Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 802
The domed St Peter’s; mass of the Capitol;
The arch of Trajan and St Angelo —
Tiny and grey and level; tremulous
Beneath a haze amidst a sea of plains —
But I forget the name, who never looked
On any Rome but this of unnamed hills.
II
Tho’ you’re in Rome you will not go, my You,
Up to that Hill — but I forget the name,
Aventine? Pincio? No, I never knew —
I was there yesterday. You never came.
I have that Rome; and you, you have a Me,
You have a Rome and I, I have my You;
My Rome is not your Rome: my you, not you
... For, if man knew woman
I should have plumbed your heart; if woman, man
Your me should be true I.... If in your day —
You who have mingled with my soul in dreams,
You who have given my life an aim and purpose,
A heart, an imaged form — if in your dreams
You have imagined unfamiliar cities
And me among them, I shall never stand
Beneath your pillars or your poplar groves,...
Images, simulacra, towns of dreams
That never march upon each other’s borders
And bring no comfort to each other’s hearts!
III
Nobly accompanied am I — Since you,
You — simulacrum, image, dream of dreams,
Amidst these images and simulacra
Of shadowy house fronts and these dim, thronged streets
Are my companion!
Where the pavements gleam
I have you alway with me: and grey dawns
In the far skies bring you more near — more near
Than City sounds can interpenetrate.
All vapours form a background for your face
In this unreal town of real things,
And my you stands beside me and makes glad
All my imagined cities and thence walks
Beside me towards yet unimagined hills —
Being we two, full surely we shall go
Up to that Hill.... some synonym for Home.
Avalon? Grave? or Heaven? I do not know....
But one day or to-day, the day may come,
When I may be your I, your Rome my Rome.
FINCHLEY ROAD
AS we come up at Baker Street
Where tubes and trains and’buses meet
There’s a touch of fog and a touch of sleet;
And we go on up Hampstead way
Towards the closing in of day...
You should be a queen or a duchess rather,
Reigning in place of a warlike father
In peaceful times o’er a tiny town
Where all the roads wind up and down
From your little palace — a small, old place
Where every soul should know your face
And bless your coming. That’s what I mean,
A small grand-duchess, no distant queen,
Lost in a great land, sitting alone
In a marble palace upon a throne.
And you’d say to your shipmen: “Now take your ease,
To-morrow is time enough for the seas.”
And you’d set your bondmen a milder rule
And let the children loose from the school.
No wrongs to right and no sores to fester,
In your small, great hall’neath a firelit dais,
You’d sit, with me at your feet, your jester,
Stroking your shoes where the seed pearls glisten
And talking my fancies. And you as your way is,
Would sometimes heed and at times not listen,
But sit at your sewing and look at the brands
And sometimes reach me one of your hands,
Or bid me write you a little ode,
Part quaint, part sad, part serious...
But here we are in the Finchley Road
With a drizzling rain and a skidding’bus
And the twilight settling down on us.
THE THREE-TEN
WHEN in the prime and May Day time dead
lovers went a-walking,
How bright the grass in lads’ eyes was, how
easy poet’s talking!
Here were green hills and daffodils, and copses to contain them:
Daisies for floors did front their doors agog for maids to chain them.
So when the ray of rising day did pierce the eastern heaven
Maids did arise to make the skies seem brighter far by seven.
Now here’s a street where’bus routes meet, and ‘twixt
the wheels and paving
Standeth a lout that doth hold out flowers not worth the having.
But see but see! The clock marks three above the Kilburn
Station,
Those maids, thank God! are ‘neath the sod and all their generation.
What she shall wear who’ll soon appear, it is not hood nor wimple,
But by the powers there are no flowers so stately or so simple,
And paper shops and full’bus tops confront the sun so brightly,
That, come three-ten, no lovers then had hearts that beat so lightly
As ours, or loved more truly,
Or found green shades or flowered glades to fit their
loves more duly.
And see, and seel’Tis ten past three above the Kilburn Station,
Those maids, thank God! are’neath the sod and all their generation.
FOUR IN THE MORNING COURAGE
THE birds this morning wakened me so early it was hardly day:
Ten sparrows in the lilac tree, a blackbird in the may,
A starling somewhere in the mews, a songthrush on a broken hat
Down in the yard the grocers use, all cried: “Beware;
Beware! The Cat!”
I’ve never had the heart to rhyme, this year: I’ve
always wakened sad
And late, if might be, so the time would be more short
— but I was glad
With a mad gladness in to-day that is the longest day in June.
(That blackbird’s nesting in the may.) For only yesterday at noon
In the long grass of Holland Park, I think — I think
— I heard a lark...
I heard your voice: I saw your face once more...
(Upon that packing case
The starling waked me ere the day aping the thrush’s sober tune).
MODERN LOVE
I
KNEE-DEEP among the buttercups, the sun
Gilding the scutcheons and the gilded mail,
Gilding the crowned helm and leopard crest,
Dear, see they pant and strike at your desire.
And one goes down among the emerald grass,
And one stands over him his dagger poised,
His visor raised, his blood-shot eyes a-travel
Over the steel that lies between his feet,
Crushing the buttercups... and so the point goes in
Between the gorget and the habergeon...
And blood floods out upon the buttercups,
Gules, or and vert beneath an azure sky.
And now the victor strides knee-deep in grass,
His surcoat brushing down the flower-heads
To where above the hedge a hennin peeps
Wide, white and waving like a wild swan’s wings,
And a green dress, a mantlet all of vair
And such dear eyes — Dear, you’ve the dearest eyes
In all the world — the most compassionate eyes.
II
... In your garden, here
The light streams down between the silvered leaves,
And we sit still and whisper... But our fight!
The gross Black Prince among the buttercups
Could grin and girn and pant and sweive and smite
And, in ten minutes it was win or lose:
A coffin board or ale, a coarse caress
Or just an end of it for Life or Death...
Is that a footfall on the gravel path?
Are your stretched nerves on edge? And do you see?
There, white and black, the other couple go.
And if some others knew! Oh, buttercups,
And blood upon the grass beneath the sun...
Give me your garden where the street lamp shines
Between the leaves: your garden seat, your hand,
Just touching mine — and all the long, long fight
That lies before us, you of the dear eyes.
SPRING ON THE WOODLAND PATH
SO long a winter such an Arctic night!
I had forgot that ever spring was bright:
But hark! The blackbird’s voice like a clear flame!
So long a winter, such an age of chill,
Made me forget this silver birch clad hill.
But see, the newborn sunbeams put to shame
Our long dead winter: bracken fronds like flame,
Pierce the new morning’s saffron-watered light.
So long, so long the winter in our hearts,
We had forgotten that old grief departs
And had forgotten that our hands could meet.
So long, so long: Remember our last May
When there was sunshine still and every day
New swallows skimmed low down along the street.
Ay, spring shall come, but shall we ever meet
With the old hearts in this forgotten way?
CONSIDER
NOW green comes springing o’er the heath,
And each small bird with lifted breath
Cries, “Brother, consider the joy there is in living!”
“Consider! consider!” the jolly throstle saith.
The golden gorse, the wild thyme, frail
And sweet, the butter cowslip pale,
Cry “Sisters, consider the peace that comes with giving!
And render, and render your sweet and scented breath!”
Now men, come walking o’er the heath
To mark this pretty world beneath,
Bethink them: “Consider what joy might lie in living,
None striving, constraining none, and thinking not on Death.”
CLUB NIGHT
THERE was an old man had a broken hat,
He had a crooked leg, an old tame cat,
An old lame horse that cropped along the hedge,
And an old song that set your teeth on edge,
With words like:
“Club night’s come; it’s time the dance begins.
Up go the lamps, we’ve all got nimble shins.
One night a year man and wife may dance at ease
And we’ll dance all the village to its knees.”
This silly old man had a broken heart;
He went a-peddling onions from his cart.
Once years ago, when Club night fell in June,
His new-wed wife went off with a dragoon,
Whilst he sang:
“Club night’s come; it’s time the dance begins.
Up go the lamps, we’ve all got nimble shins.
One night a year man and wife may dance at ease
And we’ll dance all the village to its knees.”
TO CHRISTINA AND KATHARINE
AT CHRISTMAS
NOW Christmas is a porter’s-rest whereon to set his load;
And Christmas was a blessed bed for One who loved her God.
And Christmas is a chiming bell to ships upon the sea
That decks the shrouds and lights the ports and tolls for Memory —
But Christmas is a meeting-place
For you and me.
God send your hearts may never grow so old
As to forget that this day Mary’s lips
First touched Her young Child’s brow: and may your eyes
Not ever grow too cold to recognize
How to poor men and women these days bear
A gift of rest. Pray that the gentle air
Give relaxation to a myriad ships —
And, oh my little ones, may no December
See Christmas come and me no longer dear
To your dear hearts and voices. This remember:
How Christmas is the pardon day when Justice drops its load;
And is the lily-blossomed field where Jesus walks with
God.
Now Saints set foot upon the waves to still the yeasty sea,
And other Saints to hurdled sheep give comfort patiently.
Now all good men beside their hearths call upon
Memory:
Now, now comes in the meeting-time
For you and me!
THE DREAM HUNT
MY Lady rides a-hunting
Upon a dapple grey:
Six trumpeters they ride behind,
Six prickers clear the way.
And when she climbs the hillsides
The Hunt cries: “Ho! la! Lo!”
And when she trails along the dales
The merry horns do blow.
And so in summer weather,
Before the heat of day,
My darling takes all eyes and breaks
My heart and makes away.
THE OLD LAMENT
WHAT maketh lads so cruel be?
A mid the spume and wrack.
They pass the door and put to sea,
And never more come back.
The grey, salt wind winds down the wave,
The galleon flouts the bay,
And cobles and coggers are raising their sails:
God keep’ee down on the quay!
With a hoist at thy tackles, a haul at thy blocks,
And a hail to a hastening crew.
He’ll take’ee Who gave’ee thy goldilocks
Ere I pardon thine eyes o’ blue.
Not once to ha’ lookèd within my hood!
Nor guessed I quailed on the strand
Wi’ thee in the boats! Thro’ my pent-up door
I ha’ kissed to’ee my hand.
They’ll rive thy keel wi’ their cannon shocks,
And sink’ee and all thy crew;
And they’ll leave to the raven and cliff-homed fox
Thy kindly eyes o’ blue.
Why need’ee pass my open door
Each breaking o’ the day?
What made’ee take that selfsame path
And never another way?
I’ll find’ee stretched on the grinding rocks
With a Frenchman’s shot shot through,
And the mermaid’s weed from thy goldilocks
Across thine eyes o’ blue.
What made’ee lad, so cruel be?
A mid the spume and wrack,
To pass the door and put to sea
And never once look back!
MAURESQUE
(To V.M.)
TO horse! To horse! the veil of night sinks softly down.
The hills are violet, the desert brown,
And thou asleep upon the silken pillows
Within the small white town.
We ride! We ride! and o’er the sand in billows
The crescent moon looks softly down.
IN THE STONE JUG
(Tom of Hounslow Heath sings on the night before his execution)
OLD days are gone:
Lo! I go to find better;
Bright suns once shone.
Shall they never shine again?
Here’s a queer inn for to-night, but the next one
I will contrive shall be freed from what’s vext one
In this, and to-morrow, for all that’s perplext one,
I shall arise with a head free of pain.
Here’s luck, old friends,
Though to-night’s proved the finish
And this tap now ends.
Shall we never brew again?
Aye, by my faith and the faith I have in you,
You who have kist and have laughed at the sin. You
Witch that I gambled and squandered to win, you
Too shall come in with me out of the rain.
HOW STRANGE A THING
HOW strange a thing to think upon:
Whilst we sit here with pipes and wine
This world of ours goes roving on
Where stars and planets shine.
And round and round and round and round
This brave old ball, still out and in —
Whilst we sit still on solid ground —
Doth spin and spin and spin.
And, whilst we’re glad with pipes and wine,
We travel leagues and leagues of space:
Our arbour’s trellised with the vine,
Our host’s a jocund face.
Yet on and on and on
This brave old ball spins in and out:
Why, here’s a thing to think upon
And make a song about.
Ho, landlord, bring new wine along
And fill us each another cup.
We’re minded to give out a song.
My journey, mates; stand up.
For round and round and round and round
This noble ball doth spin and spin,
And ‘twixtthefirmament and ground
Doth bear us and our sin.
FROM INLAND
The following poems appeared in the volume of the above name published by Mr Alston Rivers in 1907.
FROM INLAND
I DREAMED that you and I were young
Once more, and by our old grey sea
Raced in the wind; but matins, sung
High on these vineyards, wakened me:
I lay half-roused and seemed to hold
Once more, beside our old grey sea,
Your hand. I saw the primrose gold
Your hair had then, and seemed to see
Your eyes, so childlike and so wise,
Look down on me.
By the last fire we ever lit
You knelt, and bending down your head,
— If you could compass it, you said,
Not ever would you live again
Your vanished life; never again
Pass through those shadowy vales of pain.
“And now I’m old and here I sit!”
You said, and held your hands apart
To those old flames we’ve left behind
