Gilbert Frankau

“ Thrills, till a dancer well might curse and swear,
And call himself a “dashed unlucky fella”
To miss the Lewis-Seymour’s Cinderella.
Within those halls, where plush-breeched flunkeys stand,
What sounds, what scents, what visions of delight!
How—to the bluest Blue Hungarian band—
Youth whirls away the unreturning night!
How—perfumed as the blooms of Samarcand—
The dying flow’rets whisper, “Carlton White!”
But, oh! to weary war-time ration-hunters,
How like a dream, this stand-up supper—Gunter’s! ”

“ We were pals on earth: but by God’s brave Son and the bomb that I reached too late,
I damn the day and I blast the hour when first I called you mate;
And I’d sell my soul for one of my feet, to hack you from the gate—
To hack you hence to the lukewarm hells that the priest-made ovens heat,
Or the faked-pearl heaven of pulpit gods, where the sheep-faced angels bleat
And the halo’s rim is as hard to the head as the gilded floor to the feet.”
It heard the stumps of Its one-time mate go waddling back to the Feast. ”

“ Why, Muse possesses quite a list full,
May’s Jill, and June’s Jill, August’s, and September’s ...
Yet dares no more than skim each light adventure
Which followed on flirtationship’s indenture.
[69]
For there’s a tide in the affairs of flappers,
Of those, at least, that West End mothers breed—
(Your Wapping matron’s more inclined to slap hers:
A vulgar trick—yet one which serves some need!) —
A spring-time blood-tide, mounting to young nappers,
Heady as wine, a mischief-making mead,
Which—though a man find every known excuse for ’em—
To put it mildly, does the very deuce for ’em. ”

“ For who shall say—at close of Armageddon,
When the world’s finished beggaring its neighbour,
When the last shell’s been fired, the last pig fed on—
If we’ll be ruled by Capital or Labour:
If a Welsh harp shall twang part-songs of Seddon,
While Simon pipes a compromising tabor:
[46]
Or whether every stalwart War-Loan-lender’s son
Will find his Empire dividends signed “Henson”? ”

“ Day-time and night-time the death-flower blazes,
Saffron at gun-lip and orange and red,
Here where June’s rose-tree lies shattered as May’s is,
Here where I dream of the nights that are dead—
Nights that were sweet with the scent and the touch of you,
[26]
Rose-girl in ninon with buds at your breast,
Rose-girl who promised and granted so much of you,
All that was tender and all that was best.
Growl of the guns cannot shatter the dream of you,
Banish the thought of one exquisite hour,
Or the scent of your hair in the dawn, or the gleam of you
White as white roses through roses a-flower. ”

“ V.
Brings life to week-old statues; makes them prance
To love’s light tune—and ends the Seymours’ dance.
Pale shapes I locked in memory’s studio,
Your draperies stir. From vein to marble vein
The life-blood leaps. Eyes gleam, and pulses glow.
Once more my octaves rap their old refrain
To re-create the weekly puppet-show.
Fond boy, to work! My Jill’s herself again,
And answers your entreaty—sideways glancing—
“Perhaps I will. It’s jolly hot for dancing.”
So they twain pass—smart sub. and flapper stately—
From the high halls of Gunter’s prank’t refection. ”

“ Shall the word of a black-coat priest avail at Valhalla’s harvesting?
Shalt thou pass free to the Seven Halls—whose life in shame was sped?”
And Truth was dumb. But the brooding word still echoed overhead,
As roaring down the void outburst the last loud song of the dead.
[12]
THE SONG OF THE GUNNER-DEAD
In Thor’s own red Valhalla,
Which priest may not unbar;
But only Nakéd Truth and Eye,
Last arbiters of War;
Feast, by stark right of courage,
The Killers from Afar.
We put no trust in heaven,
We had no fear of hell ”

“ Till a shy sudden silence falls between them,
A cloud across the sun of lightling banter.
O Jill, my gold-spoon cake-and-Moët miss!
Hast thou not dreamed, since thy first tam-o’-shanter,
Of soldier boy, of dance-night such as this?
Faintly they catch the polka’s throb, the canter
Of homing hansom-cab where lovers kiss:
And “Oh,” thinks he, “what eyes, what lips, what hair, too!”
And “Oh,” thinks she “the ninny doesn’t dare to.”
[64]
Voiceless, they sit: but now her eyes, upturning,
Seek his: and now, beneath the lashes’ veil,
Leaps a quick flame to set youth’s pulses burning ”

“ Voice of my Muse, still vibrant with old passion,
Telling how poetry is now the fashion.
“Look you,” she cries, “the Wheels are turning, turning.
Though Pegasus long since wore out his pinions,
Somehow his shod hooves keep the bread-mills churning.
Shrill, night and day, sing Marsh Georgian minions:
Each sinking sun sets some new Noyes a-burning,
Each rising moon reveals fresh hordes of Binyons ”

“ The thousand faces, phases, thoughts, books, travellings,
Which whirl youth’s silk cocoon in its unravellings.
[71]
Ah no! not ours with huckstering pen to retail
How slumb’rous beauties wake from girl-time’s dozing. ”

“ No rainbow’s purple e’er shall tinge our she-tale,
No censor’s yoke restrain its swift composing.
Moreover—quite apart from Muse’s purity—
There’s nothing half so dull as immaturity.
So please imagine— (though I know it’s risky
To trust in Britons for imagination,
Save those rare few whom peace-time’s hoarded whisky
Still fires to spiritual exaltation,
Or such as stand, when questioning House grows frisky,
Pat on their first inspired asseveration) —
Jill as she was in times of sugared plenty:
The Bond Street goddess, ætat three-and-twenty.
[72]
Goddess, indeed! ”

“ I am still with you; you, with me; one heart;
One equal union, soul to certain soul:
Time cannot sever us, nor sorrow part,
Nor any sea, who keep our vision whole.
How can I grieve, who know your spirit near;
Who watch with newly understanding eyes
This England of your giving, newly dear,
Sink where my sea-wake swirls to darkling skies?
Lilac, her cliffs have faded into mist....
Yet still I hold them white in memory,
Feeling, against these lips your lips have kissed,
The home-wind thrilling down an English sea.
[29]
The Other Side THE OTHER SIDE
Just got your letter and the poems. ”

“ For they will not drink with a coward soul, the stark red men who slew.
There’s meat and to spare, at the Killer-Feasts where Thor’s swung hammer twirls;
There’s beer and enough, in the Free Canteen where the Endless Smoke upcurls;
There are lips and lips, for the Killer-Men, in the Hall of the Dancing-Girls.
There’s a place for any that passes clean—but for you there’s never a place:
The Endless Smoke would blacken your lips, and the Girls would spit in your face ”

“ And mine forbids me red lips, passion-crinkled:
So now we cultivate domestic habits
Amongst our pigs, our poultry, and our rabbits.
Yet sometimes, as we trench our stubborn soil,
Or feed our sows, or strow the peat-moss litter,
Or set the morrow’s chicken-mash to boil,
Or wander out where our young turkeys twitter,
Or read by mellow candle-light—since oil
Is dear and scarce; or talk—a little bitter
[41]
Because we find that Food Control Committees
Are all composed of men brought up in cities ”

“ And now, at last, he says, “Jill, I must kiss you.”
“Bobbie, you mustn’t.” “Jill—just one.” Her shoulder
Stiffens; resists the half-encircling arm.
Hands fend away the hand that seeks to hold her.
Lips murmur. Lashes flutter in alarm.
“No, Bobbie. No.” My foolish boy, be bolder;
The moment’s fear is half the moment’s charm....
Alas! His missed and amateurish peck
Grazes the ear-lobe; lands upon the neck.
[65]
Readers, both kissed and kissless, chide not ”