Title: Twenty
Author: Benson, Stella, 1892-1933
Language: English
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TWENTY

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 _Athenaeum, 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
                                                             PAGE

CHRISTMAS, 1917                                                 1
THE SECRET DAY                                                  3
SONG                                                            6
THE ORCHARD                                                     8
THANKS TO MY WORLD FOR THE LOAN OF A FAIR DAY                  11
SONG                                                           13
WORDS                                                          15
REDNECK'S SONG                                                 17
TO THE UNBORN                                                  19
THE NEWER ZION                                                 21
TWO WOMEN SING                                                 26
THE WOMAN ALONE                                                28
THE INEVITABLE                                                 30
THE DOG TUPMAN                                                 32
SAINT BRIDE                                                    34
THE SLAVE OF GOD                                               36
TRUE PROMISES                                                  40
THE CORNISHMAN                                                 43
FIVE SMOOTH STONES                                             45
NEW YEAR, 1918                                                 51



  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
  About the poor brown streets like smoke;
  The deep air stands above my roof
  Like water, to the floating stars.
  My Friend and I--we sit aloof,--
  We sit and smile, and bind our scars.

  For you may wound and you may kill--
  It's such a little thing to die--
  Your cruel God may work his will,
  We do not care, my Friend and I.
  Though, at the gate of Paradise,
  Peter the Saint withhold his keys,
  My Friend and I--we have no eyes
  For Heav'n or Hell--or dreams like these....



  THE INEVITABLE


  _There is a sword, a fatal blade,
  Unthwarted, subtle as the air,
  And I could meet it unafraid
  If I might only meet it fair.
  Yet how I wonder why the Smith
  Who wrought that steel of subtle grain
  Should also be contented with
  So blunt and mean a thing as pain_.

  The stars and fire-flies dance in rings.
  The fire-flies set my heart alight,
  Like fingers, writing magic things
  In flame, upon the wall of night.
  There is high meaning in the skies--
  (The stars and fire-flies--high and low--)
  And all the spangled world is wise
  With knowledge that I almost know.

  To-morrow I will don my cloak
  Of opal-grey, and I will stand
  Where the palm-shadows stride like smoke
  Across the dazzle of the sand.
  To-morrow I will throw this blind
  Blind whiteness from my soul away,
  And pluck this blackness from my mind,
  And only leave the medium--grey.

  To-morrow I will cry for gains
  Upon the blue and brazen sky.
  The precious venom in my veins
  To-morrow will be parched and dry.
  To-morrow it shall be my goal
  To throw myself away from me,
  To lose the outline of my soul
  Against the greyness of the sea.



  THE DOG TUPMAN


  Oh little friend of half my days,
  My little friend, who followed me
  Along those crooked sullen ways
  That only you had eyes to see.

  You felt the same. You understood
  You too, defensive and morose,
  Encloaked your secret puppyhood--
  Your secret heart--and hid them close.

  For I alone have seen you serve,
  Disciple of those early springs,
  With ears awry and tail a-curve
  You lost yourself in puppy things.

  And you saw me. You bore in mind
  The clean and sunny things I felt
  When, throwing hate along the wind,
  I flashed the lantern at my belt.

  The moment passed, and we returned
  To barren words and old cold truth,
  Yet in our hearts our lanterns burned,
  We two had seen each other's youth.

  When filthy pain did wrap me round
  Your upright ears I always saw,
  And on my outflung hand I found
  The blessing of your horny paw;

  And yet--oh impotence of men--
  My paw, more soft but not more wise,
  Old friend, was lacking to you when
  You looked your crisis in the eyes....

  You shared my youth, oh faithful friend,
  You let me share your puppyhood;
  So, if I failed you in the end,
  My friend, my friend, you understood.



  SAINT BRIDE


  About your brow a starry wreath,
  About your feet a wilderness,
  Where young hot hopes grow cold beneath
  The tangled bondage of the press.
  Set like a saint within a niche--
  A strait and narrow niche--you hide,
  And weave a veil about you, which
  Can turn our steel, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

  The eyes of coarse and pond'rous man
  Are sceptic and satirical.
  "_What, little saint, and still you scan
  Old heaven for that miracle?_"
  Oh heart deceived, yet harmèd not,
  Child-widow of a truth that died,
  Bearer in mind of things forgot,
  Bride of a dream, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

  About you and about you thunders
  The wise young public on its 'bus,
  Exploding all your faery blunders,
  Explaining neatly--"_Thus and thus
  Hath science banished heaven now,
  And see--your Groom is crucified--_"
  On heaven's breast you lean your brow
  And laugh, and love--Saint Bride, Saint Bride.



  THE SLAVE OF GOD


      The finest fruit God ever made
      Hangs from the Tree of Heaven blue.
      It hangs above the steel sea blade
      That cuts the world's great globe in two.

      The keenest eye that ever saw
      Stares out of Heaven into mine,
      Spins out my heart, and seems to draw
      My soul's elastic very fine.

      The greatest beacon ever fired
      Stands up on Heaven's Hill to show
      The limit of the thing desired,
      Beyond which man may never go.

       *       *       *       *       *       *

      At midnight, when the night did dance
      Along the hours that led to morning,
      I saw a little boat advance
      Towards the great moon's beacon warning.

      (The moon, God's Slave, who lights her torch,
      Lest men should slip between the bars,
      And run aground on Heav'n, and scorch
      To death upon a bank of stars.)

      The little boat, on leaning keel,
      Sang up the mountains of the sea,
      Bearing a man who hoped to steal
      God's Slave from out eternity.


  "_My love, I see you through my tears.
  No pity in your face I see.
  I have sailed far across the years:
  Stretch out, stretch out your arms to me._

  "_My love, I have an island seen,
  So shadowed, God's most piercing star
  Shall never see where we have been,
  Shall never whisper where we are._

  "_There we will wander, you and I,
  Down guilty and delightful ways,
  While palm-trees plait their fingers high
  Against your God's enormous gaze._

  "_For oh--the joy of two and two
  Your Paradise shall never see,
  The ecstasy of me and you,
  The white delight of you and me._

  "_I know the penalty--the clutch
  Of God's great rocks upon my keel.
  Drowned in the ocean of Too Much--
  So ends your thief--yet let me steal...._"

      The Slave of God she froze her face,
      The Slave of God she paid no heed,
      And, thund'ring down high Heaven's space,
      Loud angels mocked the sailor's greed.

      The diamond sun arose, and tossed
      A billion gems across the sea.
  "_The Slave of God is lost, is lost,
  The Slave of God is lost to me...._"

      He grounded on the common beach,
      He trod the little towns of men,
      And God removèd from his reach
      The cup of Heaven's passion then,
      And gave him vulgar love and speech,
      And gave him threescore years and ten.



  TRUE PROMISES


  You promised War and Thunder and Romance.
  You promised true, but we were very blind
  And very young, and in our ignorance
  We never called to mind
  That truth is seldom kind.

  You promised love, immortal as a star.
  You promised true, yet how the truth can lie!
  For now we grope for hands where no hands are,
  And, deathless, still we cry,
  Nor hope for a reply.

  You promised harvest and a perfect yield.
  You promised true, for on the harvest morn,
  Behold a reaper strode across the field,
  And man of woman born
  Was gathered in as corn.

  You promised honour and ordeal by flame.
  You promised true. In joy we trembled lest
  We should be found unworthy when it came;
  But--oh--we never guessed
  The fury of the test!

  You promised friends and songs and festivals.
  You promised true. Our friends, who still are young,
  Assemble for their feasting in those halls
  Where speaks no human tongue.
  And thus our songs are sung.



  THE CORNISHMAN


  At sunset, when the high sea span
  About the rocks a web of foam,
  I saw the ghost of a Cornishman
  Come home.
  I saw the ghost of a Cornishman
  Run from the weariness of war,
  I heard him laughing as he ran
  Across his unforgotten shore.
  The great cliff, gilded by the west,
  Received him as an honoured guest.
  The green sea, shining in the bay,
  Did drown his dreadful yesterday.

  Come home, come home, you million ghosts,
  The honest years shall make amends,
  The sun and moon shall be your hosts,
  The everlasting hills your friends.
  And some shall seek their mothers' faces,
  And some shall run to trysting places,
  And some to towns, and others yet
  Shall find great forests in their debt.
    Oh, I would siege the golden coasts
    Of  space, and climb high heaven's dome,
    So I might see those million ghosts
    Come home.



  FIVE SMOOTH STONES


  It was young David, lord of sheep and cattle,
  Pursued his fate, the April fields among,
  Singing a song of solitary battle,
  A loud mad song, for he was very young.

  Vivid the air--and something more than vivid,--
  Tall clouds were in the sky--and something more,--
  The light horizon of the spring was livid
  With a steel smile that showed the teeth of war.

  It was young David mocked the Philistine.
  It was young David laughed beside the river.
  There came his mother--his and yours and mine--
  With five smooth stones, and dropped them in his quiver.

  You never saw so green-and-gold a fairy.
  You never saw such very April eyes.
  She sang him sorrow's song to make him wary,
  She gave him five smooth stones to make him wise.

  _The first stone is love, and that shall fail you.
  The second stone is hate, and that shall fail you.
  The third stone is knowledge, and that shall fail you.
  The fourth stone is prayer, and that shall fail you.
  The fifth stone shall not fail you_.

  For what is love, O lovers of my tribe?
  And what is love, O women of my day?
  Love is a farthing piece, a bloody bribe
  Pressed in the palm of God--and thrown away.

  And what is hate, O fierce and unforgiving?
  And what shall hate achieve, when all is said?
  A silly joke that cannot reach the living,
  A spitting in the faces of the dead.

  And what is knowledge, O young men who tasted
  The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree?
  Knowledge is but a painful effort wasted,
  A bitter drowning in a bitter sea.

  And what is prayer, O waiters for the answer?
  And what is prayer, O seekers of the cause?
  Prayer is the weary soul of Herod's dancer,
  Dancing before blind kings without applause.

  The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David,
  Made up of fear and failure, lies and loss.
  Its heart is lead, and on its face is gravèd
  A crookèd cross, my son, a crookèd cross.

  It has no dignity to lend it value;
  No purity--alas, it bears a stain.
  You shall not give it gratitude, nor shall you
  Recall it all your days, except with pain.

  Oh, bless your blindness, glory in your groping!
  Mock at your betters with an upward chin!
  And when the moment has gone by for hoping,
  Sling your fifth stone, O son of mine, and win.

  Grief do I give you, grief and dreadful laughter;
  Sackcloth for banner, ashes in your wine.
  Go forth, go forth, nor ask me what comes after;
  The fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine.

  GO FORTH, GO FORTH, AND SLAY THE PHILISTINE.



  NEW YEAR, 1918


  A song I never heard
  I must rehearse,
  Counting each hour a word,
  Counting each day a verse.
  Not of my proper choice
  Raise I my voice,
  While others--fierce and strong--
  Raise theirs to drown my song.

  Must I then sing aloud,
  Faint as a bird,
  And, like a bird, be proud
  To sing--to sing unheard?
  Weary and very weak,
  Shall I then seek
  A hearing, idiot-wise,
  From the unhearing skies?

  Drowning my whispered dreams,
  Great voices cry.
  They sing their songs, it seems,
  With better heart than I.
  Hush--I can hear Death sing--
  "_Here is my sting_."
  And the Grave echo--"_See,
  Here is my victory_"

  To-night the heavens bend
  A little nearer.
  The singer is my friend,
  And I--at last--the hearer.
  No more to sing alone
  A song unknown,--
  Hush--very tense and thin,
  The dawn-like notes begin.


       *       *       *       *       *



  Crown 8vo. 6s. net.

  I POSE

  BY

  STELLA BENSON

  Sir Henry Lucy  writes: "One of the brightest, most original, and
  best-written books that have come my way for a long time."

  "Even the dullest can hardly fail to respond to the brilliant
  humour of the book. As the mature work of an experienced author it
  would have been a remarkable achievement; being 'the first book of
  a new writer' it is an astonishing performance."--_Daily Graphic_.

  "This book is a fantasy, an absurdity, a dream charged with
  purpose; it has wit and humour, and some deep feeling covered with
  the gossamer of irresponsibility; it is an act of rebellion, an
  edged complaint, a protest touched with flame.... There are
  epigrams and sentences that read like a sob or a stab."--_ Daily
  Chronicle._

  "For its sheer cleverness the book is a delightful thing."--_Daily
  News_.


  LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.



  Crown 8vo.  6s. net.

  THIS IS THE END

  BY

  STELLA BENSON

  "Miss Benson has a delicious sense of humour, and her way of
  describing people and things is most refreshing. With her
  sympathy, her realism, her wit and ability, it would seem that
  Miss Benson's possibilities are limitless."--_The Bookman_.

  "In her second book she not only makes good, but betrays a
  ripening talent."--_Daily Telegraph._

  "The book shows one thing very clearly, that Miss Benson is a
  force to be reckoned with."--_Pall Mall Gazette_.

  "It is the second step of a very brilliant beginning ... You will
  be foolish if you miss this book."--_Punch_.

  "She has unusual originality, illuminating wit, deep feeling, and
  a gift for startling epigram."--_Daily Graphic_.


  LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.





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