THE CITY OF THE SOUL

SONNETS BY LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS

Preface to third edition

This volume of poetry has been out of print since the middle of the year 1900, and the present edition has been issued in response to a steady demand, from both public and private sources, extending over the intervening years. My first impulse would have driven me to make large revisions in the text and to cut out altogether several pieces, but on further consideration I have decided to leave the text practically unaltered and to cut out nothing. These poems are the poems of extreme and comparative youtfy, and the interest they possess would, I believe, be impaired by revisions which a more matured technical knowledge and a great alteration in point of view would dictate. Chronologically the order of the poems, left exactly as in the former editions, should be, roughly speaking, reversed. That is to say, the first fifteen poems down to Le Balcon were written at a considerably later period of time than the remainder, some of which were written while I was still an undergraduate at Oxford.

Poetry is the expression of that which cannot be said in prose. The only excuse for writing poetry is that one has something to say which cannot possibly be said in prose. To write or attempt to write poetry for any other reason is to sin against the high muses. A rigid application of this touchstone to the mass of contemporary poetry would have the result of wiping out at least ninety per cent, of it from the necessity of consideration, which would be a very good thing indeed. I am quite prepared to accept the consequences of its application to my own poetry, and to admit that some of the pieces in the latter part of this volume would not survive it. That is not to say that even the first fifteen poems in the book, and the survivors from the remainder, may not contain certain blemishes. But it is no part of my duty to point them out; and having abandoned the idea of revision and excision I must leave the whole book to stand or fall, that is, live or die, on its merits. I am under no temptation to make any effort to disarm criticism.

This book was originally published anonymously, and it was received by the critics in a way which at the time pleased me and astonished me, and if I add a few remarks upon certain aspects of my own work, and poetry generally, I beg that it may not be counted to me either for egotism or for protest against anticipated judgments. Merely as a matter of fact I wish to say that all the good poetry in this book was written in absolute sincerity, and in response to an intolerable craving to give expression to certain feelings and emotions which could not be expressed in prose. I have never in my life deliberately sat down to try to epater the multitude either by shocking them or by pandering to their taste. Again, in writing poetry I have never attempted to perform what certain persons would have one believe to be the essential task of a “great” poet as opposed to a “minor” poet, namely, to “strike a new note.” I do not believe that any real poet since the days of the Elizabethans has tried to do it. Why should he ? What the poet wishes to do is to go on writing poetry where the last poet left off. He wishes to strike beautiful notes, not new notes. He can well afford to leave the new note-striking business to Mr Bernard Shaw. Needless to say I am not trying to praise or defend plagiarism. What I mean is that the medium of poetry remains eternally the same once a language has arrived at its highest point. It is impossible to improve on the language of Shakespeare and the other Elizabethan poets, nor is it at all necessary even to vary their subject-matter. Just as all the plays that have ever been written are different variations of some dozen well-defined and easily recognised plots, so all poetry is eternally occupied with variations on the same themes of Love, Joy, Sorrow, Desire, Regret, Remorse and the rest.

People who try to strike a new note in poetry invariably strike the wrong note. The same holds good in music and painting, but I have no space to elaborate my theory—surely a very obvious one—in this preface, and must simply crystallise it by saying that to ask or expect a poet to strike a new note in poetry is exactly like asking or expecting the Nightingale to strike a new note in her perennial song. In conclusion I should like to say that, although I did not know it and would not have believed it when I wrote these poems, it is my firm conviction that all good art is necessarily on the side of the angels, and that the true poet, whether he knows it or not at the time he is writing, is always on the side of the angels.

ALFRED BRUCE DOUGLAS.

Proem for the third edition

How have we fared my soul across the days, 

Through what green valleys, confident and fleet, 

Along what paths of flint with how tired feet? 

Anon we knew the terror that dismays 

At noonday; and when night made dark the ways 

We bought delight and found remembrance sweet. 

Though in our ears we heard the wide wings beat 

Ever we kept dumb mouths to prayer and praise.

Yet never lost or spurned or cast aside,

And never sundered from the love of God, 

Through how-so wayward intricate deceits 

Lured by what shining toys our charmed feet trod, 

On the swift winds we saw bright angels ride,

And strayed into the moon-made silver streets.

The city of the soul

I

In the salt terror of a stormy sea 

There are high attitudes the mind forgets;

And undesired days are hunting nets 

To snare the souls that fly Eternity.

But we being gods will never bend the knee, 

Though sad moons shadow every sun that sets, 

And tears of sorrow be like rivulets 

To feed the shallows of Humility.

Within my soul are some mean gardens found 

Where drooped flowers are, and unsung melodies,

And all companioning of piteous things.

But in the midst is one high terraced ground, 

Where level lawns sweep through the stately trees

And the great peacocks walk like painted kings.

II

What shall we do, my soul, to please the King?

Seeing he hath no pleasure in the dance,

And hath condemned the honeyed utterance 

Of silver flutes and mouths made round to sing.

Along the wall red roses climb and cling,

And oh! my prince, lift up thy countenance, 

For there be thoughts like roses that entrance 

More than the languors of soft lute-playing.

Think how the hidden things that poets see 

In amber eves or mornings crystalline,

Hide in the soul their constant quenchless light,

Till, called by some celestial alchemy,

Out of forgotten depths, they rise and shine 

Like buried treasure on Midsummer night.

III

The fields of Phantasy are all too wide,

My soul runs through them like an untamed thing.

It leaps the brooks like threads, and skirts the ring

Where fairies danced, and tenderer flowers hide. 

The voice of music has become the bride 

Of an imprisoned bird with broken wing.

What shall we do, my soul, to please the King,

We that are free, with ample wings untied?

We cannot wander through the empty fields 

Till beauty like a hunter hurl the lance.

There are no silver snares and springes set, 

Nor any meadow where the plain ground yields. 

O let us then with ordered utterance,

Forge the gold chain and twine the silken net.

IV

Each new hour’s passage is the acolyte 

Of inarticulate song and syllable,

And every passing moment is a bell,

To mourn the death of undiscerned delight.

Where is the sun that made the noon-day bright,

And where the midnight moon? 

O let us tell, In long carved line and painted parable,

How the white road curves down into the night.

Only to build one crystal barrier

Against this sea which beats upon our days;

To ransom one lost moment with a rhyme!

Or if fate cries and grudging gods demur,

To clutch Life’s hair, and thrust one naked phrase

Like a lean knife between the ribs of Time.

The ballad of saint Vitus

Vltus came tripping over the grass

When all the leaves in the trees were green, 

Through the green meadows he did pass 

On the day he was full seventeen.

The lark was singing up over his head,

As he went by so lithe and fleet,

And the flowers danced in white and red 

At the treading of his nimble feet.

His neck was as brown as the brown earth is

When first the young brown plough-boys delve it,

And his lips were as red as mulberries

And his eyes were like the soft black velvet.

His silk brown hair was touched with bronze, 

And his brown cheeks had the tender hue 

That like a dress the brown earth dons 

When the pink carnations bloom anew.

He was slim as the reeds that sway all along 

The banks of the lake, and as straight as a rush,

And as he passed he sang a song,

And his voice was as sweet as the voice of a thrush.

He sang of the Gardens of Paradise,

And the light of God that never grows dim,

And the Cherubim with their radiant eyes, 

And the rainbow wings of the Seraphim.

And the host as countless as all days,

That worships there, and ceases not,

Singing and praising God always,

With lute and flute and angelot.

And the blessed light of Mary’s face 

As she sits among these pleasant sounds, 

And Christ that is the Prince of Grace,

And the five red flowers that be His wounds.

And so he went till he came to the doors 

Of the ivory house of his father the King, 

And all through the golden corridors,

As he passed along, he ceased to sing.

But a pagan priest had seen him pass,

And heard his voice as he went along 

Through the fields of the bending grass,

And he heard the words of the holy song.

And he sought the King where he sat on his throne,

And the tears of wrath were in his eyes,

And he said, “O Sire, be it known 

That thy son singeth in this wise:

“Of the blessed light of Mary’s face 

As she sits amidst sweet pleasant sounds,

And how that Christ is the Prince of Grace,

And hath five flowers that be His wounds.”

And when the King had heard this thing,

His brow grew black as a winter night,

And he bade the pages seek and bring 

Straightway the prince before his sight.

And Vitus came before the King,

And the King cried out, “I pray thee, Son, 

Sing now the song that thou didst sing 

When thou cam’st through the fields anon.”

And the face of the prince grew white as milk, 

And he answered nought, but under the band 

That held his doublet of purple silk 

Round his slight waist, he thrust his hand.

And the King picked up a spear, and cried,

“What hast thou there? by the waters of Styx,

Speak or I strike, and the boy replied,

“Sweet Sire, it is a crucifix.”

And the King grew black with rage and grief, 

And for full a moment he spake no word.

And the spear in his right hand shook like a leaf, 

And the vein on his brow was a tight blue cord.

Then he laughed and said, in bitter scorn, 

“Take me this Christian fool from my sight, 

Lock him in the turret till the morn,

And let him dance alone to-night.

“He shall sit in the dark while the courtly ball 

All the gay night sweeps up and down 

On the polished floor of the golden hall,

And thus shall he win his martyr’s crown.”

Thus spake the King, and the courtiers smiled,

And Vitus hung his head for shame;

And he thought, “I am punished like a child,

That would have died for Christ’s dear Name.”

And so Iwas done, and on that night,

While silk and sword, with fan and flower,

Danced in the hall in the golden light,

Prince Vitus sat in the lone dark tower.

But the King bethought him, and was moved,

Ere the short summer night was done,

And his hearts blood yearned for the son he loved,

His dainty prince, his only son.

And all alone he climbed the stair,

With the tired feet of a sceptred King,

And came to the door, and lo! he was ’ware

Of the sound of flute and lute-playing.

And as the King stood there amazed,

The iron door flew open wide,

And the King fell down on his knees as he gazed

At the wondrous thing he saw inside.

For the room was filled with a soft sweet light

Of ambergris and apricot,

And round the walls were angels bright,

With lute and flute and angelot.

On lute and angelot they played,

With their gold heads bowed upon the strings, 

And the soft wind that the slim flutes made, 

Stirred in the feathers of their wings.

And in the midst serene and sweet 

With God’s light on his countenance 

Was Vitus, with his gold shod feet,

Dancing in a courtly dance.

And round him were archangels four,

Michael, who guards God’s citadel,

Raphael, whom children still implore,

And Gabriel and Uriel.

Thus long ago was Christ’s behest,

And the saving grace that His red wounds be,

Unto this king made manifest,

And all his land of Sicily.

God sits within the highest Heaven, 

His mercy neither tires nor faints,

All good gifts that may be given,

He gives unto His holy Saints.

This was the joy that Vitus gat;

To dance with Angels knee by knee, 

Before he came to man’s estate:

God send us all such Company.

Amen.

The Travelling Companion

Into the silence of the empty night

I went, and took my scorned heart with me

And all the thousand eyes of heaven were bright;

But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.

I turned my weary eyes towards the sun,

Out of the leaden East like smoke came he.

I laughed and said, “The night is past and done”;

But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.

I turned my face towards the rising moon,

Out of the south she came most sweet to see, 

She smiled upon my eyes that loathed the noon;

But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.

I bent my eyes upon the summer land,

And all the painted fields were ripe for me, 

And every flower nodded to my hand;

But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.

O Love! O Sorrow! O desired Despair!

I turn my feet towards the boundless sea,

Into the dark I go and heed not where,

So that I come again at last to thee.

A Triad Of The Moon

I

Last night my window played with one moonbeam,

And I lay watching till sleep came, and stole 

Over my eyelids, and she brought a shoal 

Of hurrying thoughts that were her troubled team,

And in the weary ending of a dream 

I found this word upon a candid scroll:

“The nightingale is like a poet’s soul,

She finds fierce pain in miseries that seem.”

Ah me, methought, that she should so devise!

To seek for pain and sing such doleful bars,

That the wood aches and simple flowers cry, 

And sea-green tears drench mortal lovers’ eyes,

She that is made the lure of those young stars

That hang like golden spiders in the sky.

II

That she should so devise, to find such lore 

Of sighful song and piteous psalmody,

While Joy runs on through summer greenery, 

And all Delight is like an open door.

Must then her liquid notes for evermore 

Repeat the colour of sad things, and be 

Distilled like cassia drops of agony,

From the slow anguish of a heart’s bruised core?

Nay, she weeps not because she knows sad songs,

But sings because she weeps; for wilful food

Of her sad singing, she will still decoy 

The sweetness that to happy things belongs. 

All night with artful woe she holds the wood, 

And all the summer day with natural joy.

III

My soul is like a silent nightingale 

Devising sorrow in a summer night.

Closed eyes in blazing noon put out the light,

And Hell lies in the thickness of a veil.

In every voiceless moment sleeps a wail,

And all the lonely darknesses are bright,

And every dawning of the day is white 

With shapes of sorrow fugitive and frail.

My soul is like a flower whose honey-bees 

Are pains that sting and suck the sweets untold,

My soul is like an instrument of strings;

I must stretch these to capture harmonies,

And to find songs like buried dust of gold,

Delve with the nightingale for sorrowful things.

Sonnet On The Sonnet

To see the moment holds a madrigal,

To find some cloistered place, some hermitage 

For free devices, some deliberate cage 

Wherein to keep wild thoughts like birds in thrall;

To eat sweet honey and to taste black gall,

To fight with form, to wrestle and to rage,

Till at the last upon the conquered page 

The shadows of created Beauty fall.

This is the sonnet, this is all delight 

Of every flower that blows in every Spring,

And all desire of every desert place;

This is the joy that fills a cloudy night 

When, bursting from her misty following, 

A perfect moon wins to an empty space.

The Legend Of Spinello Of Arezzo

Spinello of Arezzo long ago,

A cunning painter, made a large design 

To grace the choir of St Angelo.

Therein he pictured the exploits divine 

Of the Archangel Michael, beautiful 

Exceedingly, in wrath most terrible,

Until at last that holy place was full 

Of warring angels; and that one who fell 

From the high places of the highest 

Heaven Into the deep abyss of lowest Hell,

He pictured too, in mad disaster driven 

Before the conquering hosts of Paradise.

And him the painter drew in uncouth shape,

A foul misshappen monster with fierce eyes,

Of hideous form, half demon and half ape.

And lo! it fell out as he slept one night,

His soul, in the sad neutral land of dreams 

That lies between the darkness and the light, 

Was ’ware of one whose eyes were soft as beams

Of summer moonlight, and withal as sad.

Dark was his colour, and as black his hair

As hyacinths by night, his sweet lips had 

A curve as piteous as sweet lovers wear

When they have lost their loves; so fair was he, 

So melancholy, yet withal so proud,

He seemed a prince whose woes might move a tree

To find a tearful voice and weep aloud.

He spoke, his voice was tunable and mellow, 

But soft as are the western winds that stir 

The summer leaves, and thus he said, 

“Spinello, Why dost thou wrong me.? I am Lucifer.”

Spring

Wake up again, sad heart, wake up again!

(I heard the birds this morning singing sweet.)

Wake up again! The sky was crystal clear, 

And washed quite clean with rain;

And far below my heart stirred with the year,

Stirred with the year and sighed. O pallid feet

Move now at last, O heart that sleeps with pain

Rise up and hear

The voices in the valleys, run to meet

The songs and shadows. O wake up again!

Put out green leaves, dead tree, put out green leaves!

(Last night the moon was soft and kissed the air.)

Put out green leaves! The moon was in the skies,

All night she wakes and weaves.

The dew was on the grass like fairies’ eyes,

Like fairies’ eyes. O tree so black and bare,

Remember all the fruits the full gold sheaves;

For nothing dies,

The songs that are, are silences that were,

Summer was Winter. O put out green leaves

Break through the earth, pale flower, break through the earth!

(All day the lark has sung a madrigal.)

Break through the earth that lies not lightly yet

And waits thy patient birth,

Waits for the jonquil and the violet,

The violet. Full soon the heavy pall 

Will be a bed, and in the noon of mirth 

Some rivulet

Will bubble in my wilderness, some call 

Will touch my silence. 

O break through the earth.