The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland :: :: University of Virginia Library

POEMS

Woman

Four pomegranates grow for me,
On my true love's silver tree.

One I have tasted, and my mouth
Is filled with fragrance of the South;

One, which burns with holy red,
He shall give me when we wed;

The third from its branch shall be torn
When our little son is born;

The fourth, which is most delicate,
Kinder than Love, sharper than Fate,

Fairer than fruit of Samarkand,
You shall put in my dead hand.

Swan Song

Who makes an Eden must set you in it,
And who hath stars of crystal brimmed and bright,
Planets of rose,
Or moons of amber lit
From lordly lending suns of chrysolite,
And beautiful as those
That ache to furious Saturn.
For you are silver dawns
And silver rain
And silver snows:
And the prodigious night
Of balms and dews and darknesses and dreams
And trancèd forests and enchanted streams,
And unimaginable lawns,
And unlatched lattices
(Enlamped and tinkling)
Suddenly shut-to,
And snaring silences:
Eternally for you
The age-young seas are blue
And the great peaks rose-white.

The nightingale
Which doth the world assail
Athrob with old immitigable pain
And music past her wit,
And ambushed in the cedars, spilleth no note
Or fret or flurry or strain
Or magical sweet pattern
That is not yours;
Neither shall she, the minstrel, who doth sit
Poisèd in extreme height
And propped by April azures,
So to fling
The noise of her aspiring
At angel feet
And on immortal floors.

You know the men and women who are dead
Each by his name and each by her dim name,
And you do count them as you count spent roses
From the first down
And till the last one closes:
Time-which-hath-been, and cannot be, hath spread
Beside the river of Time-which-is, a town
Of echoless dwelling-places where inhabit
Shadows that shine or bleed
And creep and climb and falter and are sped,
And are yet shadows, and shall never know
More than they knew,
And never more may say
More than they said,

And yours is their imperishable joy
And yours their woe,
And on your head
Fall ruth and rapture:
You are both quick and dead,
While they,
Whom luring life never again shall capture,
Are only dead.

There was a maid who had just heard of love,
And an old man who had forgotten lust,
A barren wife whose heart was motherhood,
A wanton who could think on naught but good;
A thief who still
Had honour, and a liar
To whom his lie
Was whip and fire
And an abhorr'd
And grievous uttering:
I heard a bride say in the night
The world is builded on delight,
I saw the murderer adore a sky
Of summer and without fleck
What time the hangman grabbled at his neck:
They told me of a princess who had thrown
From her sweet state, hot kisses to the dust,
And of a peacock lord
Who darkly understood
He was a clown,
And of a clown who surely was a king

But minded apes.
All loveliness, all ill,
All innocence, all ruin and all dread,
All glory and all disgrace
Lifted themselves like ghosts,
In infinite multitude,
Innumerable hosts;
And all these shapes
Were yours,
And they had looks like flowers
And manifold soft graces,
And ever in their faces
I could trace,
Somewhere, your face.

O secret, consecrate
Inviolable spirit, elate
And amorous and proud
With blanchèd plumes that shroud
And glitteringly conceal
The flame, and the vermeil
And whiteness not for sight,
Who to this garden of tears
And the enthronèd spheres
Art essence and breath and light;
Who blessest for the blest
And for the lowliest,
And standest on heaven's rim
Out-staturing seraphim,
And sittest by poor men's fires

And givest to the wicked their desires,
And whom to gaze upon
That which is done is done
For ever, and shall be
Unto eternity;
In the translated clay
Bathed out of Paphia,
In love and laughter and might
And the seven souls of right
And seventy souls of wrong,
In birth and sorrow and song
And terror and despair,
And all things fine and fair
Whether of gold or green,
The wonder have I seen,
The immanence flashing by,
And, slain with it, I die!

The Weeping

Through height on height
Of the far Heaven,
Which is a firmament
And infinite air
And bosom of light,
Great seraphs swept
On joyful errands bent;
And in the seven
Sweet spaces
Where blessedness doth begin,
The cherubin
Holily strayed,
And shined and slept,
And shined again.

And none that were
Engardened of those bright places
Sorrowed or wept
Or knew the use of tears.
It had been so a million, million years:
And then,—
The world was made.

Payments

I

“I will come to you
Across white dawns,
In the night of stars,
In the morning blue.

“Like a shining dove
Alone in heaven,
In your sweet place
I shall see you move.” . . .

O Heart, it befell,
When I came, when I came,
You laughed ghost-white
In the lamps of hell.

II

Fairer than the fair
And than young moons,
Thus to be lodged
With sharp despair.

O innocent,
Unblemish'd and without spot
And so without defence;
For you the punishment.

For you the rod
And the impitying stroke,
You loveliness,
You city of God!

III

You had no tears
Women may weep,
Nor silver easing sigh
Nor fortifying fears,

No trepidance:
Only the dumb amaze
Of undeceivèdness
Chanced upon all mischance;

Nor agonies
Nor sorrow unto death,
That you should fall on your face
In seven Gethsemanes.

IV

Your punctual candle lit,
Your bowl kept bright,
Your thoughts as still
As the lily in it.

A curtain of blue,
A bed of cypress wood
And ivory,
And one great star for you.

And cloths of fair
White, and cups of gold—
And in your heart the knife
And winter in your hair.

V

How should you pray
Or call to the saints,
Who had small need of prayer
Even as they?

How should you guess
That over you would fail
The pinion shadowless
Even for a minute's space?

How could the air
Forget its kindnesses,
And the earth its love
And your angel his care?

VI

There was a foul
And livid, living thing
That wept and died,
Having no soul.

The lips of it
Scarlet with lies
And impudent with leers,
And on its forehead writ

Evil and bale;
And it hath fellowship
Malefic as itself,
But clad in cunninger mail.

VII

For ever, walls of fire
And chasms of swords
'Twixt your green country
And the world's mire.

It were a sin
That echo or breath
Should reach to your tower
From tents they riot in.

Yet their desert
Lifts them, and deviously
From these and thence
Cometh the hurt.

VIII

Into your book,
Jewelled with flame
And clamped with honour,
Who shall look?

Borders of woe,
Letters of blood,
Upon a page
Of milk and snow.

This justice for the just
Thereby you read—
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust.

A Song of Death

I

Smile, O master of life,
Safe in thy silver house,
Be pleased with thy pleasant wife—
Soon thou hast woe for spouse.

Joy and joy are thy choice—
(Shrewd art thou past a doubt!)
Take they joy and rejoice—
Sorrow shall find thee out.

Laugh thou loud at the fool
Munching his bitter bread;—
Surely as thou dost rule
One shall rule in thy stead.

What though thy heart be flame,
And perfume all thy breath?—
Who hath written thy name
Here in the book of Death?

Yea, though thou shine rose-white
Or though thou burn rose-red,
Upon the lawful night
Thou shalt lie spent and sped.

Drink that is soft and sound!
Meats for the delicate maw!—
Already the beldame is found
Who shall tape-up that jaw.

Build through the golden day
Cunning in every stroke—
Adze from his bench must say,
“Shall it be elm or oak?”

And though thou hast all grace,
All wisdom, and all wit,
Mattock, in the right place,
Will delve the appointed pit.

With faith thou art rich; and firm
In hopes like the young east—
Let us promise the worm
His certain year-long feast!

II

Fool that no man calls master,
Irredeemable slave,
Born for the stark disaster
With nothing to hope or have.

Inasmuch as thou moilest
For sour and scanty bread,
Rejoice, for wherever thou toilest
One shall toil in thy stead.

And inasmuch as they gall thee
And bitterness is thy breath,
On a day they shall call thee
Forth to thy lawful death.

Let it not be forgotten,
This is the sure reward—
Thou shalt lie dead and rotten,
Even as dead as thy lord.

So with the brand or the feather
Each hath his tally and term—
Let us sup nobly together,
“Here's to the ultimate worm!”

III

Lo, there is anguish and wailing
Out of the world and her wars,
A cry goeth up unavailing
Unto the steadfast stars.

Set on sweet thrones they glister
Over our pain and ruth,
Each to her shining sister
Telling the wordless truth.

Though we be fools or sages,
Who is it conquereth?
Death shall pay this world's wages;
All that he pays is death.

By the prayers ye have faltered,
By the blood and the tears,
Which is the law ye have altered
In all the faithful years?

No new sign hath been given,
No new tale is to tell—
And still the earth is heaven,
And still the souls are hell.

Death for life is the guerdon,
“Life for death” is the ban;
None might carry the burden,
Only the sons of man.

Of whom there is no daunting
Beneath the pitiless sky,
For whom the final vaunting
Is “men can only die.”

Cursèd be he that setteth
Snares for the bleeding feet;
Cursèd be he that getteth,
And giveth not, good wheat.

Cursèd be he that showeth,
Unto the simple, lies;
Cursèd be he that throweth
Dust in the star-set eyes.

The Ballad of Poor Honesty

“Now Good,” quoth he,
“Be good for me,
And Evil be thou evil”:
O simple wight!—
As well he might
Have leagued him with the Devil—
Who, when all's said,
Is a gentleman bred,
And civil to the civil.

He trudgeth forth,
Now south now north,
To turn the needful penny,
Upon his back
He bears a pack
Through suns and snows a-many
And mile on mile—
With an equal smile
For Richard and for Jenny.

“Yea these,” he sware,
“Be God's own pair,
They will not cog or cozen,
In smocks they go
To milk and mow,
And threadbare are their hosen;
But if your due
Be twelve, for you
They'll count out the full dozen.”

Yet Dick, fell wretch,
Did the hangman stretch,
For cutting a babe's weasand,
And by the Bench
That brazen wench,
Young Jenny, was imprisoned,
That folk might cry,
“In villainy
The twain were properly seasoned.”

“Still Good,” quoth he,
“Be good for me,
And Evil be thou evil;
My grandam dear,
Above her beer,
Was wont to curse the Devil,
‘O little lad,
Eschew the bad
Which doth defile!’ she'd snivel.”

Upon an ass
He is fain to pass
Into the virtuous city,
And soon doth stop
With my lord bishop,
The learnèd and the witty:
(“So honest a face!”
Mused his lordship's grace—
And hired him out of pity.)

Here every saw
Of the moral law
With joy he heard repeated,
Till on a night
In the candle-light
The bishop's guests were seated,
And they played a game,
Bezique by name,
And my lord the bishop cheated.

So, nothing loth,
Our friend shogged off
To service with a person
Whom fools did rate
For a prop of the State:
There couldn't have been a worse 'un;
For by wink or grin
He approved the sin
We are bidden to put a curse on.

Then a judge he served
Who quite unnerved
This saint by actions foxy,
Such as bringing home quills
From the Office of Wills
And going to church by proxy,
And, once a week,
Pinching the cheek
Of a most offensive doxy.

“Still Good for me
Be good,” quoth he,
“And Evil be thou evil;
I will show my mind
Unto mankind,
And speak them fair and civil,
And tell them how
All men I know
Are bondmen of the Devil.”

He trudgeth forth
Both south and north
By markets and street corners,
And saith aloud
To the wondering crowd,
“Ye are plagued with thieves and scorners
And liars and cheats
And hypocrites
And losels and suborners!”

He was the first
That ever burst
Upon them with such tiding;
Eftsoons they cried,
“This fellow's pride
Is surely past abiding!”
And with grievous stones,
They bruised his bones,
And hurried him into hiding.

Upon the floor
He lies full sore,
Nor murmureth unduly,
Although he must
Give up the ghost
His speech is not unruly;
With his last breath
He uttereth
These words: “I ha' spoken truly!”

So passeth he
Most miserably,
Without or sniff or snivel:
Unhappy wight—
As well he might
Have leagued him with the Devil,
Who on the whole
Is a decent soul,
And returneth good for evil!

Faitan

They have fetch'd for the king,
To his city of might,
The singers who sing
In the dusks of delight
And the noons of the night.

Where the women are lain
They have order'd his rest,
With the blood of the slain
On his sword and his crest,
And his hands on his breast.