus was called,
While men, if e’er they stayed to speak of him,
Would style his neighbour Little Claus. Now hark,
And you shall hear how fared it with them both,
For some do say my story is the truth.
All week, poor little Claus would plough for Big,
Lending his only horse; and then, in turn,
Big Claus would help one day in seven, with all
His team at work. Oh, proudly Little Claus
Curled the lithe whip over the horses five
On Sundays. Were they not as his, that day?
And, when the morning sun was warm, and mist
Rose from fresh furrows like the horses’ steam,
While bells out-clamoured hungrily for folk
To fill the void and cavernous church, his heart
Would swell with pride to see the passers-by
Watching his labour; and he smacked his whip
And cried out ‘Gee ho, my five horses.’ ‘Nay,’
Quoth Big Claus. ‘That ye must not say, for one
Alone is thine.’ Alas, no sooner came
Another well-clad churchman by, than Claus
Forgot the prohibition and its giver,
Forgot to guide the ploughshare even, and sang,
Not to the team but to the onlooker,
‘Gee ho! my five horses!’
‘Say it again,’
Growled Big Claus, menacing, and nodding slow
His head, much like the toiling nag itself,
‘And I will knock thy beast upon the pate,
And make an end of it.’ Then Little Claus
Ploughed on in silence; till a company
Of pleasant friends crossed o’er the fields, and called
Good-morrow to the tiller at his toil.
Pride set his thoughtless face once more aflush;
Full grandly he replied, and as they passed,
Briskly he clacked his whip. ‘Gee ho!’ he sang.
‘Gee ho! my five horses.’ Not a word
Spoke Big Claus, but he snatched a hammer up
And smote the hapless creature sudden-dead.
Oh, pitifully Little Claus did weep
To see his one horse dead, and reck his loss.
But afterwards he stripped away the hide
And dried it, till it stiffened in the wind;
Then packed it, slung the bag upon his back
And set foot to a neighbouring town to sell.
The afternoon o’ertook him on his way,
And with it, curdling storm clouds. ‘Mid deep brakes
The tempest trapped him; and he wandered wide
Below dark sky and darker woods. At length
Firm shadows and a bar of yellow light,
Shining atop of shutters, beckoned him
Towards a farm. His knocking brought the Wife
To door; but ‘No!’ said she, an unknown man
She could not lodge, the Farmer being from home.
Claus turned round slowly from the sharp-slammed door,
And crept upon a thatch-roofed shed close by;
Whence, as he lay, and twisted him about,
He saw, above the scanty shutters, full
 
; Into the kitchen; saw a table spread
With meats and fish and wine; and one there sat -
A Sexton - plying merrily his fork,
The whiles the Woman kept his glass abrim.
Claus watched, lamenting loud, and scarcely heard
The clatter of a heavy horse below.
This, the Farmer’s horse, returning. He
Was a worthy man, but long he nursed
A curious prejudice against all Sextons,
Till the bare sight of one would make him mad.
So therefore did the Wife regale this one,
The Farmer absent; therefore, too, she now,
At his return, hustled the graveyard-man
Into an empty chest, and thrust the meats
Into the oven, the wines behind the stove.
‘Alack,’ moaned Little Claus, when all the feast
So vanished. ‘Who’s above?’ the Farmer cried.
‘Why liest thou there? Come, rather, in with me.’
Then Claus begged leave to spend the night with him.
‘Yea, that thou shalt do; but we first must eat,’
Said he; and blithely’gan to sup a dish
Of gruel, which the Woman set before them.
But Claus still hungered tigerishly for all
Those gravied savories; and relished ill
The milky groats. So now he placed his foot
Upon his bag, which lay beneath the board;
Making it squeak; and when it squeaked, said ‘Hush!’
But saying so, trod harder, and called forth
Still louder noise. ‘Hulloa!’ said his host.
‘What hast thou, in thy bag?’
‘A wizard dwells
In this my bag,’ said Claus; ‘and wot ye now
What he is saying? Why that we should not
Be spooning gruel, when he’s conjured up
Roast meat and pastries hot, inside thy oven there.’
‘Zounds!’ said the Farmer, peering in the stove.
Mutely the Woman drew her cooking forth
And so they ate. Again the enchanter spoke
In voice of chirping leather; telling now
Of three full wine jars, conjured by the stove.
Tongue-tied and fidgeting, the Wife fetched out
Her hidden bottles; so, the Farmer drank,
And was right merry. Presently, he said,
‘And can thy mage bring up the Evil One?
I have a mind to see the Infernal sight,
Being in merry mood.’
‘He can!’ quoth Claus.
‘Listen; he answers “Yes”; and he should do’t
Only the sight is passing ugly.’
‘Pooh! I have no fear. What form, though, would he take?’
‘Oh, he would have the image of a Sexton.’
‘Nay, that’s ugly indeed; for you must know
I cannot tolerate a Sexton. Still,
As I shall know it is the Evil One
The sight will be much easier to be borne.
Proceed, I’m ready; only - not too near!’
They sat awhile in silence, while the bag
Gave forth strange sounds. These Claus interpreted
As meaning that the Demon might be found
Cowering inside the oaken chest, all fear.
Full cautiously they stepped towards the thing;
Slowly and slightly raised they up the lid.
The Farmer peeped with eyes half-closed for dread,
Suddenly saw the quaking man, and sprang
Stammering away. ‘Oh! Now, I’ve seen him. Ugh!
Exactly like our Sexton - shocking sight!’
So thereupon he needs must drink again,
And on they drank, till night was far advanced.
But when dawn brake, the Farmer rose and said,
‘See, you must sell to me your Conjuror.’
‘I cannot, - nay - I cannot; only think
Of all the benefit he is to me.’
Long Claus held out against entreaty thus;
Until, as if quick-touched with gratitude
To a kindly host, he parted with his bag
For a bushelful of money, measured fair.
‘Moreover,’ said the host, ‘have thou the Chest;
‘Who knows what ill may lurk within it yet?’
And bade the traveller, being well pleased withal,
Take a large barrow for removing it.
‘Farewell!’ quoth Claus, and pushed forth on his way.
A broad, but bridge-spanned river rolled athwart
The forest road; and when Claus gained the bridge
He stopped, hard breathing, questioning thus aloud:
‘What if I rid me of this lurdane chest?
Heavy it is as it were filled with stone.
I’ll trundle it no more. Belike the flood
Will bear it home; if not - then I care not.’
With that, he dragged and tilted it about
As if to heave it o’er the waterside.
‘Hi!’ shrieked the Sexton. ‘Hi! man, leave it be!
Let me out first!’
‘Ha! Zooks!’ quoth Little Claus,
Feigning a fright. ‘And is he still inside?
I’ll haste and fling him in, so he may drown.’
‘Oh no! No! No! A bushel of my wealth
Shall be your own, an you will set me free!’
At once the frolic knave undid the lock;
And out the Sexton crept, on crampèd knees.
Then, after gladly throwing the empty chest
Over the bridge, led Claus back to his house,
Meted the dole, and sent him home behind
A barrow now nigh full of shining coin.
To be assured of perfect measure, Claus
Dispatched a lad to Big Claus, craving for
The use of his best bushel. He, brain-teased
To know the cause of such a need, smeared tar
Upon the bottom of the vase; and lo!
The thing, returned, bore three new shillings, fast
Against the tar, bright moons in ebon sky.
Whence comes all this? thought he; and running straight
To Little Claus, was told it was the price
Of his dead horse’s skin. ‘A goodly price!’
Quoth he; and hastened home and smote his team
All dead; and hurried with their skins to town,
To make a mighty bargain. ‘Who’ll buy skins!’
He cried through all the streets; ‘Skins! Skins!’
So brought the cobblers and the tanners out;
But they, being answered that his charge for each
Was a bushelful of money, thought he mocked,
And mocked again; until his senseless cries
Chafed them to wrath. ‘Thou crazy loon!’ yelled they,
‘Thinkest we measure coin in bushels? Fie!
I’ll warrant that we tan thy skin for thee
To colours black and blue’; and that they did,
With stirrups, belts and thongs and apron-bands.
So flailed him home, skin-seared with murderous stripes,
And burning hot with murderous thoughts within.
‘The Knave shall pay for this; shall pay for this;
I’ll kill him for his pains.’ And, sure, that night,
He crept round to the house of Little Claus,
Stole to his bed, tho’ scarcely seeing aught,
And struck the still, prone figure, dastardly
With pointed hatchet on the head; and left.
‘The wicked man!’ chirped Little Claus’s voice
From out a corner. ‘Tried to kill me! Oh!
Lucky for my grandame she was dead.’
For Little Claus’s grandmother had died
That eve; and he, albeit her rancid tongue
Had vexed him oft, out-laid her in his bed,
Hoping the warmth might charm her life-warmth b
ack.
He in a large chair dozed. From which he watched
Big Claus’s deed. But soon as Claus was gone,
He dressed the dame in holiday attire,
Placed her upon the back seat of his cart,
And drove her, with a borrowed horse, towards town.
By sunrise, they had stopped outside an inn,
Whereof the landlord was a wealthy man,
And good; only as passionate as if
Composed of snuff and pepper. Of this man
Claus asked refreshment; answ’ring to his greeting,
‘Yea, host, I stir betimes today; for I
Am taking my old grandame to the town.
She’s in the cart: I cannot bring her in.
Perhaps, mine host, ye’ll take her a glass of mead?
Speak loud; she’s somewhat hard of hearing’.... ‘Hem!’
The landlord cried, at the beldame’s side,
Who sat up in the cart as if alive,
‘Here is a glass of mead from your grandson, dame.’
Bolt upright sat the dame, nor moved an inch.
‘Here is a glass of mead from your grandson, dame!’
Stark stared the dame, nor uttered she a word.
‘Do ye not hear? Receive this glass of mead!’
Then, when he’d bawled the same a few times more,
As she ne’er stirred, he flew into a rage,
And flung the beaker full across her face.
At once she fell stiff backward to the ground.
‘Hullo!’ cried Little Claus, now rushing out,
And seizing on the landlord. ‘What is this?
You’ve killed my grandmother! D’ye see this hole
Deep in her forehead?’
‘Miserable me!
What a misfortune here! And all this comes
Of my too hasty temper!’ Loud he moaned,
Wringing his hands. Then, ‘Little Claus,’ he said,
‘Dear Little Claus, I’ll have thy grandmother
Buried as if she were mine own; and you -
Shall have a bushel of my money, if
You speak no word of what has happened here.
For were it known, my head were not my own.’
So Little Claus took home another load
Of money, and the host inearthed the dame.
A second time, a lad rapped Big Claus’ door,
Praying him lend a bushel to his friend.
In wide astonishment, he took the thing
Himself to little Claus; who, smiling, said,
‘You killed my grandmother instead of me!
I sold her for this bushelful of coin!’
Not long the elder stayed on hearing this;
But posted home to where his own shrunk gammer
Ever a-knitting sat, and ruthlessly
He struck her feeble spark of life extinct,
Like one that strikes with sudden iron the coals