 | Verses by W. H. Mallock |  |
123
‘THE SOULS’
(TO MISS M--- T--- IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION) (March 29th, 1890)
You asked me, Miss M---, one day last November,
If a certain production was due to my pen—
A Paper on ‘Souls.’ I replied, you remember,
That I'd not even seen it,—I've done so since then.
If a certain production was due to my pen—
A Paper on ‘Souls.’ I replied, you remember,
That I'd not even seen it,—I've done so since then.
Well—you said it was good: and—ah me!—when you said it,
How I wished I could claim what had pleased you, as mine!
But now, to be candid, I own, since I've read it,
That the treatment seems poor, for a subject so fine.
How I wished I could claim what had pleased you, as mine!
But now, to be candid, I own, since I've read it,
That the treatment seems poor, for a subject so fine.
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All the same, if 'tis really a thing you see wit in,
There's nothing so low, or so light, or so high,
That I could not have sunk or have soared to have written,
Could it only have won me a glance from your eye.
There's nothing so low, or so light, or so high,
That I could not have sunk or have soared to have written,
Could it only have won me a glance from your eye.
But vain are such wishes. A glance from Miss M---,
What language of mine could command or control?
I never could master the psychical argot
That a soul, as I gather, expects from a soul.
What language of mine could command or control?
I never could master the psychical argot
That a soul, as I gather, expects from a soul.
For the souls are like flowers, that look out from the border
Of Eden, on us the poor children of Eve;
Oh, marvellous flowers, we are not of your order,
'Tis an order we cannot so much as conceive.
Of Eden, on us the poor children of Eve;
Oh, marvellous flowers, we are not of your order,
'Tis an order we cannot so much as conceive.
You were born of some pollen that sinks and that settles
From heaven! But we from the red earth are grown,
And the dust and the flesh are a worm in our petals,
That cankers the blossoms before they are blown.
From heaven! But we from the red earth are grown,
And the dust and the flesh are a worm in our petals,
That cankers the blossoms before they are blown.
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Whilst you!—Why, it seems that the dew remains fresh on
Your bright lives for ever. Some mystical means
Enables you still to retain the possession
Of all that our twenties have left with our teens.
Your bright lives for ever. Some mystical means
Enables you still to retain the possession
Of all that our twenties have left with our teens.
Your names in themselves—I run over a few of them—
Proclaim what you are, and confirm what I say.
I allude to your Ladies. I know one or two of them,
And I know two are ‘constant,’ I think one is ‘gay.’
Proclaim what you are, and confirm what I say.
I allude to your Ladies. I know one or two of them,
And I know two are ‘constant,’ I think one is ‘gay.’
We are neither. We shift, or fate shifts our devotion,
From this love to that love: and still as we roam,
We find that our hearts, at each fresh locomotion,
Are heavier and sorer and farther from home.
From this love to that love: and still as we roam,
We find that our hearts, at each fresh locomotion,
Are heavier and sorer and farther from home.
You discuss Aristotle and Mill: on the issue
Of creeds and of systems your brains are employed:
But for us, they are merely the rags of a tissue
Once woven to shelter man's eyes from the void.
Of creeds and of systems your brains are employed:
But for us, they are merely the rags of a tissue
Once woven to shelter man's eyes from the void.
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You keep talking of faith, of devotion, and purity,
Things deep and things high are your favourite themes.
We have dreamed of them too; but our songs, in maturity,
Have sunk to one burden, ‘Good-bye to our dreams.’
Things deep and things high are your favourite themes.
We have dreamed of them too; but our songs, in maturity,
Have sunk to one burden, ‘Good-bye to our dreams.’
For you, Life's a garden, whose vista discloses
The Heavens at the end; but it looms on our sight
Like a thicket of briars with a few withered roses,
And beyond is the night, is the night, is the night.
The Heavens at the end; but it looms on our sight
Like a thicket of briars with a few withered roses,
And beyond is the night, is the night, is the night.
Oh, sons, and oh, daughters of art and of culture,
Forget for a moment your play and your parts,
And take pity upon us, for whom time is a vulture
Which leaves us our livers and feeds on our hearts.
Forget for a moment your play and your parts,
And take pity upon us, for whom time is a vulture
Which leaves us our livers and feeds on our hearts.
What I say is in earnest. I urge you to think of it.
Miss M---, I'm specially speaking to you;
For your set is perfection, and you are the pink of it.
Bethink you, for us is there nought you can do?
Miss M---, I'm specially speaking to you;
For your set is perfection, and you are the pink of it.
Bethink you, for us is there nought you can do?
127
You might surely explain by what mental appliance
You are able to fix the illusions of youth.
You might save us from memory, and save us from Science,
Which is leading us down to the death which is truth.
You are able to fix the illusions of youth.
You might save us from memory, and save us from Science,
Which is leading us down to the death which is truth.
I say ‘us.’ You'll remark that in these my petitions
I've invariably spoken of ‘us’ and of ‘we’;
But, well—like all patriots and most politicians,
When I speak about ‘us,’ I am thinking of ‘me.’
I've invariably spoken of ‘us’ and of ‘we’;
But, well—like all patriots and most politicians,
When I speak about ‘us,’ I am thinking of ‘me.’
Just a word in your ear. I am sure I should suit you all.
Suppose you admit me as one of your band.
I'll admire you—the feeling of course must be mutual:
I'll discuss with you all things I least understand.
Suppose you admit me as one of your band.
I'll admire you—the feeling of course must be mutual:
I'll discuss with you all things I least understand.
I'll take interest in life with a faith that ne'er frets itself,
And I'll bravely forget, as I warm to the task,
That such interest is merely despair that forgets itself,
And that laughter is merely a sigh with a mask.
And I'll bravely forget, as I warm to the task,
That such interest is merely despair that forgets itself,
And that laughter is merely a sigh with a mask.
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And such verbs as ‘admire’ and ‘rise higher’ and ‘aspire’
I will conjugate daily in all moods and tenses;
And I'll prove on the whole that I must be a soul,
For I'll show you I've quite taken leave of my senses.
I will conjugate daily in all moods and tenses;
And I'll prove on the whole that I must be a soul,
For I'll show you I've quite taken leave of my senses.
| Verses by W. H. Mallock | |