Selected Poems. Brooke Rupert

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      Safe in the magic of my woods

      I lay, and watched the dying light.

      Faint in the pale high solitudes,

      And washed with rain and veiled by night,

      Silver and blue and green were showing.

      And the dark woods grew darker still;

      And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;

      And quietness crept up the hill;

      And no wind was blowing …

      And I knew

      That this was the hour of knowing,

      And the night and the woods and you

      Were one together, and I should find

      Soon in the silence the hidden key

      Of all that had hurt and puzzled me —

      Why you were you, and the night was kind,

      And the woods were part of the heart of me.

      And there I waited breathlessly,

      Alone; and slowly the holy three,

      The three that I loved, together grew

      One, in the hour of knowing,

      Night, and the woods, and you —

      And suddenly

      There was an uproar in my woods,

      The noise of a fool in mock distress,

      Crashing and laughing and blindly going,

      Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,

      And a Voice profaning the solitudes.

      The spell was broken, the key denied me.

      And at length your flat clear voice beside me

      Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.

      You came and quacked beside me in the wood.

      You said, "The view from here is very good!"

      You said, "It's nice to be alone a bit!"

      And, "How the days are drawing out!" you said.

      You said, "The sunset's pretty, isn't it?"

      By God! I wish – I wish that you were dead!

      Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke

      To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate

      On that adulterous whore a ten years' hate

      And a king's honour. Through red death, and smoke,

      And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode,

      Till the still innermost chamber fronted him.

      He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim

      Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.

      High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.

      He had not remembered that she was so fair,

      And that her neck curved down in such a way;

      And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,

      And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,

      The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.

      So far the poet. How should he behold

      That journey home, the long connubial years?

      He does not tell you how white Helen bears

      Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold,

      Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold

      Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys

      'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice

      Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.

      Often he wonders why on earth he went

      Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came.

      Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;

      Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.

      So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;

      And Paris slept on by Scamander side.

      The stars, a jolly company,

      I envied, straying late and lonely;

      And cried upon their revelry:

      "O white companionship! You only

      In love, in faith unbroken dwell,

      Friends radiant and inseparable!"

      Light-heart and glad they seemed to me

      And merry comrades (even so

      God out of Heaven may laugh to see

      The happy crowds; and never know

      That in his lone obscure distress