Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GREY MATTER, by FORD MADOX FORD


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

GREY MATTER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: They leave us nothing
Last Line: Begins the ancient mystery anew.
Alternate Author Name(s): Hueffer, Ford Hermann; Hueffer, Ford Madox
Subject(s): Man-woman Relationships; Poetry & Poets; Women; Male-female Relations


THEY leave us nothing.
He. Still, a little's left.
She. A crabbèd, ancient, dried biologist,
Somewhere very far from the sea, closed up from the sky,
Shut in from the leaves, destroys our hopes and us.
He. Why, no, our hopes and ...
She. In his "Erster Heft."
Page something, I forget the line, he says
That, hidden as deep in the brain as he himself from hope,
There's this grey matter.
He. Why, 'tis there, dear heart.
She. That, if that hidden matter cools, decays,
Dies—what you will—our souls die out as well;
Since, hidden in the millionth of a cell,
Is all we have to give us consciousness.
He. Suppose it true.
She. Ah, never; better die,
Better have never lived than face this mist,
Better have never toiled to such distress.
He. It matters little.
She. Little!—Where shall I,
The woman, where shall you take part,
My poet? Where has either of us scope
In this dead-dawning century that lacks all faith,
All hope, all aim, and all the mystery
That comforteth. Since he victorious
With his cold vapours chill out you and me,
The woman and the poet?
He. Never, dear.
For you and I remain,
The woman and the poet. And soft rain
Still falls and still the crocus flames,
The blackbird calls.
She. But halt the sweet is gone.
The voices of our children at their games
Lack half their ring.
He. Why, never, dear. Out there,
The sea's a cord of silver, still to south
Beyond the marsh.
She. Ah, but beyond it all,
And all beneath and all above, half of the glory's done.
And I and you. ...
He. Why, no. The ancient sun
Shines as it ever shone, and still your mouth
Is sweet as of old it was.
She. But what remains?
He. All the old pains,
And all the old sweet pleasures and the mystery
Of time, slow travel and unfathomed deep.
She. And then this cold extinction?...
He. Dreamless sleep.
She. And nothing matters?
He. All the old, old things.
Whether to Church or College rings
The clamorous bell of creeds,
We, in the lush, far meads,
Poet and woman, past the city walls,
Hear turn by turn the burden of their calls,
Believe what we believe, feel what we feel,
Like what we list of what they cry within
Cathedral or laborat'ry,
Since, by the revolution of the wheel,
The one swings under, let us wait content.
She. Yet it is hard.
He. Ah no. A sure intent,
For me and you.
The right, true, joyful word, the sweet, true phrase,
The calling of our children from the woods these garden days

Remain.—These drops of rain have laid the dust
And in our soft brown seed-beds formed the crust
We needed for our sowings. Bring your seed,
And you shall prick it in, I close the row.
Be sure the little grains your hands have pressed
Tenderly, lovingly, home, shall flourish best.
She. Aye you are still my poet.
He. Even so
Betwixt the rain and shine. Half true's still true
More truly than the thing that's proved and dead.
The sun lends flame to every crocus head
Once more, and we once more must sow and weed
Since in the earth the newly stirring seed
Begins the ancient mystery anew.





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