John Jones's Wife

I
At the Piano

I
Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May? Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts decay; Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards packed for storm's play!
II
Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed— Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed— Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—bloom frost bequeathed?
III
Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked grate's screech? Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's beach Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a toothful in each.
IV
Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops them and grins— Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins— Hues of the prawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our sins!
V
Years blind and deaf use the soul's joys as refuse, heart's peace as manure, Reared whence, next June's rose shall bloom where our moons rose last year, just as pure: Moons' ends match roses' ends: men by beasts' noses' ends mete sin's stink's cure.
VI
Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt—flies caught in time's mesh! Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and stews flesh; Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them afresh.
VII
Old times left perish, there's new time to cherish; life just shifts its tune; As, when the day dies, earth, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon; Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!

II
By the Cliff

I
Is it daytime (guess), You that feed my soul To excess With that light in those eyes And those curls drawn like a scroll In that round grave guise? No or yes?
II
Oh, the end, I'd say! Such a foolish thing (Pure girls' play!) As a mere mute heart, Was it worth a kiss, a ring, This? for two must part— Not to-day.
III
Look, the whole sand crawls, Hums, a heaving hive, Scrapes and scrawls— Such a buzz and burst! Here just one thing's not alive, One that was at first— But life palls.
IV
Yes, my heart, I know, Just my heart's stone dead— Yes, just so. Sick with heat, those worms Drop down scorched and overfed— No more need of germs! Let them go.
V
Yes, but you now, look, You, the rouged stage female With a crook, Chalked Arcadian sham, You that made my soul's sleep's dream ail— Your soul fit to damn? Shut the book.

III
On the Sands

I
There was nothing at all in the case (conceive) But love; being love, it was not (understand) Such a thing as the years let fall (believe) Like the rope's coil dropt from a fisherman's hand When the boat's hauled up—by your leave!
II
So—well! How that crab writhes—leg after leg Drawn, as a worm draws ring upon ring Gradually, not gladly! Chicken or egg, Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king (Take my meaning at least) that I beg?
III
Not so! You were ready to learn, I think, What the world said! He loves you too well (suppose) For such leanings! These poets, their love's mere ink— Like a flower, their flame flashes—a rosebud, blows— Then it all drops down at a wink!
IV
Ah, the instance! A curl of a blossomless vine The vinedresser passing it sickens to see And mutters Much hope (under God) of His wine From the branch and the bark of a barren tree Spring reared not, and winter lets pine—
V
His wine that should glorify (saith He) the cup That a man beholding (not tasting) might say Pour out life at a draught, drain it dry, drink it up, Give this one thing, and huddle the rest away— Save the bitch, and be hanged to the pup!
VI
Let it rot then! which saying, he leaves it—we'll guess, Feels (if the sap move at all) thus much— Yearns, and would blossom, would quicken no less, Bud at an eye's glance, flower at a touch— Die, perhaps, would you not, for her?—Yes!
VII
Note the hitch there! That's piteous—so much being done, (He'll think some day, your lover) so little to do! Such infinite days to wear out, once begun! Since the hand its glove holds, and the footsole its shoe— Overhead too there's always the sun!
VIII
Oh, no doubt they had said so, your friends—been profuse Of good counsel, wise hints—where the trap lurks, walk warily— Squeeze the fruit to the core ere you count on the juice! For the graft may fail, shift, wax, change colour, wane, vary, lie— You were cautious, God knows—to what use?
IX
This crab's wiser, it strikes me—no twist but implies life— Not a curl but's so fit you could find none fitter— For the brute from its brutehood looks up thus and eyes life— Stoop your soul down and listen, you'll hear it twitter, Laughing lightly,—my crab's life's the wise life!
X
Those who've read S. T. Coleridge remember how Sammy sighs To his pensive (I think he says) Sara—most soothing-sweet— Crab's bulk's less (look!) than man's—yet (quoth Cancer) I am my size, And my bulk's girth contents me! Man's maw (see?) craves two things—wheat And flesh likewise—man's gluttonous—damn his eyes!
XI
Crab's content with crab's provender: crab's love, if soothing, Is no sweeter than pincers are soft—and a new sickle Cuts no sharper than crab's claws nip, keen as boar's toothing! Yet crab's love's no less fervent than bard's, if less musical— 'Tis a new thing I'd lilt—but a true thing.
XII
Old songs tell us, of all drinks for Englishmen fighting, ale's Out and out best: salt water contents crab, it seems to me, Though pugnacious as sailors, and skilled to steer right in gales That craze pilots, if slow to sing—Sleep'st thou? thou dream'st o' me! In such love-strains as mine—or a nightingale's.
XIII
Ah, now, look you—tail foremost, the beast sets seaward— The sea draws it, sand sucks it—he's wise, my crab! From the napkin out jumps his one talent—good steward, Just judge! So a man shirks the smile or the stab, And sets his sail duly to leeward!
XIV
Trust me? Hardly! I bid you not lean (remark) On my spirit, your spirit—my flesh, your flesh— Hold my hand, and tread safe through the horrible dark— Quench my soul as with sprinklings of snow, then refresh With some blast of new bellows the spark!
XV
By no means! This were easy (men tell me) to say— Give her all, throw your chance up, fall back on her heart! (Say my friends) she must change! after night follows day— No such fool! I am safe set in hell, for my part— So let heaven do the worst now he may!
XVI
What they bid me? Well, this, nothing more—Tell her this— You are mine, I yours, though the whole world fail— Though things are not, I know there is one thing which is— Though the oars break, there's hope for us yet—hoist the sail! Oh, your heart! what's the heart? but your kiss!
XVII
Then she breaks, she drops down, she lies flat at your feet— Take her then! Well, I knew it—what fools are men! Take the bee by her horns, will your honey prove sweet? Sweet is grass—will you pasture your cows in a fen? Oh, if contraries could but once meet!
XVIII
Love you call it? Some twitch in the moon's face (observe), Wet blink of her eyelid, tear dropt about dewfall, Cheek flushed or obscured—does it make the sky swerve? Fetch the test, work the question to rags, bring to proof all— Find what souls want and bodies deserve!
XIX
Ah, we know you! Your soul works to infinite ends, Frets, uses life up for death's sake, takes pains, Flings down love's self—but you, bear me witness, my friends! Have I lost spring? count up (see) the winter's fresh gains! Is the shrub spoilt? the pine's hair impends!
XX
What, you'd say—Mark how God works! Years crowd, time wears thin, Earth keeps good yet, the sun goes on, stars hold their own, And you'll change, climb past sight of the world, shift your skin, Never heeding how life moans—more flesh now, less bone! For that cheek's worn waste outline (death's grin)
XXI
Pleads with time still—what good if I lose this? but see— (There's the crab gone!)I said, Though earth sinks,(you perceive? Ah, true, back there!) your soul now—yet some vein might be (Could one find it alive in the heart's core's pulse, cleave Through the life-springs where you melts in me)—
XXII
Some true vein of the absolute soul, which survives All that flesh runs to waste through—and lo, this fails! Here's death close on us! One life? a million of lives! Why choose one sail to watch of these infinite sails? Time's a tennis-play? thank you, no, fives!
XXIII
Stop life's ball then! Such folly! melt earth down for that, Till the pure ore eludes you and leaves you raw scoriae? Pish, the vein's wrong! But you, friends—come, what were you at When God spat you out suddenly? what was the story He Cut short thus, the growth He laid flat?
XXIV
Wait! the crab's twice alive, mark! Oh, worthy, your soul, Of strange ends, great results, novel labours! Take note, I reject this for one! (ay, now, straight to the hole! Safe in sand there—your skirts smooth out all as they float!) I, shirk drinking through flaws in the bowl?
XXV
Or suppose now that rock's cleft—grim, scored to the quick, As a man's face kept fighting all life through gets scored, Mossed and marked with grey purulent leprosies, sick, Flat and foul as man's life here (be swift with your sword— Cut the soul out, stuck fast where thorns prick!)
XXVI
—Say it let the rock's heart out, its meaning, the thing All was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned— Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps—since it lies, such a ring Of pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand (Say, in Lent) at the priest's hand—(no king!)
XXVII
Blame the cleft then? Praise rather! So—just a chance gone! Had you said—Save the seed and secure souls in flower— Ah, how time laughs, years palpitate, pro grapples con, Till one day you shrug shoulders—Well, gone, the good hour! Till one night—Is God off now? or on?

IV
Up the Spout

I
Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say! Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist? Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay— Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due— Promising—not to pay?
II
For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand; Burst worst fate's weights in one burst gun? A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land? Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer! Reef points, though—understand?
III
I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed! Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes! Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road; Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged— Clogged, water-logged, her load!
IV
Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away! No show now how best plough sea's brow, Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day, Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean, With twinkling wrinkles—eh?
V
Sea sprinkles winkles, tinkles light Shell's bells—boy's joys that hap to snap! It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite God's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge— Not proper, is it—quite?
VI
See, fore and aft, life's craft undone! Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark! That grey cold sea's old sprees, begun When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark, All water—just God's fun!
VII
Not bright, at best, his jest to these Seemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin! When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please Some dumb new grim great whim in him Made Jews take chalk for cheese.
VIII
Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowls Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped the plaice in face: None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls. Now, how must I apply, to try This hookiest-beaked of owls?
IX
Well, I suppose God knows—I don't. Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud With birds' words—No! he won't!
X
One never should think good impossible. Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse— His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible By spy—spring's air takes there no care To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!
XI
But gold bells chime in time there, coined— Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—Read my screed! Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined (Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth— At once all three purloined!
XII
I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt, (Miss this chance, glance untried aside?) John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout! Let yet the door gape, store on floor And not a soul about?
XIII
Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I'm Weak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know! But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime. Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawn Of Jewry! Just in time!

V
Off the Pier

I
One last glance at these sands and stones! Time goes past men, and lives to his liking, Steals, and ruins, and sometimes atones. Why should he be king, though, and why not I king? There now, that wind, like a swarm of sick drones!
II
Is it heaven or mere earth (come!) that moves so and moans? Oh, I knew, when you loved me, my soul was in flowerage— Now the frost comes; from prime, though, I watched through to nones, Read love's litanies over—his age was not our age! No more flutes in this world for me now, dear! trombones.
III
All that youth once denied and made mouths at, age owns. Facts put fangs out and bite us; life stings and grows viperous; And time's fugues are a hubbub of meaningless tones. Once we followed the piper; now why not the piper us? Love, grown grey, plays mere solos; we want antiphones.
IV
And we sharpen our wits up with passions for hones, Melt down loadstars for magnets, use women for whetstones, Learn to bear with dead calms by remembering cyclones, Snap strings short with sharp thumbnails, till silence begets tones, Burn our souls out, shift spirits, turn skins and change zones;
V
Then the heart, when all's done with, wakes, whimpers, intones Some lost fragment of tune it thought sweet ere it grew sick; (Is it life that disclaims this, or death that disowns?) Mere dead metal, scrawled bars—ah, one touch, you make music! Love's worth saving, youth doubts, but experience depones.
VI
In the darkness (right Dickens) of Tom-All-Alone's Or the Morgue out in Paris, where tragedy centuples Life's effects by Death's algebra, Shakespeare (Malone's) Might have said sleep was murdered—new scholiasts have sent you pills To purge text of him! Bread? give me—Scotticè—scones!
VII
Think, what use, when youth's saddle galls bay's back or roan's, To seek chords on love's keys to strike, other than his chords? There's an error joy winks at and grief half condones, Or life's counterpoint grates the C major of discords— 'Tis man's choice 'twixt sluts rose-crowned and queens age dethrones.
VIII
I for instance might groan as a bag-pipe groans, Give the flesh of my heart for sharp sorrows to flagellate, Grief might grind my cheeks down, age make sticks of my bones, (Though a queen drowned in tears must be worth more than Madge elate) Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;
IX
My skin might change to a pitiful crone's, My lips to a lizard's, my hair to weed, My features, in fact, to a series of loans; Thus much is conceded; now, you, concede You would hardly salute me by choice, John Jones?