Poems of London and Other Verses Part 1

Poems of London and Other Verses.

by John Presland.

LONDON DAWN

Dawn over London; all the pearly light Trembles and quivers over street and park, The houses are a strange, unearthly white; Pavement and roof grow slowly, palely bright; There is no shadow, neither light nor dark But everything is steeped in glimmering dawn.

Oh, purity of dawn; oh, milk-and-pearl Translucent splendour, spreading far and wide, As on a yellow beach the small waves curl --Almost as noiselessly as buds unfurl-- On windless mornings with the rising tide, So flows the dawn o'er London, all asleep.

Indeed, I think that heaven is a sea, And London is a city of old rhymes Sunk fathoms deep in its transparency, That folk of living lands may dream they see And muse on, and have thoughts about our times, How we were great and splendid, and now gone.

For never light the common earth has born, This crystalline pale wonder that so falls On streets and squares the daily toil has worn, On blind-eyed houses, holding lives forlorn, For the grey roads and wide, blank, grey-brick walls s.h.i.+ne with a glory that is new and strange.

And not more wonderful, nor otherwise Shall dawn come up upon the dewy hills, Nor in the mountains, where the rivers rise That water Eden; and no lovelier lies The dawn on Paradise, than this that fills The s.p.a.ce 'twixt house and house with tremulous light.

Yet, on the pavement, huddled fast asleep, A thing of dusty, ragged misery, Grotesque in wretchedness, from London's deep Spumed off, a strange, distorted thing to creep From G.o.d knows where, and lie, and let all be Unheeding, whether of the day or night.

Such tired, hopeless angles of the knees And neck and elbows--and the dawning grey Trembling to sunrise; in the park the trees Begin to s.h.i.+ver lightly in a breeze, And turning watchful kindly eyes away The policeman pa.s.ses slowly on his beat.

SPRING IN OXFORD STREET

A dash of rain on the pavement, In the air a gleam of sun, And the clouds are white, and rolling high From Marble Arch all down the sky --And that's the spring begun!

The sky is all a-s.h.i.+ning With sunniest blue and white, The flags are streaming out full cry As the crisp North wind comes bustling by, And all the roofs are bright.

And all the shops and houses Of sunlit Oxford Street, --Pearl behind amber, gold by rose-- To grey the long perspective goes; Till all the houses meet.

And there, in every gutter, The glory of spring flowers The whole long street with colour fills, And across the yellow daffodils Sharp suns.h.i.+ne and soft showers.

And among the drabs and greys and browns Of folk going to and fro Are trays of violets, darkly bright, And yellow, like the spring moon's light, Pale primrose-bunches show.

There's blue in every puddle, And every pane of gla.s.s Has a thousand little dancing suns, --And up and down the glad news runs, That spring has come to pa.s.s.

JUDD STREET, ST. PANCRAS

My dwelling has a courtyard wide Where lord with lady well might pace, --Such silks and velvets side by side, And she a fan to s.h.i.+eld her face!-- It's fine as any king's; For there I see on either hand The whole great stretch of London lie; --Just so as any king might stand Upon his roof, to watch go by The flas.h.i.+ng pigeon wings.

Just so a king might look abroad: "And this is all my own," says he, And then he'd turn to some great lord, Who'd acquiesce with gravity --But that I do without, For all of lord there is up here Is this impa.s.sive chimney-stack, And cloudy be my view or clear My courtier will not answer back; All silent I look out,

And see the flight of roofs that fade Towards the West in golden haze, And all this work men's hands have made Like jewels in the sun's last rays-- I have a dwelling wide; Three rooms are mine, but I can go Up to this roof in shade or s.h.i.+ne, And watch all London change and glow Rose, purple, gold; three rooms are mine-- And all of heaven beside.

SPARROWS

Brown little, fat little, cheerful sparrows!

I like to think, when I hear them chatter, How, when the brazen noise was gone Of the chariot-wheels, with the sparks a-scatter, Their chirp was heard in old Babylon.

In Babylon, and more ancient Memphis, They chattered and quarrelled, pecked and fumed, And loved their loves, and flew their ways, Where the royal Pharaohs lay entombed Deep from the daylight's vulgar gaze.

Then, just such little homely fellows (When the angry monarch, terrible, Watched his curled a.s.syrians writhe) They sat, on a carven granite bull Unheeding of anguish, feathered and blithe.

So did they sit, on the roofs of Rome, And preen themselves in the morning sun; And Caesar saw them, brown and grey, Whisk in the dust, when his course was run And he took to the Forum his fated way.

Oh, changing time; oh, sun and birds How little changing. In the Square This winter morning I have met Old Egypt's grandson, stopped him there, And "Sir, you will outlive me yet,"

Said I politely, "mark my words."

THE MOON IN JANUARY

Sharp and straight are the scaffold poles, Black on a delicate sky; Upright they stand, across they lie, In changeless angles fixed and bound, The sunset light in mist is drowned, And the moon has risen high;

High above houses, high and clear Above the scaffolding, So exquisite, so faint a thing, The young moon's silver curve that s.h.i.+nes Above the fretting, tangled lines, With the old moon in her ring.

The young moon holds the old black moon In a sky all grey with frost, By cable wires barred and crossed, And below, the haze of purplish-brown Smokes upward from the lamp-lit town Where outlines all are lost.

The pure pale arch of windless sky, The pure bright young moon's thread, These wide and still are overhead; And in the dusky glare below The lamps go dotting, row on row, And there is movement, to and fro, Where far the pavements spread.

AN AUGUST NIGHT, 1914

The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone From the quiet trees in the Park; From the houses the open windows yellowly s.h.i.+ne, The streets are softly dark;

Row upon row the twisted chimneys stand, Each angle sharply lined, And the ma.s.s of the Inst.i.tute rises, tower and dome, Black on the sky behind;

Green is the sky, like some strange precious stone, Dark, it yet holds the light In its depths, like a bright thing shrouded over or veiled By the creeping shadow of night;

And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth A faint star throbs and beats-- And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war, Below, in the quiet street.

COUNTED OUT--OLYMPIA

The small white s.p.a.ce roped off; the hard blue light Burning intensely on the narrow ring, And every muscle's movement sculpturing Harshly, of those two naked men who fight; Beyond, the yellow lights that seem to swing Across abysmal darkness; and below, Tier upon tier, all silent, row on row The dense black-coated throng, and all a-strain White faces, turned towards the narrow stage, Watching intently; watching, nerves and brain, As those two men, cut off in that blue glare From all reality of place and age Wherein our common being has a share, Together isolated, watch and creep --Sunk head, hunched shoulders, light of foot and swift, Deadly of purpose--in that ancient game, Which was not otherwise in forests deep Of earth primeval: that light tread the same, The same those watchful eyes, and those quick springs Of a snake uncoiling; underneath the skin, Glistening with sweat in that unearthly blaze, The muscles run and check, like living things.

And then, the hot air tremulous with the din, And all the great crowd surging to its feet, Yet like a wave arrested, while the hands Of the referee allot the moments' beat; The seconds, strung like greyhounds on a leash Await the signal; and there's one who stands Still guarding, watchful, tense, while all around Lamp-light and darkness seem to rock and spin In one wild clamour; and upon the ground, Beneath the stark blue light, the beaten man!