Laurence Housman

Laurence Housman - Verse

        THE CONTINUING CITY

        by: Laurence Housman (1865-1959)

            GOD, who made man out of dust,
            Willed him to be
            Not to known ends, but to trust
            His decree.
             
            This is our city, a soul
            Walled within clay;
            Separate hearts of one whole,
            Bound we obey.
             
            All that He meant us to be,
            Could we discern,--
            Life had no meaning,--or we
            Had not to learn.
             
            Thou, beloved, doubt not the truth
            Eyesight makes dim!
            All life, to age from youth,
            Brings us to Him:
             
            Him Whom thou hast not seen,
            Canst not yet know:
            Human hearts stand between,
            His to foreshow.
             
            Couldst thou possess thine own,
            That were the key;
            He, to Whom hearts are known,
            Keeps it from thee.
             
            Thou all thy days must live,
            Thyself the quest;
            Plucking the heart to give
            From thine own breast.
             
            Till thou, from other eyes,
            At kindred calls,
            Seest thine own towers arise,
            And thine own walls,--
             
            Where, conquering the wide air,
            Peopling its waste,
            Citadels everywhere
            Like stars stand based:
             
            Losing thy soul, thy soul
            Again to find;
            Rendering toward that goal
            Thy separate mind.

Ah! A man's love is strong
When fain he comes a-mating.
But a woman's love is long,
And grows when it is waiting.


-288. Love, the Tempter
By Laurence Housman  (b. 1865)
  
(Season of Lent)

OH, tempt me not! I love too well this snare	
  Of silken cords.	
Nay, Love, the flesh is fair;	
  So tempt me not! This earth affords	
    Too much delight;	        5
    Withdraw Thee from my sight,	
    Lest my weak soul break free	
    And throw me back to Thee!	
 
Thy Face is all too marred. Nay, Love, not I—	
I did not that! Doubtless Thou hadst to die:	       10
  Others did faint for Thee; but I faint not.	
  Only a little while hath sorrow got	
The better of me now; for Thou art grieved,	
    Thinking I need Thee. Oh, Christ, lest I fall	
    Weeping between Thy Feet, and give Thee all:	       15
Oh, Christ, lest love condemn me unreprieved	
Into Thy bondage, be it not believed	
    That Thou hast need of me!	
 
    Dost Thou not know	
  I never turned aside to mock Thy Woe?	       20
I had respect to Thy great love for men:	
Why wilt Thou, then,	
  Question of each new lust—	
  ‘Are these not ashes, and is this not dust?’	
Ah, Love, Thou hast not eyes	       25
  To see how sweet it is!	
Each for himself be wise:	
  Mock not my bliss!	
Ere Thou cam’st troubling, was I not content?	
  Because I pity Thee, and would be glad	       30
  To go mine own way, and not leave Thee sad,	
Is all my comfort spent?	
 
Go Thine own ways, nor dream Thou needest me!	
Yet if, again, Thou on the bitter Tree	
Wert hanging now, with none to succour Thee	       35
  Or run to quench Thy sudden cry of thirst,	
  Would not I be the first—	
Ah, Love, the prize!—	
To lift one cloud of suffering from Thine Eyes?	
 
    Oh, Christ, let be!	       40
Stretch not Thine ever-pleading Hands thus wide,	
Nor with imperious gesture touch Thy Side!	
Past is Thy Calvary. By the Life that died,	
    Oh, tempt not me!	
 
Nay, if Thou weepest, then must I weep too,	       45
Sweet Tempter, Christ! Yet what can I undo,	
  I, the undone, the undone,	
  To comfort Thee, God’s Son?	
Oh, draw me near, and, for some lowest use,	
  That I may be	       50
  Lost and undone in Thee,	
Me from mine own self loose!Laurence Housman
THE PALACES OF THE ROSE

(A VALENTINE)

Which of my palaces? Gold one by one,
Of all the splendid houses of my throne,
This day in grave thought have I over-gone:
Those roofs of stars where I have lived alone
Gladly with God; those blue-encompassed bowers
Hushed round with lakes, and guarded with still flowers,
Where I have watched a face from eve till morn,
Wondering at being born--
Then on from morn again till the next eve,
Still with strange eyes, unable to believe;
And yet, though week and month and year went by.
Incredulous of my ensorcelled eye.
O had I thus in trance for ever stayed,
Still were she there in the reed-girdled isle,
And I there still--I who go treading now
Eternity, a-hungered mile by mile:
Because I pressed one kiss upon her brow,--
After a thousand years that seemed an hour
Of looking on my flower,
After that patient planetary fast,
One kiss at last;
One kiss--and then strange dust that once was she.

Sayest thou, Rose, "What is all this to me?"
This would I answer, if it pleaseth thee,
Thou Rose and Nightingale so strangely one:
That of my palaces, gold one by one,
I fell a-thinking, pondering which to-day,
The day of the Blessed Saint, Saint Valentine,
Which of those many palaces of mine,
I, with bowed head and lowly bended knee,
Might bring to thee.
O which of all my lordly roofs that rise
To kiss the starry skies
May with great beams make safe that golden head,
With all that treasure of hair showered and spread.
Careless as though it were not gold at all--
Yet in the midnight lighting the black hall;
And all that whiteness lying there as though
It were but driven snow.
Pondering on all these pinnacles and towers,
That, as I come with trumpets, call me lord,
And crown their battlements with girlhood flowers,
I can but think of one.  'Twas not my sword
That won it, nor was it aught I did or dreamed,
But O it is a palace worthy thee!
For all about it flows the eternal sea,
A blue moat guarding an immortal queen;
And over it an everlasting crown
That, as the moon comes and the sun goes down,
Adds jewel after jewel, gem on gem,
To the august appropriate diadem
Of her, in whom all potencies that are
Wield sceptres and with quiet hands control,
Kind as that fairy wand the evening star,
Or the strong angel that we call the soul.


Nicholson & Lee, eds.  The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse. 1917.
  
287. The Mystery of the Incarnation
By Laurence Housman  (b. 1865)
  
A DISPUTATION BETWEEN CHRIST AND THE HUMAN FORM
(For the Feast of the Nativity)


COMEST Thou peaceably, O Lord?	
  ‘Yea, I am Peace!	
Be not so fearful to afford	
Thy Maker room! for I am the Reward	
  To which all generations of increase	        5
  Looking did never cease.	
 
‘Down from amid dark wings of storm	
  I set My Feet	
To earth. Will not My earth grow warm	
To feel her Maker take the form	       10
  He made, when now, Creation’s purpose meet,	
  Man’s body is to be God’s Mercy-seat?’	
 
Lord, I am foul: there is no whole	
  Fair part in me	
  Where Thou canst deign to be!	       15
This form is not Thy making, since it stole	
  Fruit from the bitter Tree.	
‘Yet still thou hast the griefs to give in toll	
That I may test the sickness of man’s soul.’	
 
O Lord, my work is without worth!	       20
  I am afraid,	
Lest I should man the blissful Birth.	
Quoth Christ, ‘Ere seas had shores, or earth	
  Foundations laid,	
  My Cross was made!’	       25
 
‘Naught canst thou do that was not willed	
  By Love to be,	
  To bring the Work to pass through Me.	
  No knee	
  Stiffens, or bends before My Sov’reignty,	       30
But from the world’s beginning hath fulfilled	
Its choice betwixt the valleyed and the hilled.	
  For both, at one decree,	
My Blood was spilled.’	
 
Yet canst Thou use these sin-stained hands?	       35
  ‘These hands,’ quoth Christ,	
  ‘Of them I make My need:	
Since they sufficed to forge the bands	
  Wherein I hunger, they shall sow the seed!	
  And with bread daily they shall feed	       40
My Flesh till, bought and bound, It stands	
  A Sacrifice to bleed.’	
 
Lord, let this house be swept and garnished first!	
  For fear lest sin	
  Do there look in,	       45
Let me shut fast the windows: lest Thou thirst,	
Make some pure inner well of waters burst:	
  For no sweet water can man’s delving win—	
Earth is so curst.	
Also bar up the door: Thou wilt do well	       50
To dwell, whilst with us, anchorite in Thy cell.	
 
Christ said ‘Let be: leave wide	
  All ports to grief!	
Here when I knock I will not be denied	
The common lot of all that here abide;	       55
  Were I so blinded, I were blind in chief:	
  How should I see to bring the blind relief?	
 
Wilt Thou so make Thy dwelling? Then I fear	
Man, after this, shall dread to enter here:	
For all the inner courts will be so bright,	       60
He shall be dazzled with excess of light,	
  And turn, and flee!	
‘But from his birth I will array him right,	
And lay the temple open for his sight,	
  And say to help him, as I bid him see:	       65
  “This is for thee!” ’

        A PRAYER FOR THE HEALING OF THE WOUNDS OF CHRIST

             I S not the work done? Nay, for still the Scars
            Are open; still Earth’s Pain stands deified,
            With Arms spread wide:
            And still, like falling stars,
            Its Blood-drops strike the doorposts, where abide
            The watchers with the Bride,
            To wait the final coming of their kin,
            And hear the sound of kingdoms gathering in.
             
            While Earth wears wounds, still must Christ’s Wounds remain,
            Whom Love made Life, and of Whom Life made Pain,
            And of Whom Pain made Death.
            No breath,
            Without Him, sorrow draws; no feet
            Wax weary, and no hands hard labour bear,
            But He doth wear
            The travail and the heat:
            Also, for all things perishing, He saith,
            ‘My grief, My pain, My death.’
             
            O kindred Constellation of bright stars,
            Ye shall not last for aye!
            Far off there dawns a comfortable day
            Of healing for those Scars:
            When, faint in glory, shall be wiped away
            Each planetary fire,
            Now, all the aching way the balm of Earth’s desire!
            For from the healèd nations there shall come
            The healing touch: the blind, the lamed, the dumb,
            With sight, and speed, and speech,
            And ardent reach
            Of yearning hands shall cover up from sight
            Those Imprints of a night
            Forever past. And all the Morians’ lands
            Shall stretch out hands of healing to His Hands.
            While to His Feet
            The timid, sweet
            Four-footed ones of earth shall come and lay,
            Forever by, the sadness of their day:
            And, they being healed, healing spring from them.
            So for the Stem
            And Rod of Jesse, roots and trees and flowers,
            Touched with compassionate powers,
            Shall cause the thorny Crown
            To blossom down
            Laurel and bay.
             
            So lastly to His Side,
            Stricken when, from the Body that had died,
            Going down He saw sad souls being purified,
            Shall rise, out of the deeps no man
            Can sound or scan,
            The morning star of Heaven that once fell
            And fashioned Hell:--
            Now, star to star
            Mingling to melt where shadeless glories are.
             
            O Earth, seek deep, and gather up thy soul,
            And come from high and low, and near and far,
            And make Christ whole!

A Dead Warrior

      HERE sown to dust lies one that drave             
          The furrow through his heart; 
      Now, of the fields he died to save
          His own dust forms a part.

      Where went the tramp of martial feet,
          The blare of trumpets loud, 
      Comes silence with her winding sheet,
          And shadow with her shroud.

      His mind no longer counsel takes,
          No sword his hand need draw, 
      Across whose borders peace now makes
          Inviolable law.

      So, with distraction round him stilled,
          Now let him be content! 
      And time from age to age shall build
          His standing monument.

      Not here, where strife, and greed, and lust
          Grind up the bones of men; 
      But in that safe and secret dust
           Which shall not rise again.

          Laurence Housman



SUMMER NIGHT

Light, like a closing flower, covers to earth her herds,
  Out of the world we only watch for the rise of moon;
Darker the twilight glimmers, dulls the warble of birds,
  Over the silent field travels the night-jar's tune.

Here, at my side, so close that even your breath I hear,
  Face and form that I love, now with the night made one,
Pray not for any star! Come not, O moon, for fear
  Lest in thy light we lose our way ere the dream be done.

Touch, and clasp, and be close! Kiss, oh kiss, and be warm!
  What is here, O beloved, so like a sea without sound?
Under the swathe at our feet, swifter than wings of storm,
  Summer speeds on his way: Spring lies dead in the ground.

How like a closing flower, clasped by a sleeping bee,
  Life folds over us now:--and here in the midst love lies.
O beloved, O flower of night, no morrow's moon shall we see:
  Between a dusk and a day we meet, and at dawn Time dies!



Thou splendid girl that seemest the mother of all,
Dear Ceres-Aphrodite, with every lure
That draws the bee to honey, with the call
Of moth-winged night to sinners, yet as pure
As the white nun that counts the stars for beads;
Thou blest Madonna of all broken needs,
Thou Melusine, thou sister of sorrowing man,
Thou wave-like laughter, thou dear sob in the throat,
Thou all-enfolding mercy, and thou song
That gathers up each wild and wandering note,
And takes and breaks and heals and breaks the heart
With the omnipotent tenderness of art;
And thou Intelligence of rose-leaves made
That makes that little thing the brain afraid.

For thee my Castle of the Spring prepares:
On the four winds are sped my couriers,
For thee the towered trees are hung with green;
Once more for thee, O queen,
The banquet hall with ancient tapestry
Of woven vines grows fair and still more fair.
And ah! how in the minstrel gallery
Again there is the sudden string and stir
Of music touching the old instruments,
While on the ancient floor
The rushes as of yore
Nymphs of the house of spring plait for your feet--
Ancestral ornaments.
And everywhere a hurrying to and fro,
And whispers saying, "She is so sweet--so sweet";
O violets, be ye not too late to blow,
O daffodils be fleet:
For, when she comes, all must be in its place,
All ready for her entrance at the door,
All gladness and all glory for her face,
All flowers for her flower-feet a floor;
And, for her sleep at night in that great bed
Where her great locks are spread,
O be ye ready, ye young woodland streams
To sing her back her dreams.


PEACE

June 28th, 1919

From the tennis lawn you can hear the guns going,
    Twenty miles away,
Telling the people of the home counties
    That the peace was signed to-day.
To-night there'll be feasting in the city;
    They will drink deep and eat--
Keep peace the way you planned you would keep it
    (If we got the Boche beat).
Oh, your plan and your word, they are broken,
    For you neither dine nor dance;
And there's no peace so quiet, so lasting,
    As the peace you keep in France.

You'll be needing no Covenant of Nations
    To hold your peace intact.
It does not hang on the close guarding
    Of a frail and wordy pact.
When ours screams, shattered and driven,
    Dust down the storming years,
Yours will stand stark, like a grey fortress,
    Blind to the storm's tears.

Our peace ... your peace ... I see neither.
    They are a dream, and a dream.
I only see you laughing on the tennis lawn;
    And brown and alive you seem,
As you stoop over the tall red foxglove,
    (It flowers again this year)
And imprison within a freckled bell
    A bee, wild with fear....

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh, you cannot hear the noisy guns going:
    You sleep too far away.
It is nothing to you, who have your own peace,
    That our peace was signed to-day.