Twenty by Stella Benson (uplifting book club books TXT) 📕

/> Call no man foe, but never love a stranger.
Build up no plan, nor any star pursue.
Go forth with crowds; in loneliness is danger.
Thus nothing God can send,
And nothing God can do
Shall pierce your peace, my friend.




THE NEWER ZION

When I achieve the chestnut joke of dying,
When I slip through that Gate at Kensal Green,
Shall I go spoil the fantasy by prying
Behind the staging of this darling scene?

Shall I--a cast-off puppet--seek to study
The Showman who manipulates the strings,
The Hand that paints the western drop-scene ruddy,
The prosy truths of all these faery things?

Shall I--self-conscious by a glassy ocean--
Stammer strange songs amid an alien host?
Or shall I not, refusing such promotion,
Bequeath to London my contented ghost?

I will come back to my Eternal City;
Her fogs once more my countenance shall dim;
I will enliven your austere committee
With gossip gleaned among the cherubim.

By day I'll tread again the sounding mazes,
By night I'll track the moths about the Park;
My feet shall fall among the dusky daisies,
Nor break nor bruise a petal in the dark.

I will repeat old inexpensive orgies;
Drink nectar at the bun-shop in Shoreditch,
Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George's,
And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.

My soundless feet shall fly among the runners
Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid,
My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners,
The fires shall glare--but I shall cast no shade.

And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent
Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot--
(Fool that he is)--and fumble with his warrant,
And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"

Mocking I'll go, and he shall be postillion,
Until we reach the Keeper of the Door:
"H'm ... Benson ... Stella ... militant civilian ...
There's some mistake, we've had this soul before...."

* * * * * *

Ah, none shall keep my soul from this its Zion;
Lost in the spaces I shall hear and bless
The splendid voice of London, like a lion
Calling its lover in the wilderness.




TWO WOMEN SING

FIRST WOMAN


Oh woman--woman--woman,--
Shall I to woman be a friend?
I deal with man, and when I can
Reclaim with interest all I lend.
Who but a witless gambler plays
For farthing stakes these golden days?
No, woman--woman--woman--
Must only play the game that pays.


SECOND WOMAN


Oh woman--woman--woman,--
To-morrow woman shall awake.
She shall arise, and realise
The goodly value of her stake.
And she shall lend her loan, and claim
Her rightful interest on the same.
So woman--woman--woman--
Shall learn at last the paying game.



THE WOMAN ALONE

My eyes are girt with outer mists;
My ears sing shrill, and this I bless;
My finger-nails do bite my fists
In ecstasy of loneliness.
This I intend, and this I want,
That--passing--you may only mark
A dumb soul with its confidant
Entombed together in the dark.

The hoarse church-bells of London ring;
The hoarser horns of London croak;
The poor brown lives of London cling
About the poor brown streets like smoke;
The deep air stands above my roof
Like water, to the floating stars.
My Friend and I--we sit aloof,--
We sit and smile, and bind our scars.

For you may wound and you may kill--
It's such a little thing to die--
Your cruel God may work his will,
We do not care, my Friend and I.
Though, at the gate of Paradise,
Peter the Saint withhold his keys,
My Friend and I--we have no eyes
For Heav'n or Hell--or dreams like these....



THE INEVITABLE

_There is a sword, a fatal blade,
Unthwarted, subtle as the air,
And I could meet it unafraid
If I might only meet it fair.
Yet how I wonder why the Smith
Who wrought that steel of subtle grain
Should also be contented with
So blunt and mean a thing as pain_.

The stars and fire-flies dance in rings.
The fire-flies set my heart alight,
Like fingers, writing magic things
In flame, upon the wall of night.
There is high meaning in the skies--
(The stars and fire-flies--high and low--)
And all the spangled world is wise
With knowledge that I almost know.

To-morrow I will don my cloak
Of opal-grey, and I will stand
Where the palm-shadows stride like smoke
Across the dazzle of the sand.
To-morrow I will throw this blind
Blind whiteness from my soul away,
And pluck this blackness from my mind,
And only leave the medium--grey.

To-morrow I will cry for gains
Upon the blue and brazen sky.
The precious venom in my veins
To-morrow will be parched and dry.
To-morrow it shall be my goal
To throw myself away from me,
To lose the outline of my soul
Against the greyness of the sea.



THE DOG TUPMAN

Oh little friend of half my days,
My little friend, who followed me
Along those crooked sullen ways
That only you had eyes to see.

You felt the same. You understood
You too, defensive and morose,
Encloaked your secret puppyhood--
Your secret heart--and hid them close.

For I alone have seen you serve,
Disciple of those early springs,
With ears awry and tail a-curve
You lost yourself in puppy things.

And you saw me. You bore in mind
The clean and sunny things I felt
When, throwing hate along the wind,
I flashed the lantern at my belt.

The moment passed, and we returned
To barren words and old cold truth,
Yet in our hearts our lanterns burned,
We two had seen each other's youth.

When filthy pain did wrap me round
Your upright ears I always saw,
And on my outflung hand I found
The blessing of your horny paw;

And yet--oh impotence of men--
My paw, more soft but not more wise,
Old friend, was lacking to you when
You looked your crisis in the eyes....

You shared my youth, oh faithful friend,
You let me share your puppyhood;
So, if I failed you in the end,
My friend, my friend, you understood.



SAINT BRIDE

About your brow a starry wreath,
About your feet a wilderness,
Where young hot hopes grow cold beneath
The tangled bondage of the press.
Set like a saint within a niche--
A strait and narrow niche--you hide,
And weave a veil about you, which
Can turn our steel, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

The eyes of coarse and pond'rous man
Are sceptic and satirical.
"_What, little saint, and still you scan
Old heaven for that miracle?_"
Oh heart deceived, yet harmed not,
Child-widow of a truth that died,
Bearer in mind of things forgot,
Bride of a dream, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

About you and about you thunders
The wise young public on its 'bus,
Exploding all your faery blunders,
Explaining neatly--"_Thus and thus
Hath science banished heaven now,
And see--your Groom is crucified--_"
On heaven's breast you lean your brow
And laugh, and love--Saint Bride, Saint Bride.



THE SLAVE OF GOD

The finest fruit God ever made
Hangs from the Tree of Heaven blue.
It hangs above the steel sea blade
That cuts the world's great globe in two.

The keenest eye that ever saw
Stares out of Heaven into mine,
Spins out my heart, and seems to draw
My soul's elastic very fine.

The greatest beacon ever fired
Stands up on Heaven's Hill to show
The limit of the thing desired,
Beyond which man may never go.

* * * * * *

At midnight, when the night did dance
Along the hours that led to morning,
I saw a little boat advance
Towards the great moon's beacon warning.

(The moon, God's Slave, who lights her torch,
Lest men should slip between the bars,
And run aground on Heav'n, and scorch
To death upon a bank of stars.)

The little boat, on leaning keel,
Sang up the mountains of the sea,
Bearing a man who hoped to steal
God's Slave from out eternity.


"_My love, I see you through my tears.
No pity in your face I see.
I