A KENTISH café, chock-a-block With such as guide Coal-carts, or drive Lorries in lucrative And reckless course from side Of Thames to John o' Groat's, Or hitch flat boats To bull-nosed tug Bid day-long to chug-chug Old Thames; milk-girls whose stock Clutters the road; Soldiers with load Of lead or petrol left a space go hang; Firemen; a Rescue Squad; a Reparation Gang. The hot tea steams. The clients sit, Sip, munch, confer And air all views, Good-humouredly accuse Some absent task-master, Chaff the proprietress; In sportiveness Jolly her maid (Quick-witted, swift to trade Jape, jest and taunt and twit!) While I, in my Far corner, ply Stout knife, strong fork, breakfast upon the best Of bacon, laced with egg filched from warm, war-time nest. The meal consumed, I take, with love And happiness, A little book Which schoolboys often brook But ill; nay, loathe unless Dow'r'd with innate, intense And happy sense Of music, Art: Such joyful souls whose heart Yearns toward Pierian Grove, Whose eager brain Finds itself fain With budding cross-bench mind to stand trustee And faithful, future friend of fair Philosophy. A little book which, decades back, I, fing'ring, found Feastful and fair, Whose music, past compare, Bore me beyond the bound Of common, daily things, Smote stretch'd heart-strings, Whose artistry Summoned sweet ecstasy, Showed me predestined track, Aroused, awaked, Exalted, slaked Still slumb'ring need, shone like some silvern light, Illumed the Immediate: nay, unveiled the Infinite. The Wireless blares. At first, awhile, It smites and jars E-nerves, distracts, Then slowly, surely acts As anodyne; since ears, Deaf to its horrors, list To exorcist From out the Past, Imperious to cast His own strong spell, to wile Inward man's soul, Subdue, control His heart with fragrant utt'rance, fuse, inspire His being with sweet songs sung, first, to long-dead lyre. The days dissolve, depart. The years Fade and are flown. Dark-paper'd wall Grows light with lime-wash, all The company is gone— Gone or transformed—for noise Is not, though boys Now crowd this room Which workers crowded, come For lessons, lores and leres Of Latin song Which Horace, long Ago, gave Rome and, giving, gave, in grace, Imperial gift to glad, age-long, the human race. Nay, more. On dais, book in hand (That book I hold Before me now!) Stands one who ardent vow Took in hot youth, enroll'd His name and stood confest Apollo's Priest! He whom the God Granted, with easy nod, Gift beyond price ... to command Unask'd, unsought, The ear, the thought, The love of gen'rous hearts: down all their days To have men mindful of his words and works and days. Even as I sit, that quiet voice Proclaims the praise Of him at whose Altar he, faithful, chose Life-long to serve, to raise Unending pray'r. There float Clear, note by note, Sweet vocables, Divine, lov'd syllables, Those of his own, my choice: @3Him who, a-new Laves, with sweet dew Castalian, locks large-loos'd, who Lycian wood and hollow Loves—Lord of Delos and of Patara ... Apollo!@1 Sudden, there shocks the Spring-like air, Full overhead, Such sound, such roar As in worlds million-score Might wake their millions dead. While all the company Crowds forth, to see A filthy rain Of paper'd débris stain House-top and pavement where Men stand and gape At such escape, Asking in awe where the belligerent And murd'rous war-head made its bestial, black descent. Lo! on the boundary-line that cleaves This Area From its fellow, Ascends thick cloud of yellow Smoke, to mark hateful way The Rocket took. I speed In doubt, in dread Suspense, to reach My home—lest blitz or breach Have happ'd, lest base to eaves Be fall'n. Eftsoon I sense strange boon As mine; since, marvelling, I stand and see Before my unharm'd door lie metall'd, massed débris. I hasten on. I pass the boundary-stone Which marks the place Where twin Thames-side Towns end, begin, divide. ... I stride ahead, apace, Question, am answer'd, learn Loath'd facts, discern Foul deed, fell crime Which blacken and be-slime Hun hearts more hard than stone, This mid-March morn. ... I see forlorn, Half-fainting, white-faced, bandaged victims go Afoot or wheel-borne, gallant e'en in overthrow. I reach the core of crime. I gaze In rage and grief And Hun-ward hate, Hot, cold, insatiate For just revenge, fit fief. ... A crater fronts me, broad And deep; a load Lies on my soul; My blood dries up in dole; An icy finger plays Upon, athwart My tearful heart: I ask, "How many dead?" Hear sad reply, "Nine found. Four buried 'neath this rubble, luckless, lie!" Such Life's kaleidoscopic, grim Ironic game. They go. I stay, Await another day, Whether or not the same Fate shall be mine, or I Be doomed to die A-bed, in age, Stage by reluctant stage, Or lie in twilight dim, Crushed by some car. ... Since scimitar Of Damocles to-day accords me dalliance, I'll natheless make meet off'ring to the Great God, Chance. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOCTURNE IN A MINOR KEY by CONRAD AIKEN DRUMS AND BRASS by DONALD (GRADY) DAVIDSON GETTING A WORD IN by JAMES GALVIN GOAL by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CHAMBER MUSIC: 11 by JAMES JOYCE SHE WEEPS OVER RAHOON by JAMES JOYCE |