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Read Ebook: Bay: A Book of Poems by Lawrence D H David Herbert
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Ebook has 144 lines and 6195 words, and 3 pages
GOING BACK
THE NIGHT turns slowly round, Swift trains go by in a rush of light; Slow trains steal past. This train beats anxiously, outward bound.
But I am not here. I am away, beyond the scope of this turning; There, where the pivot is, the axis Of all this gear.
I, who sit in tears, I, whose heart is torn with parting; Who cannot bear to think back to the departure platform; My spirit hears
Voices of men Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences, And more than all, the dead-sure silence, The pivot again.
There, at the axis Pain, or love, or grief Sleep on speed; in dead certainty; Pure relief.
There, at the pivot Time sleeps again. No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected Silence of men.
ON THE MARCH
WE are out on the open road. Through the low west window a cold light flows On the floor where never my numb feet trode Before; onward the strange road goes.
Soon the spaces of the western sky With shutters of sombre cloud will close. But we'll still be together, this road and I, Together, wherever the long road goes.
The wind chases by us, and over the corn Pale shadows flee from us as if from their foes. Like a snake we thresh on the long, forlorn Land, as onward the long road goes.
From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out; Through the poplars the night-wind blows; Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about As the wind asks whither the wan road goes.
Away in the distance wakes a lamp. Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows. But they come no nearer, and still we tramp Onward, wherever the strange road goes.
Beat after beat falls sombre and dull. The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows What will be in the final lull When we find the place where this dead road goes.
For something must come, since we pass and pass Along in the coiled, convulsive throes Of this marching, along with the invisible grass That goes wherever this old road goes.
Perhaps we shall come to oblivion. Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone Down the endless slope where the last road goes.
If so, let us forge ahead, straight on If we're going to sleep the sleep with those That fall forever, knowing none Of this land whereon the wrong road goes.
BOMBARDMENT
THE TOWN has opened to the sun. Like a flat red lily with a million petals She unfolds, she comes undone.
A sharp sky brushes upon The myriad glittering chimney-tips As she gently exhales to the sun.
Hurrying creatures run Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower. What is it they shun?
A dark bird falls from the sun. It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast Flower: the day has begun.
WINTER-LULL
Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed Into awe. No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed Vibration to draw Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.
A crow floats past on level wings Noiselessly. Uninterrupted silence swings Invisibly, inaudibly To and fro in our misgivings.
We do not look at each other, we hide Our daunted eyes. White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside. It all belies Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.
We are folded together, men and the snowy ground Into nullity. There is silence, only the silence, never a sound Nor a verity To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!
THE ATTACK
WHEN we came out of the wood Was a great light! The night uprisen stood In white.
I wondered, I looked around It was so fair. The bright Stubble upon the ground Shone white
Like any field of snow; Yet warm the chase Of faint night-breaths did go Across my face!
White-bodied and warm the night was, Sweet-scented to hold in my throat. White and alight the night was. A pale stroke smote
The pulse through the whole bland being Which was This and me; A pulse that still went fleeing, Yet did not flee.
After the terrible rage, the death, This wonder stood glistening? All shapes of wonder, with suspended breath, Arrested listening
In ecstatic reverie. The whole, white Night!-- With wonder, every black tree Blossomed outright.
I saw the transfiguration And the present Host. Transubstantiation Of the Luminous Ghost.
OBSEQUIAL ODE
SURELY you've trodden straight To the very door! Surely you took your fate Faultlessly. Now it's too late To say more.
It is evident you were right, That man has a course to go A voyage to sail beyond the charted seas. You have passed from out of sight And my questions blow Back from the straight horizon that ends all one sees.
Now like a vessel in port You unlade your riches unto death, And glad are the eager dead to receive you there. Let the dead sort Your cargo out, breath from breath Let them disencumber your bounty, let them all share.
I imagine dead hands are brighter, Their fingers in sunset shine With jewels of passion once broken through you as a prism Breaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter For your wrath; and yes, I opine They anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect chrism.
On your body, the beaten anvil, Was hammered out That moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheathe Against us; sword that no man will Put to rout; Sword that severs the question from us who breathe.
Surely you've trodden straight To the very door. You have surely achieved your fate; And the perfect dead are elate To have won once more.
Now to the dead you are giving Your last allegiance. But what of us who are living And fearful yet of believing In your pitiless legions.
SHADES
SHALL I tell you, then, how it is?-- There came a cloven gleam Like a tongue of darkened flame To flicker in me.
And so I seem To have you still the same In one world with me.
In the flicker of a flower, In a worm that is blind, yet strives, In a mouse that pauses to listen
Glimmers our Shadow; yet it deprives Them none of their glisten.
In every shaken morsel I see our shadow tremble As if it rippled from out of us hand in hand.
As if it were part and parcel, One shadow, and we need not dissemble Our darkness: do you understand?
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