LONDON

MARTIN SECKER

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER (LTD) 1918

I

i

O what is this you've done to me,

Or what have I done,

That bare should be our fair roof-tree,

And I all alone?

'Tis worse than widow I become

More than desolate,

To face a worse than empty home

Without child or mate.

'Twas not my strife askt him his life

When it was but begun,

Nor mine, I was a new-made wife

And now I am none;

Nor mine that many a sapless ghost

Wails in sorrow-fare--

But this does cost my pride the most,

That bloodshedding to share.

Image of streaming eyes, tear-gleaming,

Of women foiled and defeat,

I am like Christ shockt out of dreaming,

Showing His hands and feet;

Showing His feet and hands to God,

Saying, "Are these in vain?

For men I have trod the sorrowful road,

And by them I am slain."

Seeing I have a breast in common,

I must share in that shame,

Since from the womb of some poor woman

Each evil one came--

Every hot and blundering thought,

Every hag-rid will,

And every haut king pride-distraught

That drove men out to kill.

A woman's womb did fashion him,

Her bosom was his nurse,

And many women's eyes are dim

To see their sons a curse.

Had I the wit some women have

To one such I would say,

"Think you this love the good Lord gave

Is yours to take away?"

O Hand divine that for a sign

Didst bend the rose-red bow,

Betokening wrath was no more Thine

With man's Cain-branded brow--

What now, O Lord, shouldst Thou accord

To such a shameful brood?

A bow as crimson as the sword

Which men have soakt in blood.

ii

I cannot see the grass

Or feel the wind blowing,

But I think of brother and brother

And hot blood flowing.

The whole world akin,

And I, an alien,

Walk branded with the sin

And the blood-guilt of men.

And often I cry

In my sharp distress,

It were better to die

Than know such bitterness.

iii

The Lord of Life He did ordain

How this world should run,

That Love should call thro' joy and pain

Two natures to be one;

Now jags across the high God's plan

Division like a scar,

For this is true, that He made man,

But man made war.

Had men the dower of teeth and claws

And not a grace beside them?

Were they given wit to know the laws

And hard hearts to outride them?

What drove them turn the sweet green earth

Into a puddle of blood?

What drove them drown our simple mirth

In salt tear-flood?

Has man been lifted up erect,

A lord of life and death,

His world's elect, and his brow deckt

With murder for a wreath?

What shall be done with such an one,

And whither he be hurl'd?

The Lord let crucify His Son--

Who gibbetted His world?

iv

Be it Pole Star or Southern Cross

That shelters me or you,

The same things are gain and loss,

And the same things true:

The home-love, the mother-love,

The old, old things;

The lad's love of maiden's love

That gives a man wings,

And makes a maid stand still, afraid

Lest it were all a dream

That he do think himself apaid

If she be all to him.

The arching earth has no more worth

Than this, to love, to wed,

To serve the hearth, to bring to birth,

To win your children's bread.

v

The bee pills nothing for himself,

Loading with gold his thigh,

The martin twittering, at his shelf,

Glancing from the sky

Not greedy ease make slaves of these;

Nor yet endures the cow,

Her failing knees and agonies

For price of joy I vow.

A call above the spell of love,

A crying and a need

To make two one, the fruit whereof

To nurture and to feed;

To brood, to hoard, to spend as rain

Virtue and tears and blood;

To get that you may give amain--

Of such is parenthood.

vi

I chose a heart out of a hundred

To nest my own heart in;

To have that plunder'd, and two hearts sunder'd--

Who had heart for the sin?

What woman's son that saw but one

Such sanctuary waste

Could set his lips like ironstone

And raven broadcast?

What harm did we to any man

That now I must moan?

We did but follow Nature's plan

And cleave to our own;

For Life it teaches you but this:

Seek you each other;

Rise up from your clasp and kiss,

A father and a mother.

O piety of hand and knee,

Of lips and bow'd head!

O ye who see a soul set free--

Free, when the heart is dead!

There is no rest but in the grave;

Thither my wasted eyes

Turn for the only home they have,

Where my true love lies.

There alongside his clay-cold corse

I pray that mine may rest;

I'll warm him with my lover's force

And feed him at my breast:

I'll nurse him as I nurst his child,

The child he never saw,

The stricken child that never smil'd.

And scarce my milk could draw.

Poor girls, whose argument's the same

For seeking or denying,

Who kiss to shield yourselves from blame,

And kiss for justifying;

How am I better now or worse,

Beguiler or beguiled,

Who crave to nurse a clay-cold corse,

And kiss a dead child?

vii

O I was shap't in comeliness,

My face was fashion'd fair,

My breath was sweet, I used to bless

The treasure of my hair;

A many prais'd my body's grace,

And follow'd with the eye

My faring in the village ways,

And I knew why.

Love came my way, fire-flusht and gay,

Where I did stand:

"This is the day your pride to lay

Under a true man's hand."

I bow'd my head to hear it said

In words of long ago;

For ever since the world was made

Our lot was order'd so.

And I was bred in pious bed,

Brought up to be good:

Respect yourself, my mother said,

And rule your own mood.

Fend for yourself while you're a may,

And keep your own counsel,

And pick at what the neighbours say

As a bird picks at groundsel.

But Love said Nay to Watch and Pray

When the birds were singing,

And taught my heart a roundelay

Like the bells a-ringing;

And so blindfast I ran and cast

My treasure on the gale--

Would the storm-blast had snapt the mast

Before I fared to sail!