Poems.

by William Ernest Henley.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT

My friend and publisher, Mr. Alfred Nutt, asks me to introduce this re-issue of old work in a new shape. At his request, then, I have to say that nearly all the numbers contained in the present volume are reprinted from 'A Book of Verses' (1888) and 'London Voluntaries' (1892-3). From the first of these I have removed some copies of verse which seemed to me scarce worth keeping; and I have recovered for it certain others from those publications which had made room for them. I have corrected where I could, added such dates as I might, and, by re-arrangement and revision, done my best to give my book, such as it is, its final form. If any be displeased by the result, I can but submit that my verses are my own, and that this is how I would have them read.

The work of revision has reminded me that, small as is this book of mine, it is all in the matter of verse that I have to show for the years between 1872 and 1897. A princ.i.p.al reason is that, after spending the better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry, I found myself (about 1877) so utterly unmarketable that I had to own myself beaten in art, and to addict myself to journalism for the next ten years. Came the production by my old friend, Mr. H. B.

Donkin, in his little collection of 'Voluntaries' (1888), compiled for that East-End Hospital to which he has devoted so much time and energy and skill, of those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme, my impressions of the Old Edinburgh Infirmary. They had long since been rejected by every editor of standing in London--I had well-nigh said in the world; but as soon as Mr. Nutt had read them, he entreated me to look for more. I did as I was told; old dusty sheaves were dragged to light; the work of selection and correction was begun; I burned much; I found that, after all, the lyrical instinct had slept--not died; I ventured (in brief) 'A Book of Verses.' It was received with so much interest that I took heart once more, and wrote the numbers presently reprinted from 'The National Observer' in the collection first (1892) called 'The Song of the Sword' and afterwards (1893), 'London voluntaries.' If I have said nothing since, it is that I have nothing to say which is not, as yet, too personal--too personal and too a afflicting--for utterance.

For the matter of my book, it is there to speak for itself:-

'Here's a sigh to those who love me And a smile to those who hate.'

I refer to it for the simple pleasure of reflecting that it has made me many friends and some enemies.

W. E. H.

Muswell Hill, 4th September 1897.

IN HOSPITAL

On ne saurait dire e quel point un homme, seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel. -

BALZAC

I--ENTER PATIENT

The morning mists still haunt the stony street; The northern summer air is shrill and cold; And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old, Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.

Thro' the loud s.p.a.ciousness and draughty gloom A small, strange child--so aged yet so young! - Her little arm besplinted and beslung, Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.

I limp behind, my confidence all gone.

The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on, And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail: A tragic meanness seems so to environ These corridors and stairs of stone and iron, Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail.

II--WAITING

A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion), Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight; Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware; Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.

Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from, Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted: Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach, While at their ease two dressers do their ch.o.r.es.

One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar.

A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.

A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers.

Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.

III--INTERIOR

The gaunt brown walls Look infinite in their decent meanness.

There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle, The fulsome fire.

The atmosphere Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.

Dressings and lint on the long, lean table - Whom are they for?

The patients yawn, Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.

A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.

It's grim and strange.

Far footfalls clank.

The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.

My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .

O, a gruesome world!

IV--BEFORE

Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife.

A little while, and at a leap I storm The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform, The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.

The G.o.ds are good to me: I have no wife, No innocent child, to think of as I near The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear Unmans me for my bout of pa.s.sive strife.

Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick, And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.

Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready.

But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: You carry Caesar and his fortunes--steady!

V--OPERATION