Mandragora

Front matter

MANDRAGORA

POEMS

by

Front matter

MANDRAGORA

BOOKS BY JOHN COWPER POWYS

The War and Culture, 1914 Visions and Revisions, Essays 1915 Wood and Stone, a Romance, 1915 Confessions, 1916 Wolf's-bane, Rhymes, 1916 One Hundred Best Books, 1916 Rodmoor, a Romance, 1916 Suspended Judgments, Essays, 1916 | $ .60 2.00 1.75 1.50 1.25 .75 1.50 2.00

The Flute-player

ONCE I saw her. 'Twas long ago; From the bridge of a dream-city. Drops of rain were falling slow. It was autumn and long ago; And somewhere in the fields below A flute-player played this ditty — One look and never the same again Are the roses on the wall; One look and forever the midnight rain With a different sound must fall.

Gables and gardens, roofs and towers, Hung vague and rich and dim. From somewhere there came a scent of flowers, And a wind from the world's rim; And the sun sank red behind the towers, And she stood and looked at him.

She looked at him from a closed window, Then at me did she look down.

It was autumn and very long ago, And drops of rain kept falling slow And a flute-player played on his flute below, From the fields below the town.

And now they have told me so constantly That the place was a city of dreams. That my reason believes it; but in my heart, In my heart most real it seems! And thro' town and country I still must go The shadowy roads along, Seeing always that closed window And hearing that flute-player's song.

And when the sun most rich and dim Sinks down behind dark towers, And there comes a wind from the world's rim And from somewhere a scent of flowers— I stand again on the bridge of that city And hear that flute-player; And my Love looks down on me in pity, And I look back at her.

—One look and never the same again Are the roses on the wall; One look and forever the midnight rain With a different sound must fall!

The Cup

THE CUP

AH, be satisfied, my dear; There is none but you Who can hold me from the fair, Brimming, glimmering, lovely, rare Cup of exquisite despair, Cup of black basalt — Salter than the sea is salt. Older than the sea is old. Fuller than the sea is full! I have cried, "How beautiful Is that cup!" have wept and cried, "It is full of heavenly dew!" Ah, my dear, be satisfied; There is none but you.

The Vigil

LET the huge stars roll on! My vigil's kept. Love lies his grave upon — What is there left? I swore to guard the shrine Where the bright candles shine. Bread is bread, wine is wine. Darkness on all be poured! The altar has no God.

Let the huge stars roll on Space beyond space! Love was; and love is gone. Cover his face! Let the great gulfs abhorred Take it, my flaming sword. Deep below deep! Hail, thou that wast my Lord, I have kept watch and ward — Now I can sleep.

Her Love

I TOOK the love you threw away When the moon was full; When in the river the full moon lay And the river-reeds were hushed in their play And gave their souls to the moon, And whispered and cried, "Ah, well-away! Today must turn into yesterday And the moon must wither and fade away, The beautiful full moon!"

I took the love that you had scorned. Where it lay in that cold reed-bed. Took it when the morning dawned, Making the river red. "Behold, in spite of her bitter scorn, In spite of the blood spilt by the dawn, That love is mine," I said.

And now when the moon is old And the sun, all burning gold. Scorches the city street; Now when the river is dried And the reeds have drooped and died, Your love is a fountain sweet;

A fountain and a cup! And the wretchedest and the worst Bless God as they drink it up, For it quenches their deepest thirst. And the air of the hottest day Grows cool and beautiful, Because of the love you threw away When the moon was full.

Wayfarers

THE wind is very cold! Does it blow from the ultimate sea, Or over cities sad and old, Lost beyond memory?" ' So cried my heart to my soul, As it shivered by its side; But "Follow the wind — follow the wind!" My soul replied.

And the wind led them on and on. Till they came to the city of Dis; "Here shall we rest!" my poor heart cried, "Here shall we find our bliss; Behold, this is great Babylon! The Heart's Desire is this!" And it blessed itself and blessed my soul With a wicked heathen kiss. So cried my heart to my soul. As it shivered by its side. But "Follow the wind — follow the wind!" My soul replied.

And the wind led them on and on. Till they came to the city of God. "Here shall we rest!" my poor heart cried. And tears of blood it poured. "On these streets shine the sun and the moon: The City of God is this!"

And it blessed itself and blessed my soul With a most holy kiss. So cried my heart to my soul, As it shivered by its side. But "Follow the wind — follow the wind!" My soul replied.

And the wind led them on and on Till they came to the City of Dreams, To the place where the king called "Might-have-been" Dwelleth with "Never-to-be," his queen, And all is as it seems. "Here shall we rest!" my poor heart cried, "The City of Dreams is this." And it blessed itself and blessed my soul With a wistful and weeping kiss. So cried my heart to my soul. As it shivered by its side. But "Follow the wind — follow the wind!" My soul replied.

And still they follow and follow. Beyond each ultimate shore; And Aldebaran shines behind them And Arcturus shines before. And when my poor heart murmurs, "When we left those gates we sinned!" My soul thro' the darkness answers her — "Follow the wind!"

Episode

EPISODE

SO now that all is over, And it does not greatly matter How long the same roof cover The hope that perished there, The fleeting hour to flatter. Now that it all is over, Forget the sad word lover. And breathe — the air, the air!

Lean down and watch the river Flow fast beneath our bridge; Watch the faint grasses quiver On the familiar ridge. If all were well there would be No difference in the dew, Nor in different fashion could we Catch the horizon's clue.

A sign, a symbol captured From the eternal flow! Stood we by love enraptured, What more could either know? Nothing! Between us ever The old unfathomed sea. Not less than now would shiver With its bitter mystery.

So now that all is over, Let the great stars emerge, Placid and calm, and cover The sky from verge to verge! The deep and flowing magic Of the universe is such, Comic be it, or tragic. It does not matter much!

Invocation

WHO will waken the wind for me? Who will waken the wind? The night is loaded with misery; And like one stricken with leprosy The moon has sunk in the sea. The earth is heavy as if it had sinned; Like a ghost stands every tree. Who will waken the wind for me? Who will waken the wind?

The Writer

IN the shade of the pyramids I knelt and wrote on the sand, While with softly drooping, veiléd lids, You watched in the shade of those pyramids The movements of my hand.

I wrote of the fall of Troy, I wrote of the Grecian ships, I wrote of Adonis the lovely boy. And of winged Psyche's virgin joy As she clung to Eros' lips.

I wrote of the Syrian pearls. Of Herod, the Jewish king. I wrote of Salome's tossing curls And the pale lips sweeter than any girl's, Of her blood-stained offering.

But all the while you kept. Dark-lowered your veiled lids. You neither laughed nor murmured nor wept; A watcher would surely have dreamed you slept In the shade of those pyramids.

But when I wrote in the sand A little unlegended name, A human unhistoried name. With a bitter cry and uplifted hand You rose and over that famished land, Fled away like a flame.

Blasphemy

BLASPHEMY

O FAIRY form, O flower-like face, O piteous tender breast, Why did you come with your childish grace And trouble my heart's rest?

The tide, my darling, is bitter and deep That washes that cruel shore. The happy lovers are those that sleep And love not any more.

Calm filmy dreams thro' each tired head Flow softly, mingle and flow. The happy lovers are those that are dead. That died full long ago.

O child, forgive me; I lie, I lie With an evil blasphemy! I lie to the clouds in the air above! I lie to the earth and the sea!

The living, the living must worship love! The dead, the dead must be.

The Flower

I COULD not see at that hour, I tell you, I could not see! The Face of the night was wet And there was rain on the wind. Oh, misery—oh, regret! Blind! Blind! Blind! Blind! I tell you , I could not see. There was too much rain on the wind When I stooped and picked that flower.

I hold it now in my hand, As the moon thro' the branches peers, Wickedly, wantonly peers. But now it is too late, And its petals desolate Droop and lose their power. And I see that this murdered flower Would have changed the course of my fate.

And now, oh wanton moon, As you flicker thro' boughs where the rains Drip to a fitful tune, I see on that flower the veins Of a delicate-pencilled rune, A hope that no longer remains.

Oh moon! if only it grew Still living, still tender and free, Oh wanton moon, I would laugh at you; Nor bitterly wander the forest thro', While the rain drips sadly from tree to tree. Cursing the cause of my misery, The blindness—the blindness—that ruined me!

Veni Creator Spiritus

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS

MY strength is shifting sand; the waters Of jealousy meet over my head; I am scorned and scourged by Satan's daughters; And crucified on a salt sea bed. I have prayed to the gods. Oh, little the use! Thou, greater than God, descend on me. Thou breath of the deep world, set me free. Blow from your primal eternity. Veni Creator Spiritus!

My strength is trodden dust. The claw Of envy tears me day and night, And the tawny lion of "Nevermore" Eats my heart for his delight. Oh, calm cool breath, your floodgates loose! Oh, breath of the deep world, set me free. Oh, greater than God, descend on me. Blow from your primal eternity. Veni Creator Spiritus!

My strength is the dregs of poured-out wine. The dry ground drinks me. The poison-flower Grows fat with me. The root malign Of the night-shade waits its baleful hour. Life is too bitter. "I could not choose But weep to see another thus." O breath from beyond the land and sea, O calm and cool eternity. Veni Creator Spiritus!

My strength is smouldering ashes. The molten stream Of love consumes me; all day and night I waste Burning from fever-dream to fever-dream, My parched mouth full of the dead-sea taste. O air, O breath, give what the gods refuse! O depths beyond all depths, have pity on me! O space beyond all spaces, set me free. Blow from your calm and cool eternity. Veni Creator Spiritus!

The Blood

THE BLOOD

I FOUND bright drops of purple blood Beside a dying faun. A mushroom-cup had caught that flood From the brown body torn. | I took the blood and went apart With her whose love I killed. "Take this and fill with it your heart, In place of what I spilled!" | She looked at me out of her pain — Sweet saints, on my death-bed Let me not see that look again! Then lightly, lightly she said — | "I take that blood. When we shall meet," And she gave me her mouth to kiss — "At the White Christ's golden judgment seat, I will lie to him of this. | "I will lie to him, the great White Christ, About the love you killed. I will say the brown faun's blood sufficed In place of what you spilled." | Softly she turned and left me there. And I was left alone; | And her voice came faintly upon the air, "A faun's blood shall atone!" | But from where she left me I did not move, And never yet have moved. For I am he that murdered love, And yet am I not loved?

The Wind

THE WIND

THE night is sobbing and crying with rain, And the wind is drifting among the trees; Drifting and whispering to me again Of the memories — of the memories!

Like a phantom sea is the drifting wind; Flowing towards us, ebbing apart; The merciless wind without a heart! Like a phantom sea is the drifting wind.

And my memories tear me away from you; And your memories tear you away from me; While the wind goes wailing between us two, The drifting wind, like a phantom sea.

Oh hollow spaces, oh midnight springs! Oh deep night-valleys wet with the rain! Lure, lure this wind to fold up its wings And bury our memories again!

Then I would forget, and you would forget; And beneath the sleeping wind We would pray to the darkness, and watch regret Drift away o'er the pastures wet, Till silence healed our mind.

Escape

ESCAPE

DEEP pools there are, pools quiet and still, Far off, where none of them guess; Beyond the peaks of the world's last hill And the desert's loneliness. But all about the edge of those pools Flutter like troubled birds, The little gestures you used to use, And your light, forgotten words. And when the moon from the purple sky Makes signs to the silent grass. Those pools grow charged with your memory, And I see your image pass. I see you not as you really are, But pale as the lately dead, With a faint marsh-flame like a fallen star Flickering above your head. O wild white cheeks, O scarlet mouth! Is my heart's deep whisper true That beyond the peaks of the world's last hill, I can flee the human race at my will And yet cannot escape from you?

The Old Cry

THE OLD CRY

IF only ages ago I had buried my restless heart Under mountains of snow In a lonely place apart, I could bring it now to her, Locked with a silver key; And its shadowy pearls would never stir From that sweet sanctuary.

Oh wind that wafted my boat To the isles where the Sirens sing, Somewhere — washed up upon sands remote Those pearls he glittering. Gather them, gather them up, Oh wind, and bring them to me In a misty foam-wreathed cup — The pearls that I lost in the sea.

Dim with the salt are they, Blurred and bleached with the sun; But, gathered from far away. Bring them back, every one; That Iain once more at rest Where her heart beats and feels. They may sleep forever against her breast, Sealed with a thousand seals!

Waiting

WAITING

THE flowerless weeds along the tangled hedge Listen and wait. The willow-bushes by the water's edge Listen and wait. Under the earth I feel the roots of trees Listening, waiting. Oh Earth, oh Sky, oh secret hope of these! Is it worth waiting?

So sinks my heart's faint whisper hopelessly, Sinks and is gone; While the round earth sweeps weeds and willows and me Carelessly on; And morning becomes noon, noon becomes night In the same doubt. No answer, not a word; till one by one The stars come out.

And then — but not from them, for they too wait, Ah, they wait too, the stars! — but from the night, The night itself, oldest of all the gods. The answer! And all the flowerless weeds and the willows and I Listen — hear nothing — yet are satisfied. Portions of that Night we know ourselves to be; Children of the oldest of all the gods are we, And from ourselves we hide our own hearts' mystery!

A Face

IF I could only pass Into that ultimate later time Where the solemn planets cease to climb, And one unruffled sea of glass Breaks on the sand with monotonous fall, Calls to the land with continuous call, Breaks and ebbs and flows and drifts, While its endless motion lifts The grey-cold tops of unearthly reeds And marge to desolate marge succeeds. With never the trunk of a single tree; If I could only see The face of the wind in that ultimate place, I think it would be less heavy with dreams, Less heavy with dreams of sea-weeds drifting. Less heavy with dreams of reed-tops lifting, Than the human face of one I know! If I could only go Into that passionless later time Where long sea-memories rock like rhyme. And the sun and moon forever set. Tinge all with eternal violet. The face of the wind in that ultimate spot Where all is equal and nothing forgot, Would have the look of a face I know Or dreamed long ago that I know — Heavy with joy — heavy with woe!

The Sea-bird

YOU saw my heart as it lay Like a hushed rock-pool, aside From the ocean's wind-tossed spray. And you were hurt in your pride.

And the wild sea-bird in you Rose and spread out its wings, And flapping down over cliff" and ledge. Lighted upon that rock-pool's edge And troubled it thro' and thro'.

And now that its depths are dim And heavy and blurred and blind, Over the purple waves you skim And bathe in the sun and make sport for him, And give yourself to the wind.

A flashing meteor of pearl, You laugh and waver and dart — In silver circles you gleam and whirl, A rainbow, a sea-bird, a demon — a girl Who has flown across a heart.

At the End of the World

THE patient earth, the breathless trees, Have listened here for centuries. Have listened under the silver moon To this little streamlet's flowing. Hearing nothing in its going Save its own enchanted tune.

Oh, how silent on moss and stone Sleeps the whole world's bitter wrong! While the shadow of love, lying alone. Listens to the streamlet's song.

At the end of the world this place might be! So hushed are the shadows, so hushed the grass; So hushed are the hemlocks of mystery, Waiting for feet that never pass!

Listen! A voice out of the night! A voice from the silence — a passionate cry — Beautiful, terrible, infinite! The voice of a god who comes to die.

And the patient earth and the breathless trees Turn to that voice; and the listening air Yearns to it, thro' the immensities. As tho' God Himself were dying there.

Only the little streamlet flows Beneath the hemlocks, beneath the moon; Hearing nothing as it goes, Save its own enchanted tune.

And silent, silent, on moss and stone. Sleeps the whole world's bitter wrong; While the shadow of love, lying alone, Listens to the streamlet's song.

Night

NIGHT

ALONE again! And the silence flows Round the windows of this place. The night is starless and heavy and close, Rain-scented like a drooping rose; And on the night floats your face.

It does not smile, it does not frown. It does not laugh, it does not weep; It only rocks itself up and down. Floating, as if on the waves of sleep.

Like a drooping rose is your dreamy face With the starless night about it furled; And infinite silence fills the place. And there is nothing else in the world.

The Daughter of the Sphinx

THE DAUGHTER OF THE SPHINX

MY mind is a plain with blackened stalks And the crumbling stones of a buried city, Where hooded desolation walks, And all alone in an empty sky A solitary kite sails by. But yet, because of the sudden pity Of the youngest daughter of the sphinx, Great Amnion on my burden winks And I have found — ah, none too soon! A little pallid petalled flower. Hid in the dust of a fallen tower. With a phantom lustre like the moon; And now I can watch the kite sail by, And the long, long shadows among the stones, And the blackened stalks and the empty sky, And the wind-blown dust of ancient bones. With strange exultant serenity, And across that plain which is my soul, Soft incense-clouds of healing roll With balm, and the breath of a whispered spell, And an opiate-rain ineffable. For on him whose mind is scarred deep. With secrets sad as the dead who sleep. On him whose soul is a buried city. The daughter of the sphinx has pity.

The Little Flame

THE LITTLE FLAME

TRAMPLE it fiercely down, It will not burn your feet. The little flame that your savage frown Hated as it went up and down, Because it had no heat.

Trample it in the dust! It only carries in it The far horizon of one hope, One faith, one trust, one horoscope, Cast by one fatal minute.

Press your heel hard on it there. You know it cannot burn. It can only answer a hurt life's prayer. With an ecstasy delicate as air, That you have yet to learn.

Look! It still licks the ground. Out with it! Turn it to clay! The wind will blow with its ancient sound. When that flame is buried underground And you have gone your way.

No, it never had heat, Love sometimes shows that lack! But you — you have spurned beneath your feet, What one day, weary of wine and meat. In vain you'll summon back.

A pale flame, after your fierce sunsets! Yet the Spring came at its call, Bringing windflowers and pansies and violets, And the rosemary that has no regrets And lasts the longest of all.

Pray, child, to the gods that when you've found What the heats of passion prove. You sob not aloud with a piteous sound. Over the plot of trampled ground, Wherein you murdered love.

The River

THE RIVER

THE pallid river of regret. Flows thro' that empty land; The land you call my heart, where yet The poplar-trees of memory, wet With ancient sorrow, stand. And mournfully, mournfully evermore Thro' those trees the wind goes wailing. And like wreckage strewn on a lonely shore, Where no man dwells and nevermore Shall any ship come sailing. The dead leaves lie where they have fallen. Lie on the land where they have fallen, The land where the roots of sorrow are set. The land of the river of regret.

Ave Maria

AVE MARIA

HOLLOW spaces, large and deep, Flow around your quiet sleep. One would think your dreaming head Had eternity for its bed! Oh, how green, for all the night. Is the floating liquid air. Full of whispers, full of light. Vague earth murmurs everywhere! | Listen! Did you hear that sound In your eyelid-drooping sleep, Falling thro' the listening night, Falling, falling? And the earth Melts in vaporous mist before it, Melts as if from very birth It had watched and waited for it! Listen! | 'Tis a petal from the moon From that cold and chaste moon-flower. Flung in languid lotus hour. Like a thought after a tune; Like a tune after a thought, Sweet with ecstasy unsought! And all other lovely things. Such as shadow-veined moth-wings. Such as shells from drifting seas. Such as wild anemones, | Float with it thro' hollow space, Dark against your white, white face, Float and flutter and waver now, Pale against your shadowy brow! Listen! | Ah! You are listening deep and deep, And you stir at last in your quiet sleep, Fall the petals of the moon To their soft eternal tune, Thro' the green and hollow night. All transparent tender things From their cold creative springs Fall, fall down into the night. With a tremulous shy delight. Listen! Ave Maria! The heart must be pierced with a sharp sword, That would be the heart of the mother of God!

The Recluse

WHY do you live in shadows and sighs, 'Mid waving grasses and faint, faint scents 'Mid floating murmurs and mysteries, And the ghosts of roses? Arise! Go hence!

"Go hence and wrestle beneath the sun! Go hence and live before you die! For laurels, not roses, the race is run. In the great arena under the sky.

"Go hence! Or my God, the Lord of Hosts, Will put it into my heart to smite You and your roses that smell like ghosts Into the everlasting night!"

"Smite on, dear heart. The eternal night Will cover me with shadows and sighs; And, like one great rose, the Infinite Will hide me forever from your eyes!"

The Leaves

THE LEAVES

THE first dead leaves of the year are down! Look, how pale they float, Under the bridge of the market-town By wharf and barge and boat! How cold the rain-drenched meadows lie, Heavy with mist each one! And the elm-trees stand how silently Against the horizon!

Oh, Love, oh, Life, most strange, most blind Are our days beneath the sun! A leaf on the water; on the wind A feather — and all is done. The market-town still sleeps — Sweet Christ, How motionless it seems! As if one night of rain sufficed To cover it with dreams.

Can it be only yesterday. On this same bridge I stood. And watched the red sun sink away Behind a fairy wood? The gods protect us all! So soon Can summer cease? So light Can they drift, the leaves that played love's tune? Can the world end in a night?

In the Night

IN THE NIGHT

A CRY like a child's cry lost in the rain Came to me out of the mist. I rose and answered that cry again, But it went sobbing over the plain And died into the mist.

And where it had been came the scent of flowers Out of a world's distress, With a moan of gathered thunder-showers And a gasping loneliness.

And the gods with their faces wet with crying, The old gods strange and wild, Swept out upon us across the night, And — oh mystery, mystery infinite! The gods and the weeping child and I Laughed and kissed in ecstasy!

Requiem

WHERE, oh where, should love be laid? Where the sigh of the heather-bell, To the wandering wind can tell, Tell too heavily, tell too well. How human hearts are made!

Lift him gently from where he lies So pale now! With frozen kisses upon his eyes. And faded petals upon his brow. Carry him gently far away, And bury him out of the sight of day, Where neither sun nor rain Can trouble him again. We have killed him and love grown cold Is better buried under the mould.

Where, oh where, should love be laid. Where the lost soul of the sea Moans and weeps perpetually. Where the cold night cries in vain For what cannot come again.

Where, oh where, should love be laid? Where the sigh of the sea-shell. To the sobbing wind can tell. Tell too heavily, tell too well. How cruel-faithless, how cruel-light. While love lies dying in the night, Human hearts are made.

The Traitor

THE TRAITOR

JUDAS am I, or Peter, Or am I only one Set by malicious destiny Between the moon and sun?

Silver upon the land! Silver upon the sea! A world of silver in my hand — And my Love looking at me.

It is not only the Lord, Who in the high priest's hall, Looks on the man who can betray, Till bitterly weeping, he turns away, Too common grows that word.

Put out the altar-light! Let no wine redden the floor. Cover that lovely face from sight! Let me go forth into the night, And see that look no more.

Silver upon the land! Silver upon the sea! A world of silver in my hand — And my Love looking at me!

The Tears

THE TEARS

WHERE, oh wind, do you carry the tears That the muffled heads are weeping, Under the roofs where no one hears, While the Lord Christ is sleeping?

"Cold he lies in the reeds of the dawn, But I carry them to him there. Where far away from the world's scorn They gleam like dew on his hair.

"The tears that are shed for loneliness Like pearls on his forehead rest. And the tears of passionate distress Are opals on his breast.

"But where, oh wind, are the hopeless tears — The tears no comfort know — The tears that none but the midnight hears — The tears of love's deep woe?

"Tell me, oh wind, ere you depart. On his white body where are they?" "Ah! They are in the Lord Christ's heart And none can take them from him away!"

Spring

PAIN and spilt blood and an appalling cry Turn the earth's air to poison and make bitter The bread we eat and lay across our sleep A quivering shadow like a gash that bleeds. We laugh and are ashamed as those who mock An open grave. And yet the wet stalks of the hyacinths Must soon, amid green spears, bear purple flowers! And yet, from rain-soaked earth and crumpled leaves, The yellow primrose, with a sweet swift pang. Must send Spring's perilous breath, sharp-shuddering With faint and delicate treachery, thro' our veins! Shall we henceforth before these hushed wood-things Stand dazed and shamed? Or shall we in strange mood Laugh weeping laughter, as those laugh who hear Infants make holiday upon a grave? Softly with pungent scent of fields fresh-ploughed The small soft misty rain through dripping boughs Washes the crumbling roots of fallen trees; Red-Campion droops his petals to the earth; While, wild and clear, from liquid rain-sweet throat. As though no graves covered the green earth's face, Bursts, as of old, the blackbird's shameless song.