Complete Works of Wilfred Owen Read online

  The dancers sang; the Princess chanted too,

  Delighted; and that night she knew her voice

  To be the loveliest and most flawless-true

  E’en heard on land or sea. Yet ‘twas her choice

  To steal away from all the vast applause,

  Unto her garden, there from mirth to pause.

  43

  A bugle sounded through the far dark wave.

  ‘Ah, now’, she moaned, ‘he surely sails aloft;

  He for whose warm, celestial love I crave;

  He who could give me in two kisses soft

  All joy in life, and all beyond the grave.

  Lo! I will venture all for him! What oft

  I feared, tonight I’ll face. What other help?’

  44

  Thereat she ‘gin to wind through groves of kelp,

  Towards the abysmal deserts, where the flood

  Spins fierce in spiral phantasies; which, crossed,

  Led to a region of warm, bubbling mud,

  With slimy weeds and greenery bemossed,

  And serpent-polypi, that feed on blood,

  And hug old rust, gaunt hulks and treasures lost.

  Between their ever-groping arms the lithe girl shot,

  A shuddering lightning; then sank safe - on what?

  45

  The witch’s den! Around was filthy quag,

  In whose soft mire slow-wallowed water slugs,

  Large, fat, and white. There sat the fishy hag,

  Beneath her hut of bones. About her dugs

  Clung toads; while snakes, with lazy drag,

  Wound round her arms, which she, with fulsome hugs,

  Embraced and stroked, and fed from her own mouth.

  This horror parched the maid’s full voice like drouth.

  46

  ‘I know, I know why thou art come, fair fool!

  Would’st rid thee of thy tail, and wear instead

  Two props, according to the earth-folk’s rule;

  All this that some young prince may love and wed

  Thy beauty. So, too, shall ye overrule

  High fate, which orders that our dead keep dead,

  Not live for aye, as men do fable. Bah!

  Hoo-hoo! Buy legs to steal thee wings! Ha-ha!’

  47

  So loud and so repulsive laughed the witch,

  The very reptiles fell upon the ground,

  And there lay wriggling. Then ‘I’m not so rich’,

  Quoth she, ‘as to refuse a Princess crowned.

  Have thy mad will. I’ll charm a potion which,

  Mark ye! shall give thee legs, straight, white, and sound,

  But hurt it must as swords were probing ye.

  Drink it at sunrise, sitting near the sea.

  48

  ‘All who behold thee in thy changèd state

  Shall call thee fairest mortal, beauty’s queen.

  Thine agile, floating elegance of gait

  Thou shalt retain; no dancer ever seen

  May move so light as thou. But wait, child, wait!

  Each step ye take will cost ye pain as keen

  As if ye trod on knives. An ye do choose

  To bear these pangs, my magic I will use.’

  49

  ‘I do,’ replied the mermaid; but she shook

  As shake the weeds below the surface-storm.

  ‘Bethink ye well: thy fish-tail once forsook,

  Ye cannot change again from human form,

  Nor ever on thy father’s Palace look.

  And should ye find your Prince not quite so warm,

  And fail to win his love - such love that he

  Break from his old delights to cleave to thee -

  50

  ‘Thou diest: the soul thou reachest after, missed;

  Life thrown away. The day he weds his choice

  Shall be thy last. Ocean shall be thy cist;

  His solemn breast, spurned for a fickle boy’s,

  Shall nurse thee; shrivelled into spumy mist!

  And now, child, pay my dues. I want thy voice.

  Needest its tones to charm him, little witch?

  Nay, give thy best for this my ichor rich.’

  51

  ‘But if thou take my voice, what have I left?’

  ‘Thy buoyancy! Thy matchless mould! Thine eyes!

  Come! Let me cut thy tongue, nor think it theft.’

  ‘Take it!... O Prince!... O sweet immortal prize!’

  Pale as a faint moon in a stormy cleft

  Was her drawn mouth, and wild as winds her sighs.

  But from complaint she utterly forbore.

  So yielded up her voice, and spake no more.

  52

  Forthwith the sorceress brought forth her pot,

  And having scoured it well with knotted snakes,

  Dripped in from her own veins black bloody clot;

  Then added poisons, bones, and weird mandrakes;

  So that there roamed around the cauldron hot,

  Fumes such as rise when rousèd Etna quakes.

  Whilst the loud simmering of that mystic chyle

  Droned like the wailings of a crocodile.

  53

  These spells complete, the mermaid took the juice,

  Which seemed as water from the purest fount,

  Safe passed the polyps and the whirling sluice

  (For the dread charm o’er these was paramount).

  Then, hovering o’er her home, she strove to loose

  Love’s hindering thongs from round her heart. But ‘Mount!’

  A stronger Love was crying, ‘Fast to shore!’

  So, in great grief, she slowly’gan to soar.

  54

  While yet the sapphire night bedomed the world,

  Aground, and’neath the palace water stair,

  Waiting the charmèd dawn, she lay upcurled.

  In swoon she lay, and she was unaware

  How, after break of day, the wavelets purled

  About her feet, and licked her ankles bare.

  But so it was: the potion of the seer

  Had worked its work, and heaven was very near.

  PART IV

  55

  The pang that broke her sleep was quickly spent,

  Quenched in a bliss, above all blisses sweet:

  None other than the Prince above her bent!

  Their earnest eyes like magnet-steels did meet.

  She, dropping lids before his gaze intent,

  First saw her marble shining limbs complete;

  And joyed. But on the instant was amate,

  For from her eyes no word could he translate.

  56

  Much wond’ring why so rich a mouth were mute,

  He gently led her towards the stately door.

  Even as she foreknew, stabbings acute

  Tortured her tread; which willingly she bore,

  Although she looked to see the blood out-shoot.

  But no stain lay upon the yellow shore.

  Only the ribbèd sand was soft and sodden,

  Molten to jelly, where her soles had trodden.

  57

  Thus hand in hand with him her beauteous Prince,

  Up the broad steps she flew, like wafted bubble.

  - And never was she known to cry or wince,

  For all the anguish of that secret trouble.

  And then they dressed her, as before or since,

  Few girls have been. For favour she had double

  The other inmates of that courtly place.

  And all the land made marvel at her face.

  58

  The Prince soon found a name to call her by:

  Philotis; which was linked on many a lip

  With his name, Philo, in a tone full sly.

  Greatly he loved to watch her deft feet trip.

  For slaves would frisk, and swim, and sprawl and fly,

  But tiptoe Lotis almost seemed to slip

  Into the air and
float upon her arms.

  So more the realm was ravished by her charms.

  59

  Those slaves would also sing, with mimic glee.

  Ah, why should young Philotis fall so sad,

  When Philo praised them? -’Twas not jealousy!

  But soon a heavier grief than this she had:

  Though loved as any fair young child might be,

  Though dear as many a lass to one same lad,

  She was not the devotion of his life;

  He never dreamed to take her as his wife.

  60

  Long, long she feared to think it; yet ‘twas plain;

  And every day the certainty increased.

  By night, new thoughts would steal upon her brain

  Wild as the far-off cry of some strange beast.

  And Philo’s sweetest laugh became her bane.

  And though his merry kisses had not ceased,

  She knew her mouth, that never might unclose,

  Must seem a blighted bud, a scentless rose.

  61

  And thus she let her colour fade away,

  And languished for cool waters, like a flower.

  The more so when her sisters left their play

  To watch continually beneath her tower,

  And nightly sing how sore was their dismay.

  Once, she perceived the King, for one short hour,

  And once the agèd Queen; but not anear.

  They had not risen so for many a year.

  62

  ‘My Lotis,’ said Prince Philo, one soft eve,

  ‘My parents wish me married, as you know,

  And bid me see their choice; but had I leave,

  I would not think of this same Princess. No!

  I love not an unknown. I had as lieve

  Wed thee, Philotis, as commit me so.

  For thou resemblest one I love full well,

  Who saved my life: a heavenly damosel.

  63

  ‘When I was wrecked, and cast on foreign shore,

  She succoured me; she saved me from the sea.

  Twice saw I her; I shall not see her more.

  But something of her beauty lives in thee.

  Forgive me if too ardently I pore

  Upon thy face; kind fate has sent thee me,

  And thou hast driven her image from my heart.

  Kiss me, Philotis; we must never part.’

  64

  So when he sailed away in gallant state,

  To meet the daughter of a neighbouring king,

  Lotis went with him. Then to her he’d prate

  Of calms and tempests; fishes; everything

  The deep reveals where divers penetrate,

  Supposing that she listened wondering.

  And sooth she gazed into the waves full hard,

  As if they were not dark to her regard.

  65

  Both day and night her lonely watch she kept,

  Leaning above the milky, glistening foam;

  Whiles all men save the silent helmsman slept,

  And once she thought she saw her ancient home.

  And every dusk her sisters rose and wept,

  And almost to her side the five upclomb.

  By signs she told them she was happy still,

  Beloved of men; and nowise treated ill.

  66

  The ship reached port; and, in magnificence,

  Prince Philo waited for his promised bride.

  Days did he wait, in nervous indolence.

  At last she came. The Prince’s eyes flashed wide

  With sudden ecstasy; in voice drawn tense

  By all the mighty joy of years untried,

  And played upon by stroke of present passion,

  He chanted (while Philotis’ lips grew ashen):

  67

  “Tis thou! ‘Tis thou! Sans whom were I now dead!’

  And for a while he could nor think nor say,

  But even as her little curly head

  Was shut between his shoulders quite away,

  So in her being, his soul was burièd,

  And hidden from the glare of common day.

  She was indeed the damsel of the sands!

  Well, well may poor Philotis wring her hands!

  68

  Why should I tell how fine the bridals were,

  How many flaming heralds rode the streets,

  Or what loud peals went rioting through the air,

  Or how the towns were choked with wine and meats,

  Since Lotis of these things was not aware?

  Forlorn Philotis! Scalding chills and heats,

  Visions wherein one face did ever melt,

  And, with it, worlds, were all she saw and felt.

  69

  ‘Twas so, though still she danced as she was used,

  Danced out and far beyond the reach of Art,

  For she forgot her feet were sadly bruised.

  Her Prince had said:’ You will rejoice, sweetheart,’

  So she forgot her soles were sore contused,

  Because the sharper pain was at her heart.

  Thus the great wedding day came, blazed, and passed,

  And fell the night which was to be her last.

  70

  It found her on his vessel, homeward bound.

  Musicians, sailors, revellers, were withdrawn.

  The sea was tranquil, heaving without sound.

  Already, o’er the east, wan chasms yawn.

  The passing billows, weltering mound on mound,

  Shone ghastly in the doleful light of dawn.

  Then saw she how five mermaids rose all pale,

  To save her, if their plan might aught avail.

  71

  No more their lovely locks streamed out, wind-fanned.

  ‘We gave them to the witch’, they said, ‘for this,’

  And pressed a dagger in her loathful hand.

  ‘Strike deeply at his heart: it cannot miss.

  So shalt thou conquer Fate, and Death withstand.

  For when his blood shall sprinkle thee, we wis,

  Thy feet shall close into a tail once more.

  Thus all may be as it hath been before.’

  72

  So, shrilling, ‘Haste!’ they sank. And night was spent.

  Then she, approaching where the bridegroom slept,

  Lifted the scarlet curtain of his tent.

  The slumbering pair she saw, and to them crept.

  So close they lay, their very curls were blent,

  And both her hands beneath his cheek he kept.

  Philotis, kneeling, stole her last embrace.

  Then turned and watched the sky, a little space.

  73

  She scanned the coming colour breathlessly,

  As’twere some fateful cauldron, heaving slow.

  And now the dull and heavy-clouded sky

  Gave forth a steady and increasing glow,

  As tarnished lead, that heat doth glorify,

  A weird and ruddy brilliancy can throw.

  Sudden, like bubble on hot metal seething,

  Bulged the great sun. Then ceased Philotis’ breathing.

  74

  Still stood she by the spoiler of her life,

  List’ning his dreamy murmurs. What she caught

  Was ever one same word: ‘Fair wife, sweet wife.’

  Ah, She, She only filled his heart and thought!

  And Lotis’ fingers clutched the raisèd knife.

  But ere the fountain of his blood it sought,

  It hurtled back, and splashed along the wave,

  And she had leapt into the sea: her grave.

  75

  The sun passed flaming up his azure path,

  And warmed the drift of froth that erst was flesh.

  She felt the radiance, and as from a bath,

  Uprist into the air, ethereal, fresh.

  She had not feathers, as an angel hath,

  Nor fairy wings of clear
and gauzy mesh;

  But yet slid upward, like a lifting mist,

  And floated, cloudlike, though heaven’s amethyst.

  76

  Around her, floated spirits fair as she.

  No fear she felt of their so perfect form,

  Nor of their tongues’ angelic melody,

  Nor of the numbers of that rosy swarm.

  They told her of their office and degree:

  To heal the pestilence; to still the storm;

  To fan the atmosphere of fiery regions;

  Guide honey-bees, and pilot swallow legions.

  77

  But what they whispered of her after-fate,

  The years which this sweet work must see elapse,

  Before her final, heavenly estate,

  I have not learned. She worketh yet, perhaps;

  This evening’s sunset may illuminate;

  Maybe your garden’s tender buds she wraps;

  Or breathed the scent into the rose you wear,

  Or even now, is smiling by your chair.

  78

  No more than this knows he that told her tale:

  That, looking through the vapours under her,

  She saw the ocean, and one lonely sail.

  On board was weeping and unwonted stir.

  Both Philo and his bride were very pale.

  She heard his hushed, half-sobbing voice aver:

  ‘Woe! Woe! The child hath cast herself away!’

  And kissed them, gazing on the pearly spray.

  THE TWO REFLECTIONS

  I seldom look into thy brown eyes, child,

  But I behold in them the deep, cool shade

  Of summer woods. Hence always, if dismayed

  To think how quickly Time hath us beguiled

  Of those enchanted days, when forest-wild,

  We roamed the copses, and so gaily played;

  I feel about me yet the dusky glade,

  And June’s late light through long lanes, beechen-aisled.

  And in the glistening of thy fragrant hair

  Sparkles the scented rain that glistened then.

  But ah! I see, too, thou being otherwhere,

  Thy shadowy eyes in every low-lit glen;

  Thy locks in every sun-gilt shower, and there

  In those sweet glooms, find sorrow unaware.

  DEEP UNDER TURFY GRASS AND HEAVV CLAY

  Deep under turfy grass and heavy clay

  They laid her bruisèd body, and the child.

  Poor victims of a swift mischance were they,

  Adown Death’s trapdoor suddenly beguiled.

  I, weeping not, as others, but heart-wild,

  Affirmed to Heaven that even Love’s fierce flame

  Must fail beneath the chill of this cold shame.

  So I rebelled, scorning and mocking such

  As had the ignorant callousness to wed

  On altar steps long frozen by the touch

  Of stretcher after stretcher of our dead.