Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MAKESHIFTS, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: And after all, 'twas snug and weather-tight Last Line: In the first glory of the morning light. | ||||||||
And after all, 'twas snug and weather-tight, His garret. That was much on such a night -- To be secure against the wind and sleet At his age, and not wandering the street, A shuffling, shivering bag-of-bones. And yet Things would be snugger if he could forget The bundle of old dripping rags that slouched Before him down the Cannongate, and crouched Close to the swing-doors of the Spotted Cow. Why, he could see that poor old sinner now, Ay! and could draw him, if he'd had the knack Of drawing anything -- a steamy, black Dilapidation, basking in the glare, And sniffing with his swollen nose in air To catch the hot reek when the door swings wide And shows the glittering paradise inside, Where men drink golden fire on seats of plush Lolling like gods: he stands there in the slush Shivering, from squelching boots to sopping hat One sodden clout, and blinking like a bat Be-dazzled by the blaze of light: his beard Waggles and drips from lank cheeks pocked and seared; And the whole dismal night about him drips, As he stands gaping there with watering lips And burning eyes in the cold sleety drench Afire with thirst that only death may quench. Yet he had clutched the sixpence greedily As if sixpennyworth of rum maybe Would satisfy that thirst. Who knows! It might Just do the trick perhaps on such a night, And death would be a golden, fiery drink To that old scarecrow. 'Twould be good to think His money'd satisfied that thirst, and brought Rest to those restless fevered bones that ought Long since to have dropped for ever out of sight. It wasn't decent, wandering the night Like that -- not decent. While it lived it made A man turn hot to see it, and afraid To look it in the face lest he should find That bundle was himself, grown old and blind With thirst unsatisfied. He'd thirsted, too, His whole life long, though not for any brew That trickled out of taps in gaudy bars For those with greasy pence to spend! The stars Were not for purchase, neither bought nor sold By any man for silver or for gold. Still, he was snug and sheltered from the storm. He sat by his own hearth secure and warm, And that was much indeed on such a night. The little room was pleasant with the light Glowing on lime-washed walls, kindling to red His copper pots, and, over the white bed, The old torn Rembrandt print to golden gloom. 'Twas much on such a night to have a room -- Four walls and ceiling storm-tight overhead. Denied the stars -- well, you must spend instead Your sixpences on makeshifts. Life was naught But toiling for the sixpences that bought Makeshifts for stars. 'Twas snug to hear the sleet Lashing the panes and sweeping down the street Towards Holyrood and out into the night Of hills beyond. Maybe it would be white On Arthur's Seat to-morrow, white with snow -- A white hill shining in the morning glow Beyond the chimney-pots, that was a sight For any man to see -- a snowy height Soaring into the sunshine. He was glad Though he must live in slums, his garret had A window to the hills. And he was warm, Ay, warm and snug, shut in here from the storm. The sixpences bought comfort for old bones That else must crouch all night on paving-stones Unsheltered from the cold. 'Twas hard to learn In his young days that this was life -- to earn By life-long labour just your board and bed -- Although the stars were singing overhead, The sons of morning singing together for joy As they had snug for every bright-eyed boy With ears to hear since life itself was young -- And leave so much unseen, so much unsung. He'd had to learn that lesson. 'Twas no good To go star-gazing for a livelihood With empty belly. Though he had a turn For seeing things, when you have got to earn Your daily bread first, there is little time To paint your dream or set the stars to rhyme: Nay, though you have the vision and the skill You cannot draw the outline of a hill To please yourself, when you get home half-dead After the day's work -- hammers in your head Still tapping, tapping... Always mad to draw The living shape of everything he saw He'd had to spend his utmost skill and strength Learning a trade to live by, till at length Now he'd the leisure the old skill was dead. Born for a painter as it seemed, instead He'd spent his life upholstering furniture. 'Twas natural enough men should prefer Upholstery to pictures, and their ease To little coloured daubs of cows and trees. He didn't blame them, 'twas no fault of theirs That they saw life in terms of easy chairs, And heaven, like that old sinner in the slush, A glittering bar upholstered in red plush. 'Twas strange to look back on it now, his life... His father, married to a second wife; And home, no home for him since he could mind, Save when the starry vision made him blind To all about him, and he walked on air For days together, and without a care... But as the years passed, seldomer they came Those starry dazzling nights and days aflame, And oftener a sudden gloom would drop Upon him, drudging all day in the shop With his young brother John -- John always gay Taking things as they came, the easy way, Not minding overmuch if things went wrong At home, and always humming a new song... And then she came into his life, and shook All heaven about him. He had but to look On her to find the stars within his reach. But, ere his love had trembled into speech, He'd waked one day to know that not for him Were those bright living eyes that turned dreams dim -- To know that while he'd worshipped, John and she Had taken to each other easily... But that was years ago ... and now he sat Beside a lonely hearth. And they were fat -- Ay, fat and old they were, John and his wife, And with a grown-up family. Their life Had not been over-easy: they'd their share Of trouble, ay, more than enough to spare: But they had made the best of things, and taken Life as it came with courage still unshaken. They'd faced their luck, but never gone half-way To meet fresh trouble. Life was always gay For them between the showers: the roughest weather Might do its worst -- they always stood together To bear the brunt, together stood their ground And came through smiling cheerfully. They'd found Marriage a hard-up, happy business Of hand-to-mouth existence more or less; But taking all in all, well worth their while To look on the bright side of things -- to smile When all went well, not fearing overmuch When life was suddenly brought to the touch And you'd to sink or swim. And they'd kept hold, And even now, though they were fat and old They'd still a hearty grip on life... They'd be Sitting there in their kitchen after tea On either side the fire-place even now -- Jane with her spectacles upon her brow, And nodding as she knitted, listening While John, in shirt-sleeves, scraped his fiddle-string, With one ear hearkening lest a foot should stop And some rare customer invade the shop To ask the price of some old Flanders' chest Or oaken ale-house settle... They'd the best Of life, maybe, together... And yet he -- Though he'd not taken life so easily, Had always hated makeshifts more or less, Grudging to swop the stars for sixpences, And was an old man now, with that old thirst Unsatisfied -- ay, even at the worst He'd had his compensations, now and then A starry glimpse. You couldn't work with men And quite forget the stars. Though life was spent In drudgery, it hadn't only meant Upholstering chairs in crimson plush for bars... Maybe it gave new meaning to the stars, The drudgery, who knows! At least the rare Wild glimpses he had caught at whiles were there Yet living in his mind. When much was dim And drudgery forgotten, bright for him Burned even now in memory old delights That had been his in other days and nights. He'd always seen, though never could express His eyes' delight, or only more or less: But things once clearly seen, once and for all The soul's possessions -- naught that may befall May ever dim, and neither moth nor rust Corrupt the dream, that, shedding mortal dust, Has soared to life and spread its wings of gold Within the soul... And yet when they were told These deathless visions, little things they seemed Though something of the beauty he had dreamed Burned in them, something of his youth's desire... And as he sat there, gazing at the fire -- Once more he lingered, listening in the gloom Of that great silent warehouse, in the room Where stores were kept, one hand upon a shelf, And heard a lassie singing to herself Somewhere unseen without a thought who heard, Just singing to herself like any bird Because the heart was happy in her breast, As happy as the day was long. At rest He lingered, listening, and a ray of light Streamed from the dormer-window up a height; Down on the bales of crimson cloth, and lit To sudden gold the dust that danced in it, Till he was dazzled by the golden motes That kept on dancing to those merry notes Before his dreaming eyes, and danced as long As he stood listening to the lassie's song... Then once again, his work-bag on his back, He climbed that April morning up the track That took you by a short cut through the wood Up to the hill-top where the great house stood, When suddenly beyond the firs' thick night He saw a young fawn frisking in the light: Shaking the dew-drops in a silver rain From off his dappled hide, he leapt again As though he'd jump out of his skin for joy. With laughing eyes light-hearted as a boy, He watched the creature, unaware of him, Quivering with eager life in every limb, Leaping and frisking on the dewy green Beneath the flourish of the snowy gean, While every now and then the long ears pricked, And budding horns, as he leapt higher, flicked The drooping clusters of wild-cherry bloom, Shaking their snow about him. From the gloom Of those dark wintry firs, his eyes had won A sight of April sporting in the sun -- Young April leaping to its heart's delight Among the dew beneath the boughs of white... And there'd been days among the hills, rare days And rarer nights among the heathery ways -- Rare golden holidays when he had been Alone in the great solitude of green Wave-crested hills, a rolling shoreless sea Flowing for ever through eternity -- A sea of grasses, streaming without rest Beneath the great wind blowing from the west, Over which cloud shadows sailed and swept away Beyond the world's edge all the summer day. The hills had been his refuge, his delight, Seen or unseen, through many a day or night. His help was of the hills, steadfast, serene In their eternal strength, those shapes of green Sublimely moulded. Whatsoever his skill, No man had ever rightly drawn a hill To his mind -- never caught the subtle curves Of sweeping moorland with its dips and swerves -- Nor ever painted heather... Heather came Always into his mind like sudden flame, Blazing and streaming over stony braes As he had seen it on that day of days When he had plunged into a sea of bloom, Blinded with colour, stifled with the fume Of sun-soaked blossom, the hot heady scent Of honey-breathing bells, and sunk content Into a soft and scented bed to sleep; And he had lain in slumber sweet and deep, And only wakened when the full moon's light Had turned that wavy sea of heather white: And still he'd lain within the full moon blaze Hour after hour, bewildered and adaze As though enchanted -- in a waking swoon He'd lain within the full glare of the moon Until she seemed to shine on him alone In all the world -- as though his body's grown Until it covered all the earth, and he Was swaying like the moon-enchanted sea Beneath that cold white witchery of light... And now, the earth itself, he hung in night Turning and turning in that cold white glare For ever and for ever... She was there -- There at his window now, the moon. The sleet And wind no longer swept the quiet street. And he was cold: the fire had burnt quite low: And, while he'd dreamt, there'd been a fall of snow He wondered where that poor old man would hide His head to-night with thirst unsatisfied... His thirst, who knows! but night may quench the thirst Day leaves unsatisfied... Well, he must first Get to his bed and sleep away the night, If he would rise to see the hills still white In the first glory of the morning light. | 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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