TURNER, W.J.

Ecstasy

I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn

Of boys who sought for shells along the shore,

Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,

The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green

That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth

pebbles.

The air was thin, their limbs were delicate,

The wind had graven their small eager hands

To feel the forests and the dark nights of Asia

Behind the purple bloom of the horizon,

Where sails would float and slowly melt away.

Their naked, pure, and grave, unbroken silence

Filled the soft air as gleaming, limpid water

Fills a spring sky those days when rain is lying

In shattered bright pools on the wind-dried roads,

And their sweet bodies were wind-purified.

One held a shell unto his shell-like ear

And there was music carven in his face,

His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open

To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar

Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas.

And all of them were hearkening as to singing

Of far-off voices thin and delicate,

Voices too fine for any mortal wind

To blow into the whorls of mortal ears

And yet those sounds flowed from their grave,

sweet faces.

And as I looked I heard that delicate music,

Turner And I became as grave, as calm, as still

As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,

I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,

My eyes were staring at the far horizon:

And the wind came and purified my limbs,

And the stars came and set within my eyes,

And snowy clouds rested upon my shoulders,

And the blue sky shimmered deep within me,

And I sang like a carven pipe of music.

Romance

When I was but thirteen or so

I went into a golden land,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,

They passed like fleeting dreams,

I stood where Popocatapetl

In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master’s voice

And boys far-off at play,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream

To and fro from school–

Shining Popocatapetl

The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy,

And never a word I’d say,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Had taken my speech away.

I gazed entranced upon his face

Fairer than any flower–

O shining Popocatapetl

It was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed

Thin fading dreams by day,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

They had stolen my soul away!

Peace

In low chalk hills the great King's body lay,

And bright streams fell, tinkling like polished tin,

As though they carried off his armoury,

And spread it glinting through his wide domain.

Old bearded soldiers sat and gazed dim-eyed

At the strange brightness flowing under trees,

And saw his sword flashing in ancient battles,

And drank, and swore, and trembled helplessly.

And bright-haired maidens dipped their cold white arms,

And drew them glittering colder, whiter, still;

The sky sparkled like the dead King's blue eye

Upon the sentries that were dead as trees.

is shining shield lay in an old grey town,

And white swans sailed so still and dreamfully,

They seemed the thoughts of those white, peaceful hills

Mirrored that day within his glazing eyes.

And in the square the pale cool butter sold,

Cropped from the daisies sprinkled on the downs,

And old wives cried their wares, like queer day owls,

Piercing the old men's sad and foolish dreams.

And Time flowed on till all the realm forgot

The great King lying in the low chalk hills;

Only the busy water dripping through

His hard white bones knew of him lying there.

Silence

It was bright day and all the trees were still

In the deep valley, and the dim Sun glowed;

The clay in hard-baked fire along the hill

Leapt through dark trunks to apples green and gold,

Smooth, hard and cold, they shone like lamps of stone:

They were bright bubbles bursting from the trees,

Swollen and still among the dark green boughs;

On their bright skins the shadows of the leaves

Seemed the faint ghosts of summers long since gone,

Faint ghosts of ghosts, the dreams of ghostly eyes.

There was no sound between those breathless hills.

Only the dim Sun hung there, nothing moved;

The thronged, massed, crowded multitude of leaves

Hung like dumb tongues that loll and gasp for air:

The grass was thick and still, between the trees.

There were big apples lying on the ground,

Shining, quite still, as though they had been stunned

By some great violent spirit stalking through,

Leaving a deep and supernatural calm

Round a dead beetle upturned in a furrow.

A valley filled with dark, quiet, leaf-thick trees,

Loaded with green, cold, faintly shining suns;

And in the sky a great dim burning disc! -

Madness it is to watch these twisted trunks

And to see nothing move and hear no sound!

Let's make a noise, Hey!... Hey!... Hullo! Hullo!

The Hunter

"But there was one land he dared not enter."

Beyond the blue, the purple seas,

Beyond the thin horizon's line,

Beyond Antilla, Hebrides,

Jamaica, Cuba, Caribbees,

There lies the land of Yucatan.

The land, the land of Yucatan,

The low coast breaking into foam,

The dim hills where my thoughts shall roam

The forests of my boyhood's home,

The splendid dream of Yucatan!

I met thee first long, long ago

Turning a printed page, and I

Stared at a world I did not know

And felt my blood like fire flow

At that strange name of Yucatan.

O those sweet, far-off Austral days

When life had a diviner glow,

When hot Suns whipped my blood to know

Things all unseen, then I could go

Into thy heart O Yucatan!

I have forgotten what I saw,

I have forgotten what I knew,

And many lands I've set sail for

To find that marvellous spell of yore,

Never to set foot on thy shore

O haunting land of Yucatan!

But sailing I have passed thee by,

And leaning on the white ship's rail

Watched thy dim hills till mystery

Wrapped thy far stillness close to me

And I have breathed ''tis Yucatan!

''Tis Yucatan, 'tis Yucatan!'

The ship is sailing far away,

The coast recedes, the dim hills fade,

A bubble-winding track we've made,

And thou'rt a Dream O Yucatan!

Song

Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid

Sowing the ploughed field over,

And her song was only:

'Come, O my lover!'

Strangely, strangely shone the light,

Stilly wound the river:

'Thy love is a dead man,

He'll come back never.'

Sadly, sadly passed the maid

The fading dark hills over;

Still her song far, far away said:

'Come, O my lover!'