Poetry From The Jungle

Evans? Yes, many a timeI came down his bare flightOf stairs into the gaunt kitchenWith its wood fire, where crickets sangAccompaniment to the black kettle’sWhine, and so into the coldDark to smother in the thick tideOf night that drifted about the wallsOf his stark farm on the hill ridge.It was not the dark filling my eyesAnd mouth apalled me; not even the dripOf rain like blood from the one treeWeather-tortured. It was the darkSilting the veins of that sick manI left stranded upon the vastAnd lonely shore of his bleak bed.

My garden is the wild   Sea of the grass. Her gardenShelters between walls.   The tide could break in;   I should be sorry for this.There is peace there of a kind,   Though not the deep peaceOf wild places. Her care   For green life has enabled   The weak things to grow.Despite my first love,   I take sometimes her hand,Following straight paths   Between flowers, the nostril   Clogged with their thick scent.The old softness of lawns   Persuading the slow footLeads to defection; the silence   Holds with its gloved hand   The wild hawk of the mind.But not for long, windows,   Opening in the treesCall the mind back   To its true eyrie; I stoop   Here only in play.

Sunset and evening star,      And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,      When I put out to sea,   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,      Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deep      Turns again home.   Twilight and evening bell,      And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,      When I embark;   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place      The flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to face      When I have crost the bar.

All along the valley, stream that flashest white,Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,All along the valley, where thy waters flow,I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

IIKeep me fully glad with nothing. Only take my hand in your hand.In the gloom of the deepening night take up my heart and play with it as you list. Bind me close to you with nothing.I will spread myself out at your feet and lie still. Under this clouded sky I will meet silence with silence. I will become one with the night clasping the earth in my breast.Make my life glad with nothing.The rains sweep the sky from end to end. Jasmines in the wet untamable wind revel in their own perfume. The cloud-hidden stars thrill in secret. Let me fill to the full my heart with nothing but my own depth of joy.

                                          IJust as my fingers on these keysMake music, so the selfsame soundsOn my spirit make a music, too.Music is feeling, then, not sound;And thus it is that what I feel,Here in this room, desiring you,Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,Is music. It is like the strainWaked in the elders by Susanna: Of a green evening, clear and warm,She bathed in her still garden, whileThe red-eyed elders, watching, feltThe basses of their beings throbIn witching chords, and their thin bloodPulse pizzicati of Hosanna.                                              IIIn the green water, clear and warm,Susanna lay.She searchedThe touch of springs,And foundConcealed imaginings.She sighed,For so much melody.Upon the bank, she stoodIn the coolOf spent emotions.She felt, among the leaves,The dewOf old devotions.She walked upon the grass,Still quavering.The winds were like her maids,On timid feet,Fetching her woven scarves,Yet wavering.A breath upon her handMuted the night.She turned—A cymbal crashed,And roaring horns.                                           IIISoon, with a noise like tambourines,Came her attendant Byzantines.They wondered why Susanna criedAgainst the elders by her side;And as they whispered, the refrainWas like a willow swept by rain.Anon, their lamps' uplifted flameRevealed Susanna and her shame.And then, the simpering ByzantinesFled, with a noise like tambourines.                                             IVBeauty is momentary in the mind—The fitful tracing of a portal;But in the flesh it is immortal.The body dies; the body's beauty lives.So evenings die, in their green going,A wave, interminably flowing.So gardens die, their meek breath scentingThe cowl of winter, done repenting.So maidens die, to the auroralCelebration of a maiden's choral.Susanna's music touched the bawdy stringsOf those white elders; but, escaping,Left only Death's ironic scraping.Now, in its immortality, it playsOn the clear viol of her memory,And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Stranger, you who hide my love        In the curved cheek of a smileAnd sleep with her upon a tongue       Of soft lies that beguile,          Your paradisal ecstasy        Is justified is justifiedBy hunger of the beasts beneath        The overhanging cloud            Who to snatch quick pleasures run             Before their momentary sunBe eclipsed by death.Lightly, lightly from my sleep        She stole, our vows of dew to breakUpon a day of melting rain        Another love to take:           Her happy happy perfidy        Was justified was justifiedSince compulsive needs of sense         Clamour to be satisfied             And she was never one to miss             Plausible happinessOf a new experience.I, who stand beneath a bitter        Blasted tree, with the green lifeOf summer joy cut from my side        By that self-justifying knife,            In my exiled misery         Were justified were justifiedIf upon two lives I preyed        Or punished with my suicide,           Or murdered pity in my heart           Or two other lives did partTo make the world pay what I paid.Oh, but supposing that I climb        Alone to a high room of cloudsUp a ladder of the timeAnd lie upon a bed alone        And tear a feather from a wingAnd listen to the world belowAnd write round my high paper walls        Anything and everythingWhich I know and do not know!

What I expected, wasThunder, fighting,Long struggles with menAnd climbing.After continual strainingI should grow strong;Then the rocks would shakeAnd I rest long.What I had not foreseenWas the gradual dayWeakening the willLeaking the brightness away,The lack of good to touch,The fading of body and soulSmoke before wind,Corrupt, unsubstantial.The wearing of Time,And the watching of cripples passWith limbs shaped like questionsIn their odd twist,The pulverous griefMelting the bones with pity,The sick falling from earth -These, I could not foresee. Expecting alwaysSome brightness to hold in trustSome final innocenceExempt from dust,That, hanging solid,Would dangle through allLike the created poem,Or the faceted crystal.

The song of songs, which is Solomon's.Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.Draw me, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions?If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents.I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots.Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold.We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver.While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi.Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green.The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.

The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.I the Preacher was king over Israel in Jerusalem.

In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away,   Whither and why I know not nor do I care.And the parting is sweet and the parting over is sweeter,   And sweetest of all is the night and the rushing air.In my dreams they are always waving their hands and saying goodbye,And they give me the stirrup cup and I smile as I drink,   I am glad the journey is set, I am glad I am going,I am glad, I am glad, that my friends don't know what I think.

“Good-morning, good-morning!” the General saidWhen we met him last week on our way to the line.Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.“He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to JackAs they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

It’s no use Mother dear, Ican’t finish myweaving            You mayblame Aphrodite soft as she is she has almostkilled me withlove for that boy

Some say a cavalry corps,some infantry, some, again,will maintain that the swift oars of our fleet are the finestsight on dark earth; but I saythat whatever one loves, is. This is easily proved: didnot Helen—she who had scannedthe flower of the world’s manhood— choose as first among men onewho laid Troy’s honor in ruin?warped to his will, forgetting love due her own blood, her ownchild, she wandered far with him.So Anactoria, although you being far away forget us,the dear sound of your footstepand light glancing in your eyes would move me more than glitterof Lydian horse or armoredtread of mainland infantry

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is timeto let your shadow lengthen on the sundialsand in the pastures let the rough winds fly.As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.Direct on them two days of warmer lightto hale them golden toward their term, and harrythe last few drops of sweetness through the wine.Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;who lives alone will live indefinitely so,waking up to read a little, draft long letters,   and, along the city's avenues,fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.