Complete Works of Wilfred Owen Page 6

  And makes the low flame vanish into air.

  This done, he drove to an apothecary

  Off ring to sell to him a defunct corse.

  ‘Whose is it? And how came you by the same?’

  ‘My grandmother’s; I struck her dead to get

  A bushel of thy money in exchange.’

  ‘Lord help us!’ said the man. ‘Thou’rt surely mad!

  If not, I vow your head’s in jeopardy!’

  And then he pointed out the heinousness

  Of such a deed; the awful wickedness,

  And punishment thereof; all which so scared

  Big Claus, that, like a hounded hare,

  He bolted from the shop, leapt on his cart,

  And lashed his horses to a maniac’s pace.

  But maniac all thought the man; and so

  They let him go wherever he might please.

  Now, after reaching home, he knew one place,

  One house, from which no man could turn his step

  And that was Little Claus’s.... When he stood

  Facing that small deceiver, suddenly

  He cast a roomy bag o’er all his length,

  Tied it; and had him safe. He took his fill

  Of wordy taunts and vaunts and promises

  Of speedy drowning. Then to riverwards

  He bore his prey to wreak the act itself.

  None of the lightest was his cumbrous load;

  Long, very long his way; and, passing by

  A Church whence organ-tones were pealing forth,

  Big Claus bethought him he would rest therein,

  And hear a psalm before he further trudged.

  Meantime, because he knew the strings were strong,

  And thought the people must be all in Church,

  He left the bag outside the open door.

  ‘Heigh-ho!’ sighed Little Claus, a-squirming round

  And thrusting out his prison-sides, as if

  Some monstrous ferret poked about its sack.

  But never a cord could he unloose; so lay

  Quite still again and thought. Ere long a herd

  Of cows came pattering by upon the dust;

  And when the pattering passed, he heard the slow

  Tap-tapping of an ancient drover’s staff.

  ‘Heigh-ho!’ sighed Little Claus. ‘I’m very young

  To be already bound for heavenly lands.’

  ‘And I,’ the answer came, ‘who am so old,

  Have never found the way to reach them yet.’

  ‘Open the bag; creep in, instead of me,

  And thou shalt go to heaven in a trice.’

  ‘Then take my cattle, friend, and feed them well,’

  Said he; and Claus soon closed the bag o’er him

  And off he drove his thirty lusty cows.

  The dust had scarcely settled in their rear,

  When Big Claus stepped into the sun again,

  And took his bag. ‘How light it seems,’ thought he.

  ‘That comes of hearing holy psalms, I ween!’

  So, easily he reached the river’s banks,

  And flung the bag a-gurgling to the deep.

  ‘There lie! I’ll smart from no more tricks of thine.’

  But, walking home, at the forking of the roads,

  Who should he meet but Little Claus himself,

  Yelping at stubborn cattle. ‘Mercy me!

  How’s this! Did I not drown thee!’ gasped Big Claus.

  ‘Oh aye!’ said he, as he thwacked a backward beast,

  ‘Oh aye! You threw me in the river there,

  Some half an hour ago.’ Big Claus was dumb,

  And followed lamely on behind the herd.

  At length he spoke: ‘Where got ye all these kine?’

  Said Little Claus: ‘Sea-cattle is this herd.

  I’ll tell thee all the story; thanking thee

  For having drowned me; since, escaping thus,

  I’m very wealthy. Fearful was the fall

  Into the waters; down I sank at once,

  But lighted on a bed of softest grass.

  A moment afterward, the bag was loosed;

  The loveliest girl imaginable, dressed

  In snowy robes, and wreathed with dripping green,

  Gave me her gentle hand, and said, “O Claus,

  There is some cattle for thee; if thou go

  A mile along the Road, another herd

  Thou’lt find; go, take it; as a gift from me.”

  I now perceived the river is a Road -

  The sea-folk’s high road; there they walked and drove,

  Passing from ocean far into the land.

  How beautiful it was! How fresh the grass!

  The fishes darted past my ear like birds,

  And Oh the cattle grazing on the dikes!’

  ‘Hum,’ the other said. ‘I marvel much

  That ye return so soon from such a place.’

  ‘Why! ‘tis a piece of policy, my friend!

  I cross the fields towards my promised herd,

  Because the River Road winds round about;

  And so I save much time.’... ‘Thou lucky man!

  Could I obtain sea-cows as thou hast done?’

  ‘No doubt thou could’st! If thou but walk with me,

  Towards the banks, then get inside the bag,

  I’d throw thee in with all the pleasure in life!’

  ‘Thanks!’ said Big Claus. ‘But if I get no cows,

  I’ll beat you famously when I return.’

  ‘Nay, do not be so hard!’ And so they went.

  Now, as the drove of thirsty cows caught sight

  Of running water, on they lumbered fast

  Towards it, tossing horns and lowing loud.

  ‘Look, look!’ cried little Claus. ‘What haste they show!

  How they do long to be below again!’

  No sooner saw Big Claus that sudden rush

  Than furious he waxed to be cast in.

  ‘Give me a stone, for fear I should not sink!’

  He cried. ‘No fear of that,’ the other said.

  Still, in the bag he put a stone. Then pushed,

  And, plump! into the river fell Big Claus.

  ‘I fear he will not find the cattle, though,’

  Said Little Claus. And away he drove his own.

  THE RIVALS

  If thou guessed what easy hours

  I can fleet among my flowers,

  How I fondle them, and how

  Find them better friends than Thou,

  Haply, love, the thing might shame thee;

  Haply with some spite inflame thee.

  Nay, indeed, thou art not all;

  And I can forget thy thrall.

  For I shall when summer comes

  Sport me with my garden chums,

  Orchid, harebell, fern, and foxglove.

  Then thou’lt tear thy pretty locks, love,

  Twisting curls round jealous fingers....

  When thou find’st thy true love lingers

  Longer o’er the rose than thee,

  Know thou hast great rivalry;

  Cry to see it, careless elf,

  Bite thy lips, but blame thyself!

  Many a slim tree, dark of tresses,

  Whispering, gives me strange caresses.

  Steadfast shines Narcissus’ eye

  When I would his beauty try.

  And he loads my sighs with scent,

  Not with frowns of discontent.

  Water lilies all tranquil lie

  When their secrecies I spy.

  Ruddy pout the mouths of roses -

  More I kiss, more each uncloses.

  Even violets, who are shy

  Of their cousin in the sky,

  Do not stiffen or resent

  When a fingertip is bent

  Round their chins. And if, like thee,

  Little snowdrops were foot-free,

  Would they run from me, and vent

  L
aughs of scornful merriment?

  Nay, they love me, as I them.

  Oh, my loves of bud and stem,

  Tell my Maid what lightsome hours

  I spend with you in your bowers.

  This may pique her jealousy;

  Haply charm her back to me.

  A RHYMED EPISTLE TO E.L.G.

  Mahim, Monkmoor Rd., in Salop

  ‘Heigh ho! Howe dothe old Tyme gallop.’

  Bacon, Promus

  Stanza I

  My honoured cousin,

  I’ll not dwell

  Longtime upon your verse (so well

  Conceived) yet I am bound to tell

  How after many a patient puff,

  And later, many an angry snuff,

  I — got into a regular huff

  That you had never written

  To say how badly bitten

  You were by your exam,

  Or else how well you’d smitten

  The Oxford-Senior Witan

  By letting off your cram.

  However...

  So clever,

  So well selected,

  And so unexpected

  Was this your happy rime

  It makes amend

  For lapse of time,

  So here I end,

  My chiding chime.

  ... ‘Is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours

  Of the dank morning?’

  Cool-as a Cheeser, Bacon

  I will no more than mention

  The Keswick grand convention

  Such speech would be amiss

  In such a thing as this.

  What I can best remember

  Of Keswick was the Camp

  Pitched in a field as damp

  As gutters in December.

  We woke at six or thereabouts;

  We woke to find our inner clouts

  As moist as Caustic Soda;

  To find our tent, a bell-tent,

  A very bell-jar, feculent

  With CO2, Cl, strong-blent

  With every pungent odour.

  We lay at night between wet rugs

  Found nothing, though, that rhymed with rugs -

  And were the rugs a bit less hairy,

  And were the tent a bit more airy,

  Had fewer been the chilly gouts

  That dropped upon our snoring snouts,

  And warmer been the morning blast,

  And daintier been the plain repast,

  Less like strong bilge the stuff called tea,

  Less like roast wood the pie-pastry

  More plentiful the fruit and berry

  — I wis we had bin very merry.

  ‘Hail!’ Bacon’s Midsummer Iced Cream

  Act III, scene i

  I went to Coniston one day

  And twice got drenched and had to pay

  Hotels to dry the wet away.

  The hail hailed, pricked and pained;

  The rain rained, rained, and rained;

  The clouds clouded, crowded round;

  The thunder thundered; the wind - wound.

  Canto IV

  1— ‘Awake.’ Isaiah.

  2— ‘Come forth.’ Bacon, King John, Act IV, sc. i.

  3— ‘Come, prepare yourself do.

  4— ‘See’st thou yon littel birde?’ Chaucer.

  5— ‘Thank you.’ Christopher Marlowe.

  All such as dwelled in the tent of Sh! Hem!

  Now none of that! I mean - all them

  As cohabit my canvas limpet

  Were photographed thereby; and some imp hit

  On th’ idea of appearing in nightclo’es

  (As the photographer came before 8 a m.)

  So in turbans of towels, and baggy pyjamas

  We were actually taken; and what with the right-pose,

  Right-exposure, et cetera, we look like real ‘salaamers’.

  I can see how you stare

  At this startling quotation,

  Quite amazed that I dare

  Say that Keats thus could swear.

  But’tis a citation

  From one of his letters,

  And I make no filtration

  Of words of my betters;

  So there!

  And indeed I would add

  ‘Secret Borrowers too’,

  And every vile cad

  To whose mind ‘me and you’

  Are one and the same.

  For I think it a shame

  That my bike, so well prized,

  Some knaves have bestridden,

  And one has so ridden

  As to hug a stone wall

  Or somehow to fall,

  And has made a nice mess,

  (Shape of pedal - an S)

  Hurt the mudguard no less

  And the nickel and all!

  Epilogue

  ‘Wind up.’

  Bacon, King Lear, Act IV, sc. vii

  I tried in an hour

  To concoct this epistle;

  -’Twas beyond my poor power,

  And, by that deep Whistle,

  I’ve been nearly two.

  Time, then, for dismissal

  And closing adieu.

  Dear fellow, do send me

  Another of yours

  For I’ve none to befriend me

  When Dunsden immures.

  And perhaps I will send you

  Another of mine.

  And so I commend you

  To heaven benign.

  THE DREAD OF FALLING INTO NAUGHT

  Now slows the beat of Summer’s dancing pulse;

  Her voice has weak and quaverous undertones;

  Cold agues in her hectic limbs convulse;

  Slow palsies creep into her sapless bones.

  Ah! is she falling into Death so soon, so soon?

  Ev’n so! and now the peerless forest green

  Is streaked with silvery pallor of decay.

  As a beauteous woman’s locks may lose their sheen

  Through fearful dreams, and turn too early grey,

  So Summer paleth now, and moaneth in her swoon.

  The expressions of her once-rich mind, the flowers,

  Are feeble-born, else rank unnaturally;

  And whoso looks on leafy garden bowers,

  Fresh bloodstains every misty mom may see,

  Spilt from her veins by Winter’s lance, and conflict-strewn.

  My power of life, though youthful, also sinks;

  Before my time I bear a hoary head;

  And chill airs strike my brow, that blow, methinks,

  Straight from the icy cavern of the dead.

  Night darkens round; my day shall know no afternoon.

  O — never mourn, my brothers! well ye know

  These crimson stains shall vanish from the trees;

  Washed by the precious ointment of the snow.

  A little while, and drowsy Earth’s disease,

  Shall feel the healing quickness of another June.

  I, only, mourn, because I cannot tell

  What spring-renewing wakes the sleep of Men.

  I do but know, (ah! this I know too well)

  I shall not see the same sweet life again,

  Nor the dear Sun, nor stars, nor tender moon.

  SCIENCE HAS LOOKED, AND SEES NO LIFE BUT THIS:

  Science has looked, and sees no life but this:

  Or, at the most ‘tis hypothetical.

  ‘Thou art as animals, as worms, as clay;

  Earth - thy small planet, of a thousand, one -

  Shall slowly waste, unto an outburnt ash:

  And thou and all thy race, be blotted out.

  For in the dissolution of man’s brain

  Himself dissolves, and passes into naught’...

  O careful Science, thou had’st all my zeal,

  But a Third Power smiles, and beckons me.

  She is a wanton of too light a name

  To hold the faith of most men in her heart.

  Po
or Poesy! She hath no constancy...

  But yesterday she clung half-trustingly

  To calm religion. Where is she today?

  Clasping Cold Science with a grim embrace!

  No constancy! But comforts manifold,

  And therefore, lovely to a waif, like me!

  Speak to me, Poesy! Give me on this height

  The one true message of thy thousand oracles!

  ‘Yea? cryest thou so hungry for some Light?

  Seek light no more! There is no Light as yet!

  The Light that lights the soul shall be the last

  Created thing; as that which lights the eye the first!

  These mountains are the breasts of Mother Earth,

  Nestle thou there, child; suck thy fill of joys.

  And strive no more to look beyond thy Mother’s arms.’

  - So? is it so? Then I will lie and rest.

  O — mountains, there comes over me this hour

  A wondrous longing for my latest sleep.

  I long to drowse, and fall upon eternal sleep;

  I want to sleep, but not to dream, and not to wake;

  Pass hence, and yet behold no region more;

  Fade from this company of distracted men

  Where all are mad deluders, or else sick deluded...

  Now, Night, rise softly like a careful nurse:

  Lower the lights of day round thy sick child:

  For I would sleep...

  Poor I, who know not what I am, nor whence,

  Would shake away this bitter case of flesh,

  Even though naught remain when it is gone.

  Would rid me of long deceiving blood;

  How know I but at this very hour

  My thoughts most high, most melancholy-grand,

  Be not the chance-distemper of my pulse,

  The doing of some small, intestine flaw!

  O — death, before I pluck my brain away,

  Let me but sleep...

  My heart stops - it is well...

  O — Light, which art but darkness,

  O — cruel world... O Men... O my own Self...

  Farewell!

  THE LITTLE MERMAID

  of Hans Christian Anderson

  Part I

  1

  Far out at sea, the water is as blue

  As cornflowers, and as clear as crystal-core;

  But so exceeding deep, no sea-bird’s view

  Can fathom it, nor men’s ropes touch its floor.

  Strange, snake-like trees and weeds - the same which grew

  Before dry land with herbs was peopled o’er -

  Still sleep in heavy peacefulness down there,

  And hold their fluctuous arms towards upper air.

  2

  And it is there the Sea-King’s nation dwells.

  His palace, golden-bright and ruby-red,

  Gleams like a crown among those velvet dells.