The Project Gutenberg eBook, Twenty, by Stella Benson

E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Susan Lucy,
and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders

T W E N T Y

BY

STELLA BENSON

AUTHOR OF
“THIS IS THE END,” “I POSE”

1918

PREFACE

Almost all the verses in this book have appeared before, the majority of them included in two books, I Pose and This is the End. Messrs. Macmillan, who published these, have been kind in raising no objection to re-publication. I have also to thank the Editors of the Athenæum, Everyman, and the Pall Mall Gazette for allowing me to reprint verses.

The title of the book has no reference to the writer’s age.

S.B.

CONTENTS

CHRISTMAS, 1917

A key no thief can steal, no time can rust;

A faery door, adventurous and golden;

A palace, perfect to our eyes—Ah must

Our eyes be holden?

Has the past died before this present sin?

Has this most cruel age already stonèd

To martyrdom that magic Day, within

Those halls, enthronèd?

No. Through the dancing of the young spring rain,

Through the faint summer, and the autumn’s burning,

Our still immortal Day has heard again

Our steps returning.

THE SECRET DAY

My yesterday has gone, has gone and left me tired,

And now to-morrow comes and beats upon the door;

So I have built To-day, the day that I desired,

Lest joy come not again, lest peace return no more,

Lest comfort come no more.

So I have built To-day, a proud and perfect day,

And I have built the towers of cliffs upon the sands;

The foxgloves and the gorse I planted on my way;

The thyme, the velvet thyme, grew up beneath my hands,

Grew pink beneath my hands.

So I have built To-day, more precious than a dream;

And I have painted peace upon the sky above;

And I have made immense and misty seas, that seem

More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love—

More beautiful than love.

And I have built a house—a house upon the brink

Of high and twisted cliffs; the sea’s low singing fills it;

And there my Secret Friend abides, and there I think

I’ll hide my heart away before to-morrow kills it—

A cold to-morrow kills it.

Yes, I have built To-day, a wall against To-morrow,

So let To-morrow knock—I shall not be afraid,

For none shall give me death, and none shall give me sorrow,

And none shall spoil this darling day that I have made.

No storm shall stir my sea. No night but mine shall shade

This day that I have made.

SONG

There is the track my feet have worn

By which my fate may find me:

From that dim place where I was born

Those footprints run behind me.

Uncertain was the trail I left,

For—oh, the way was stormy;

But now this splendid sea has cleft

My journey from before me.

Three things the sea shall never end,

Three things shall mock its power:

My singing soul, my Secret Friend,

And this, my perfect hour.

And you shall seek me till you reach

The tangled tide advancing,

And you shall find upon the beach

The traces of my dancing,

And in the air the happy speech

Of Secret Friends romancing.

THE ORCHARD

I will repent me of my ways;

I will come here and bury

Five thousand odd superfluous days

Beneath a flow’ring cherry.

Between a pear and a cherry tree

My temple I will enter—

My place, where even I may be

The altar and the centre.

One altar to a thousand aisles,

A hundred thousand arches ...

The loud lamb-choir about me files,

The bleating bishop marches,

The congregation kneels and nods,

The bishop leads its praises,

So I’ll pray too, to their dim gods

Whose feet are decked with daisies:

Ah, let me not grow old. Ah, let

Me not grow old, and falter

In my delusion, or forget

My heart was once an altar.

Let me still think myself a star

With these my rays about me;

Pretend these green perspectives are

All purposeless without me.

Ah, bid the sun stand still. Ah, bid

The coming night retire,

And all the good I ever did

Shall feed your altar fire;

The hour shall stand and sing your praise,

The minute shall adore you,

And my ten thousand unborn days

I’ll sacrifice before you.

Gods of great joy, and little grief,

See—I will wear as token

A pear leaf and a cherry leaf

Until this pledge be broken....

Between a pear and a cherry tree

A cold hand touched my shoulder—

Ah, my false gods have forsaken me,

I am a minute older.

THANKS TO MY WORLD FOR THE LOAN OF A FAIR DAY

That day you wrought for me

Shone, and was ended.

Perfect your thought for me,

Whom you befriended.

Such joy was new to me—

New, and most splendid,

More than was due to me.

More than was due to me.

Though I do wrong to you,

Having no power,

Singing no song to you,

Bringing no flower,

Yet does my youth again

Thrill, for the hour

Cometh in truth again.

Cometh in truth again.

I shall possess to-day

All I have wanted,

All I lacked yesterday

Now shall be granted.

No longer dumb to you,

Changed and enchanted,

Singing I’ll come to you.

Singing I’ll come to you.

I will amass for you

Very great treasure.

Swift years shall pass for you

Dancing for pleasure.

Time shall be slave to me,

Giving—full measure—

All that you gave to me.

All that you gave to me.

SONG

If I have dared to surrender some imitation of splendour,

Something I knew that was tender, something I loved that was brave,

If in my singing I showed songs that I heard on my road,

Were they not debts that I owed, rather than gifts that I gave?

If certain hours on their climb up the long ladder of time

Turned my confusion to rhyme, drove me to dare an attempt,

If by fair chance I might seem sometimes abreast of my theme,

Was I translating a dream? Was it a dream that you dreamt?

High and miraculous skies bless and astonish my eyes;

All my dead secrets arise, all my dead stories come true.

Here is the Gate to the Sea. Once you unlocked it for me;

Now, since you gave me the key, shall I unlock it for you?

WORDS

Oh words, oh words, and shall you rule

The world? What is it but the tongue

That doth proclaim a man a fool,

So that his best songs go unsung,

So that his dreams are sent to school

And all die young.

There pass the trav’lling dreams, and these

My soul adores—my words condemn—

Oh, I would fall upon my knees

To kiss their golden garments’ hem,

Yet words do lie in wait to seize

And murder them.

To-night the swinging stars shall plumb

The silence of the sky. And herds

Of plumèd winds like huntsmen come

To hunt with dreams the restless birds.

To-night the moon shall strike you dumb,

Oh words, oh words....

REDNECK’S SONG

These thirty years

Old men have filled my ears

With middle-aged ideas

That never have been young,

They made me wise.

I learnt to whitewash lies.

I learnt to shut my eyes,

And hold my tongue.

Damned Philistine.

And was it then so fine

To learn to draw the line.

(Is there a line to draw?)

And must I then

For threescore years and ten

Worship the laws of men

Who worshipped law?

Those laws are dust

To-day, and yet I must

Be faithful still, and trust

In what dead men did prove.

Magic may kill

Their wisdom and their will,

Yet I must follow still

Their path ... my groove....

TO THE UNBORN

Oh, bend your eyes, nor send your glance about.

Oh, watch your feet, nor stray beyond the kerb.

Oh, bind your heart lest it find secrets out.

For thus no punishment

Of magic shall disturb

Your very great content.

Oh, shut your lips to words that are forbidden.

Oh, throw away your sword, nor think to fight.

Seek not the best, the best is better hidden.

Thus need you have no fear,

No terrible delight

Shall cross your path, my dear.

Call no man foe, but never love a stranger.

Build up no plan, nor any star pursue.

Go forth with crowds; in loneliness is danger.

Thus nothing God can send,

And nothing God can do

Shall pierce your peace, my friend.

THE NEWER ZION

When I achieve the chestnut joke of dying,

When I slip through that Gate at Kensal Green,

Shall I go spoil the fantasy by prying

Behind the staging of this darling scene?

Shall I—a cast-off puppet—seek to study

The Showman who manipulates the strings,

The Hand that paints the western drop-scene ruddy,

The prosy truths of all these faery things?

Shall I—self-conscious by a glassy ocean—

Stammer strange songs amid an alien host?

Or shall I not, refusing such promotion,

Bequeath to London my contented ghost?

I will come back to my Eternal City;

Her fogs once more my countenance shall dim;

I will enliven your austere committee

With gossip gleaned among the cherubim.

By day I’ll tread again the sounding mazes,

By night I’ll track the moths about the Park;

My feet shall fall among the dusky daisies,

Nor break nor bruise a petal in the dark.

I will repeat old inexpensive orgies;

Drink nectar at the bun-shop in Shoreditch,

Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George’s,

And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.

My soundless feet shall fly among the runners

Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid,

My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners,

The fires shall glare—but I shall cast no shade.

And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent

Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot—

(Fool that he is)—and fumble with his warrant,

And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"

Mocking I’ll go, and he shall be postillion,

Until we reach the Keeper of the Door:

"H’m ... Benson ... Stella ... militant civilian ...

There’s some mistake, we’ve had this soul before...."

* * * * * *

Ah, none shall keep my soul from this its Zion;

Lost in the spaces I shall hear and bless

The splendid voice of London, like a lion

Calling its lover in the wilderness.

TWO WOMEN SING

First Woman

Oh woman—woman—woman,—

Shall I to woman be a friend?

I deal with man, and when I can

Reclaim with interest all I lend.

Who but a witless gambler plays

For farthing stakes these golden days?

No, woman—woman—woman—

Must only play the game that pays.

Second Woman

Oh woman—woman—woman,—

To-morrow woman shall awake.

She shall arise, and realise

The goodly value of her stake.

And she shall lend her loan, and claim

Her rightful interest on the same.

So woman—woman—woman—

Shall learn at last the paying game.

THE WOMAN ALONE

My eyes are girt with outer mists;

My ears sing shrill, and this I bless;

My finger-nails do bite my fists

In ecstasy of loneliness.

This I intend, and this I want,

That—passing—you may only mark

A dumb soul with its confidant

Entombed together in the dark.

The hoarse church-bells of London ring;

The hoarser horns of London croak;

The poor brown lives of London cling