Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PARTNERS, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: He'd got to see it through. Ay, that was plain Last Line: For there was some one tapping at the door. | ||||||||
He'd got to see it through. Ay, that was plain -- Plain as the damning figures on that page Which burnt and bit themselves into his brain Since he'd first lighted on them -- such an age Since he'd first lighted on them! though the clock Had only ticked one hour out -- its white face And black hands counting time alone -- The shock Had dropped him out of time and out of space Into the dead void of eternity, Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead With wide set staring eyes that still could see Those damning figures burning hugely red On the low aching dome of the black heaven That crushed upon his temples -- glaring bright -- 10,711 -- Searing his eyeballs... Yet his living sight Was fixed on the white ledger, while he sat Before his office-table in his chair -- The chair he'd taken when he'd hung his hat Within the cupboard door, and brushed his hair, And stood a moment, humming "Chevy Chase," His hands beneath his coat-tails, by the grate, Warming his back, and thinking of a case They'd won outright with costs, and... Phil was late: But Phil was Phil. At home they used to call His brother "Better-late." At every turn He'd had to wait for Phil. And after all There wasn't so much doing, now that concern... And little thinking anything was wrong, Laying his hand upon his own armchair To draw it out, still humming the old song, He'd seen the note from Philip lying there Upon the open ledger. Once, he read The truth, unrealising, and again. But only two words echoed through his head, And buzzed uncomprehended in his brain -- "Embezzled" and "absconded." Phil had spelt His shame out boldly in his boyish hand. And then those figures... Dizzily he felt The truth burn through him. He could hardly stand, But sank into his chair with eyes set wide Upon those damning figures, murmuring "Phil!" And listening to the whirr of wheels outside, And sparrows cheeping on the window-sill -- Still murmuring "Phil! Poor Phil!" But Phil was gone: And he was left alone to bear the brunt... "Phil! Little Phil!" And still the morning shone Bright at the window... Callous, curt and blunt, The world would call his brother ... not that name! And yet names mattered little at this pass. He'd known that Phil was slack ... but this! The blame Was his as much as Phil's. As in a glass Darkly, he saw he'd been to blame as well: And he would bear the blame. Had he not known That Phil was slack? For all that he could tell, If he'd looked after Phil, this might... Alone He'd got to face the music. He was glad He was alone ... And yet, for Phil's own sake If he had only had the pluck, poor lad, To see the thing through like a man, and take His punishment! For him, was no escape, Either by Phil's road, or that darker road. He knew the cost, and how the thing would shape -- Too well he knew the full weight of the load He strapped upon his shoulders. It was just That he should bear the burden on his back. He'd trusted Phil; and he'd no right to trust Even his brother, knowing he was slack, When other people's money was at stake. He'd, too, been slack: and slackness was a crime -- The deadliest crime of all... And broad awake, As in a nightmare he was "doing time" Already... Yet, he'd only trusted Phil -- His brother, Phil -- and it had come to this! Always before whenever things went ill His brother'd turned to him for help; and his Had always been the hand stretched out to him. Now Phil had fled even him. If he'd but known! Brooding he saw with tender eyes grown dim Phil running down that endless road alone -- Phil running from himself down that dark road -- The road which leads nowhither, which is hell: And yearning towards him, bowed beneath his load, And murmuring "Little Phil!"... Again he fell Into the dead void of eternity, Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead With wide-set staring eyes that still could see Those damning figures, burning hugely red On the low aching dome of the black heaven That crushed upon his temples -- glaring bright -- 10,711 -- Searing his eyeballs... When a ripple of light Dappled his desk... And they were boys together, Rambling the hills of home that April day, Stumbling and plunging knee-deep through the heather Towards Hallypike, the little lough that lay Glancing and gleaming in the sun, to search For eggs of inland-breeding gulls. He heard The curlews piping; saw a blackcock perch Upon a dyke hard-by -- a lordly bird With queer curled tail. And soon they reached the edge -- The quaggy edge of Hallypike. And then The gulls rose at them screaming from the sedge With flapping wings. And for a while like men They stood their ground among the quaking moss, Until half-blinded by the dazzling white Of interweaving wings, and at a loss Which way to turn, they only thought of flight From those fierce cruel beaks and hungry eyes -- Yet stood transfixed, each on a quaking clump, With hands to ears to shut out those wild cries. Then the gulls closed on Phil; and with a jump And one shrill yell he'd plunged into the lake Half-crazed with terror. Only just in time He'd stumbled after through the quag aquake And caught him by the coat; and through black slime Had dragged him into safety, far away From the horror of white wings and beaks and eyes. And he remembered now how Philip lay Sobbing upon his bosom... Now those cries Were threatening Phil again; and he was caught Blind in a beating, baffling, yelling hell Of wings and beaks and eyes. And there was naught That he could do for him... Once more he fell Into the dead void of eternity, Lightless and aching, and his soul hung dead With wide set staring eyes that still could see Those damning figures, burning hugely red On the low aching dome of the black heaven That crushed upon his temples -- glaring bright -- 10,711 Searing his eyeballs ... Then the pitchy night Rolled by... And now that summer noon they sat In the shallows of Broomlee lake, the water warm About their chins, and talked of this and that; And heeded nothing of the coming storm, Or the strange breathless stillness everywhere On which the dull note of the cuckoo fell Monotonously beating through dead air, A throbbing pulse of heat made audible. And even when the sky was brooding grey They'd slowly dressed, and started to walk round The mile-long lake: but when they'd got half-way, A heavy fear fell on them; and they found That they were clutching hands. The still lough gleamed Livid before them 'neath a livid sky Sleek and unrippling ... Suddenly they screamed And ran headlong for home they knew not why -- Ran stumbling through the heath, and never stopped -- And still hot brooding horror on them pressed When they had climbed up Sewinghshields, and dropped Dead-beat beneath the dyke. And on his breast Poor frightened Phil had sobbed himself to sleep. And even when the crashing thunder came, Phil snuggled close in slumber sound and deep. And he alone had watched the lightning flame Across the fells, and flash on Hallypike... And in his office chair, he felt once more His back against the sharp stones of the dyke, And Phil's hot clutching arms... An outer door Banged in the wind, and roused him... He was glad, In spite of all, to think he'd trusted Phil. He'd got to see it through... He saw the lad, His little frightened brother crouching still Beneath the brooding horror of the sky. That he might take him in his arms once more! Now, he must pull himself together, ay! For there was some one tapping at the door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BETWEEN THE LINES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON BREAKFAST by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FLANNAN ISLE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON GERANIUMS by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON LAMENT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RETREAT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RUPERT BROOKE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE GORSE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE ICE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON |
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