They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone Of memory.

And with my words I carve a little jar To keep their scented dust, Which, opening, you must Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far More grieved than you.

Irony

An arid daylight shines along the beach Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each.

And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.

Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze.

Only the sh.e.l.ls and stones can wait to be Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease.

Happiness

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Days of pa.s.sive somnolence, At its wildest, indolence.

Hours of empty quietness, No delight, and no distress.

Happiness to me is wine, Effervescent, superfine.

Full of tang and fiery pleasure, Far too hot to leave me leisure For a single thought beyond it.

Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it Means to give one's soul to gain Life's quintessence. Even pain p.r.i.c.ks to livelier living, then Wakes the nerves to laugh again, Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Although we must die to-morrow, Losing every thought but this; Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.

Happiness: We rarely feel it.

I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

The Last Quarter of the Moon

How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, A spatter of rust on its polished steel!

The seasons reel Like a goaded wheel.

Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.

The night is sliding towards the dawn, And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.

A torn moon flees Through the hemlock trees, The hours have gnawed it to feed their sp.a.w.n.

Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing A rabble of clouds flares out of the east.

Like dogs unleashed After a beast, They stream on the sky, an outflung string.

A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep as guests Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt My labouring mind, I have fought and failed.

I have not quailed, I was all unmailed And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

The moon drops into the silver day As waking out of her swoon she comes.

I hear the drums Of millenniums Beating the mornings I still must stay.

The years I must watch go in and out, While I build with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair, The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

An atom tossed in a chaos made Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.

Whence have I come?

What would be home?

I hear no answer. I am afraid!

I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.

Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And quench in a wreath Of engulfing death This fight for a G.o.d, or this devil's game.

A Tale of Starvation

There once was a man whom the G.o.ds didn't love, And a disagreeable man was he.

He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, And he cursed eternally.

He d.a.m.ned the sun, and he d.a.m.ned the stars, And he blasted the winds in the sky.

He sent to h.e.l.l every green, growing thing, And he raved at the birds as they fly.

His oaths were many, and his range was wide, He swore in fancy ways; But his meaning was plain: that no created thing Was other than a hurt to his gaze.

He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, And windows toward the hill there were none, And on the other side they were white-washed thick, To keep out every spark of the sun.

When he went to market he walked all the way Blaspheming at the path he trod.

He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, By all the names he knew of G.o.d.

For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, And his hopes had curdled in his breast.

His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over For the c.h.i.n.king money-bags she liked best.

The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, The deer had trampled on his corn, His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, And his sheep had died unshorn.

His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, And his old horse perished of a colic.

In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes By little, glutton mice on a frolic.

So he slowly lost all he ever had, And the blood in his body dried.

Shrunken and mean he still lived on, And cursed that future which had lied.