{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_sha256": "55e97a127cda74f037ab6b19b5065dad6d480dc0f3433c468c0c0a6b59bcdc33", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaav/issues/1914/02_01/bmtnaav_1914-02_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaav/issues/1914/02_01/bmtnaav_1914-02_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "4", "page_fin": "4", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "titre_sommaire": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 53, "fin_caractere_exclue": 126, "texte": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson\nRupert Brooke\nLascelles Abercrombie\nJohn Drinkwater"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "5", "page_fin": "26", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 26, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE", "titre_sommaire": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE", "signature_source": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1712, "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nBloodybush Edge is a remote spot on the border-line between England\nand Scotland, marked by a dumpy obelisk, on which is inscribed an\nold scale of tolls. A rough sandy road runs down across the dark\nmoors, into England on the one hand, and into Scotland on the\nother. It is a fine, starry night in early September. Daft Dick, a\nfantastic figure, in appearance half-gamekeeper, half tramp {dressed\nas he is in cast-off clothes of country-gentlemen) swings up the road\nfrom the Scottish side, singing.\n\" Now Iyiddisdale has ridden a raid;\nBut I wat they better hae stayed at hame ;\nFor Michael o' Winfield, he lies dead;\nAnd Jock o' the Side is prisoner ta'en.\"\nHe stands for a moment, looking across the fells, which are very dark,\nin spite of the starry sky ; then flings himself down in the heather,\nwith his back to the obelisk, and lights his pipe. Presently, he sees\na dark figure, stumbling with uncertain steps across the boggy moor;\nand watches it keenly as it approaches, until it reaches the road, when\nhe sees that it is a strange man, evidently a tramp.\nTramp : A track, at last, thank God !\nDick : Aye, there be whiles\nWhen beaten tracks are welcome.\nTramp: Who the . . . Oh!\nI didn't count on having company\nAgain in this world ; and when I heard a voice\nI thought it must be another ghost. It's queer\nHearing a voice bleat when you haven't heard\nA mortal voice for ages. I've not changed\nA word with a soul since noon ; and when you spoke\nIt gave me quite a turn. A feather, Iyord !\nBut it wouldn't take the shadow of a feather\nTo knock me over. I'm in such a stickle,\nDead-beat, and fit to drop. To drop ! I've dropped\nA hundred times already, humpty-dumpty !"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1321, "texte": "Why, I've been tumbling in and out black holes,\nSince sunset, on that god-forsaken moor,\nHalf-crazed with fear of ... Ah, you've got a light:\nAnd I've been tramping all the livelong day\nWith a pipeful of comfort in my waistcoat-pocket;\nAnd would have swopt the frizzling sun itself ;\nFor a match to kindle it. Thanks, mate, that's better.\nAnd now, what was it you were saying, Old Cock,\nWhen I mistook you then for Hamlet's father ?\nLord ! if you'd seen him at the \" Elephant,\"\nIn queer, blue sheeny armour, you'ld have shivered.\n\" I am thy father's spirit,\" he says, like that,\nDown in his boots. But you were saying\nDick : There are times\nWhen beaten tracks are welcome.\nTramp : True for you :\nAnd truer by a score of bumps, for me.\nMy neck's been broken half-a-dozen times :\nMy body's just an aching bag of bones.\nI'm one big bruise from top to toe, as though\nI'd played in the Cup final, as the ball.\nAnd mud, I'm mud to the eyes, and over, carrying\nHalf of the country that I've passed through on me.\nMy best suit, too ! And I was always faddy\nAbout my clothes. My mother used to call me\nFinicky Fred. If she could see me now !\nI couldn't count the times that I've pitched headlong\nInto black bog.\nDick : Aye, there are clarty bits\nIn Foulmire Moss. But what set you stravaging"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1223, "texte": "Among the peat-hags at this time of night ?\nUnless you know the tracks by heart. . .\nTramp : I know\nThe Old Kent Road by heart.\nDick : The Old Kent Road ?\nTramp : London, S.E. You've heard of London, likely ?\nDick : Aye ! aye ! I've heard. . .\nTramp : Well, mate, I've walked from London.\nDick : You've walked from London, here ?\nTramp : Well, not to-day.\nIt must be nigh three hundred mile, I reckon.\nJust five weeks, yesterday, since I set out:\nBut, as you say, I've walked from London, here :\nThough where \" here \" is, the devil only knows!\nWhat is \" here \" called, if it has any name\nBut Back o' Beyond, or World's End, eh ?\nDick : You're sitting\nOn Bloodybush Edge this moment.\nTramp : To think of that!\nBloodybush Edge ! And that's what I have come to ;\nWhile all my friends, the men and women I know,\nAre strolling up and down the Old Kent Road,\nChattering and laughing by the lighted stalls\nAnd the barrows of bananas and oranges;\nOr sitting snugly in bars ; while, here am I,\nOn Bloodybush Edge, talking to Hamlet's father.\nDick : My name's Dick Dodd.\nTramp : Well, no offence, Old Cock !\nAnd Hamlet's father was a gentleman,\nA king of ghosts ; and Lord ! but he could groan."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1278, "texte": "My name's ... Jack Smith : and Jack would give a sovereign,\nA sovereign down, if he could borrow it,\nAnd drinks all round, and here's to you, and you!\nJust to be sitting in The Seven Stars,\nAnd listening to the jabber, just to snuff\nA whiff of the smoke and spirit. Seven Stars !\nI'm lodging under stars enough to-night:\nSeven times seven hundred. . .\nDick : Often I have tried\nTo count them, lying here upon my back:\nBut they're too many for me. Just when you think\nYou've reckoned all between two sprigs of heather,\nOne tumbles from its place, or else a hundred\nSpring out of nowhere. If you only stare\nHard at the darkest patch, for long enough,\nYou'll see that it's all alive with little stars ;\nAod there isn't any dark at all.\nTramp: No dark!\nIf you'd been tumbling into those black holes,\nYou'ld not think overmuch of these same stars.\nI couldn't see my hand before me. Stars !\nGive me the lamps along the Old Kent Road:\nAnd I'm content to leave the stars to you.\nThey're well enough ; but hung a trifle high\nFor walking with clean boots. Now a lamp or so . . .\nDick : If it's so fine and brave, the Old Kent Road,\nHow is it you came to leave it ?\nTramp : I'd my reasons.\n>\nDick : Reasons ! Queer reasons surely to set you trapesing"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1300, "texte": "Over Foulmire in the dark : though I could travel\nThe fells from here to Cheviot, blindfold. Aye !\nAnd never come a cropper.\nTramp : 'Twas my luck,\nMy lovely luck, and naught to do with reasons —\nMy gaudy luck, and the devilish dust and heat,\nAnd hell's own thirst that drove me ; and too snug\nA bed among the heather. Oversleeping,\nThat's always played the mischief with me. Once\nI slept till three in the morning, and . . .\nDick : Till three ?\nYou're an early bird, if you call that oversleeping.\nFolk hereabouts are mostly astir by three :\nBut, city-folk, I thought. . .\nTramp : I'm on the night-shift.\nI sleep by day, for the most part, like a cat.\nThat's why, though dog-tired now, I couldn't sleep\nA wink though you paid me gold down.\nDick : Night-shift, you !\nAnd what may your job be ? Cat's night-shift, likely,\nAs well as day's sleep !\nTramp : Now, look here, Old Cock,\nThere's just one little thing that we could teach you\nDown London way. Why, even babes in London\nKnow better than to ask too many questions.\nYou ask no questions, and you'll hear no lies,\nIs the first lesson that's hammered into them.\nNo London gentleman asks questions. Lord !\nIf you went \" What's-your-job ? \"-itig down our way.\nYou'ld soon be smelling someone's fist, I reckon ;"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 40, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1456, "texte": "Or tripping over somebody in the dark\nUpon the stairs : and with a broken neck,\nBe left, still asking questions in your coffin,\nTill the worms had satisfied you. Not that I\nHave anything to hide, myself. I'm only\nAdvising you for your own good. But, Old Chap,\nWe were talking of something else . . . that hell-hot rnad.\nI'd pegged along it through the blazing dust\nFrom Bellingham, till I could peg no more,\nMy mouth was just a limekiln ; and each foot,\nOne bleeding blister. A kipper on the grid,\nThat s what I was 011 the road. And the heather looked\nSo cool and cosy, I left the road for a bit;\nAnd coming 011 a patch of wet green moss,\nI took my boots off; and it was so champion\nTo feel cold water squelching between my toes,\nI paddled on like a child, till I came to a clump\nOf heather in full bloom, just reeking honey;\nAnd curled up in it, and dropt sound asleep ;\nAnd, when I wakened, it was dark, pitch-dark,\nFor all your stars. The sky was light enough,\nHad I been travelling that way. But, for the road,\nI hadn't a notion of its whereabouts.\nA blessed babe-in-the-woods I was, clean lost;\nAnd fit to cry for my mammy. Babes-in-the-wood i\nBut there were two of them, for company,\nAnd only one of me, by my lone self.\nHowever, I said to myself : You've got to spend\nA night in the heather. Well, you've known worse beds,\nAnd worse bed-fellows than a sheep or so—\nTrying to make believe I wasn't frightened."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1409, "texte": "And then, somehow, I couldn't, God knows why !\nBut I was scared : the loneliness, and all;\nThe quietness, and the queer creepy noises;\nAnd something that I couldn't put a name to,\nA kind of feeling in my marrow bones,\nAs though the great black hills against the sky\nHad come alive about me in the night;\nAnd they were watching me ; as though I stood\nNaked, in a big room, with blind men sitting,\nUnseen, all round me, in the quiet darkness,\nThat was not dark to them. And all the stars\nWere eyeing me; and whisperings in the heather\nWere like cold water trickling down my spitie;\nAnd when I heard a cough. . .\nDick : A coughing sheep.\nTramp : May be : but 'twas a coughing ghost to me.\nI've never yet set eyes on a ghost, unless . . . (looking askance at\nThough I've often felt them near me. Once, when I. . [Dick.\nBut, Iyord, I'm talking, talking . .\nDick : I've seen ghosts,\nA hundred times. The ghosts of reivers ride\nThe fells at night; and you'ld have ghosts in plenty\nAbout you, lad, though you were blind to them.\nBut, why d' you fear them ? There's no harm in ghosts.\nKven should they they ride over you, it's only\nLike a cold wind blowing through you. The other night,\nAs I came down by Girsonsfield, the ghost\nOf Parcy Reed, with neither hands nor feet,\nRode clean through me ; the false Halls, and the Croziers\nClose on his heels, though I kept clear of them;"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1377, "texte": "And often I've heard him, cracking his hunting-crop,\nOn a winter's night, when the winds were in full cry ;\nAnd heard the yelp of the pack, and the horn's halloo,\nOver the howl of the storm, or caught at dawn\nA glimpse of the tails of his green hunting-jacket.\nWhenever you shudder, or break in a cold sweat,\nNot knowing why, folk say that someone's stepping\nOver your grave ; but that's all stuff and nonsense.\nIt's only some poor ghost that's walking through you.\nTramp : Well, ghosts or sheep, I'd had my fill of them ;\nWent all to pieces, took to my heels and ran ;\nAnd hadn't run three yards, when I pitched headlong.\nThat was the first. Since then, I've felt the bottom\nOf every hole, five hundred to my reckoning,\nFrom there to here.\nDick : You've covered some rough ground.\nBut you have doubled back upon your tracks,\nIf you were making North.\nTramp : Aye : I was making\nFor Scotland. I'd a notion . . .\nDick : Scotland lies\nUnder your left heel, though your right's in England.\nTramp : To think of that! Well, I can't feel much difference\nTwixt one and the other. Perhaps, if I'd my boots off ... .\nBut, Hamlet's father, isn't it a king's bed\nWe're lying on, and sprawling over two countries !\nAnd yet, I'd rather be in Millicent Place,\nLondon, ,S. E., and sleeping three in a bed.\nThis room's too big for me, too wide and windy;"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1297, "texte": "The bed, too broad, and not what I call snug :\nThe ceiling, far too high, and full of eyes.\nI hate the loneliness. I like to feel\nThere are houses, packed with people, all about me\nFor miles on miles; I'm fond of company;\nI'm only really happy in a throng,\nCrowds jostling thick and hot about me. Here\nI feel, somehow, as if I were walking naked\nAmong the hills, the last man left alive.\nI haven't so much as set eyes on a house,\nNot since I left that blistering road.\nDick : The nearest\nIs three miles off. or more.\nTramp : Well, country-people\nShould be good neighbours, and quiet; but, for me,\nI'd rather be packed like herrings in a barrel.\nI hate the loneliness: it makes me think.\nI'm fond of company; too fond at times.\nIf I hadn't been so fond of company\nA while back, I'ld hardly have been lying now\nOn Bloodybush Edge, talking of ghosts at midnight,\nWhen I might be . . . but it won't bear thinking on.\nYet, even with you beside me, Bloodybush Edge\nIs a size too big in beds—leaves too much room\nFor ghosts, to suit my fancy. Three in a bed,\nAnd you sleep sound.\nDick : And why should you fear ghosts,\nWhen, one fine night, you'll be a ghost yourself ?\nHow soon, who knows ! Why, even at this moment,\nIf you had broken your neck among the moss-hags"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1398, "texte": "You'ld be your own ghost sitting there, not you.\nIf you hadn't been so muddy, and so frightened. . .\nNay ; but I've seen too many ghosts in my time\nFor you to take me m. Ghosts often lean\nOver me, when I'm fishing in the moonlight.\nThey're keen, are ghosts. I sometimes feel their breath\nUpon my neck, when I am guddling trout;\nOr the clutch of their clammy fingers 011 my wrist\nWhen I am spearing salmon, lest I miss.\nAnd always at the burning of the water\nYou'll see them lurking in the shadows, beyond\nThe flare and the smoke of the torches, in the night,\nEager as boys to join in the sport; and at times,\nWhen they have pressed too near; and a torch has flared,\nI've seen the live flame running through their bodies.\nBut oftenest they appear to me when alone\nI'm fishing like a heron ; and last night\nAs I stooped over Deadwater, I felt. . .\nTramp : And you're an honest man to be asking questions\nOf gentlemen on tour ! So, you're a poacher,\nA common poacher : though it must be rare sport,\nI've often fancied. . .\nDick : To creep up to a pool\nWhere a big bull-trout lies beneath a boulder\nWith nose against the stream, his tail scarce flicking;\nTo creep up quiet and without a shadow,\nAnd lie upon your belly in the gravel;\nAnd slide your hands as noiseless as an otter\nInto the water, icy-cold and aching,\nAnd tickle, tickle, till you have him fuddled;"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1415, "texte": "Then lift him, cold and slithery, from the burn,\nA quivering bit of silver in the moonlight. . .\nTramp : Aye, that must be rare sport; but, for myself,\nI'ld rather manage without the help of ghosts.\nOnce, I remember, I was bending down—\n'Twas in an empty house . . . I'd cut my thumb,\nThe window jamming somehow, a nasty cut:\nThe mark's still there . . (not that! nay, that's the place\nI was bitten by a friend) and as I fumbled\nWith a damned tricky lock, some Yankee patent,\nI felt a ghost was standing close behind me ;\nAnd dare not stir, or squint over my shoulder :\nBut crouched there, moving neither hand nor foot,\nTill I was just a solid ache oi terror,\nAnd could have squealed aloud with the numb cramp,\nAnd pins and needles in my arms and legs.\nAnd then at last, when I was almost dropping,\nI lost my head, took to my heels, and bolted\nHeadfirst down stairs, and through the broken window,\nLeaving my kit and the swag, without a thought:\nAnd never coming to my senses, till\nI saw a bullseye glimmering down the lane.\nAnd then I found my brow was bleeding, too—\nAt first I thought 'twas sweat—a three-inch cut,\nClean to the bone. I had to have it stitched.\nI told the doctor that I'd put my head\nThrough a window in the dark, but not a word\nAbout my body following it. The doctor,\nHe was a gentleman, and asked no questions.\nA civil chap : he'd stitched my scalp before"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1417, "texte": "Once, when the heel of a lady's slipper . . .\nDick: So you\nAre a common poacher, too ; although you take\nOnly dead silver and gold. Still, it must be\nA risky business, burgling, when the folk . . .\nTramp : Risk! aye, there's risk ! That's where the fun comes in :\nTo steal into a house, with people sleeping\nSo warm aod snug and innocent overhead;\nTo hear them snoring as you pass their doors\nWith all they're dreaming of stowed in your pockets ;\nTo tiptoe from the attic to the basement,\nWith a chance that you may find on any larding\nA door flung open, and a man to taclde.\nIt's only empty houses I'm afraid of.\nI've more than once looked up a pistol's snout,\nAnd never turned a hair . . . though once I heard\nA telephone-bell ring in an empty house—\nAnd I can hear the damned thing tinkling yet. . . .\nI'm all in a cold sweat just thinking of it.\nIt tinkled, tinkled . . . Risk! Why man alive,\nLife's all a risky business, till you're dead.\nThere's no risk then . . . unless ... I never feared\nA living man, sleeping or waking, yet.\nBut ghosts, well, ghosts are different somehow. There's\nA world of difference between men and ghosts.\nL,et's think no more of ghosts—but lighted streets,\nAnd crowds, and women ; though it's my belief\nThere's not a woman in all this country-side.\nDick : There's womenfolk, and plenty. And they are kind,\nThe womenfolk, to me. Daft Dick is ever"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1426, "texte": "B\n\nA favourite with the womenfolk. His belly\nWould oft go empty, were it not for them.\nTramp : You call those women, gawky, rawboned creatures,\nThin-lipped, hard-jawed, cold-eyed ! I like fat women.\nIf you could walk just now down the Old Kent Road,\nAnd see the plump young girls in furs and feathers,\nWith saucy black eyes, sparkling in the gaslight;\nAnd looking at you, munching oranges,\nOr whispering to each other with shrill giggles\nAs you go by, and nudging one another ;\nOr standing with a soldier eating winkles,\nGrimacing with the vinegar and pepper,\nThen laughing so merrily you almost wish\nYou were a red-coat, too! And the fat old mothers,\nToo old for feathers and follies, with their tight\nNigh-bursting bodices, and their double chins,\nThey're homely, motherly and comfortable,\nAnd do a man's eyes good. There's not a sight\nIn all the world that's half as rare to see\nAs a fat old wife with jellied eels and porter.\nAye, women should be plump . . . though Ellen Ann\nWas neither old nor fat, when she and I\nWere walking out together, and she'd red hair,\nAs red as blazes, and a peaked white face.\nBut 'twas her eyes, her eyes that always laughed,\nAnd the merry way she had with her. . . But, Lord,\nI'm talking ! Only mention petticoats,\nAnd I'm the boy to talk till doomsday. Women !\nIf it hadn't been for a petticoat, this moment\nI might be drinking my own health m the bar"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1354, "texte": "Of The Seven Stars or The World Turned Upside Down,\nInstead of . . . Well, Old Cock, it's good to have\nSomeone to talk to, after such a day.\nYou cannot get much further with a sheep ;\nAnd I met none but sheep, and they all scuttled,\nNot even stopping to pass the time of day,\nAnd the birds, well, they'd enough to say, and more,\nWhen I was running away from myself in the dark,\nWith their \" Go back ! Go back ! \"\nDlck •' You'd scared the grouse.\nThey talk like Christians. Often in the dawn . . .\nTramp: Bloodybush Edge! But why the Bloodybush ?\nI see no bush. . . .\n•' Some fight in the old days, likely,\nIn the days when men were men. . . .\nTramp : j little thought,\n_ 1\nWhen I set out from London on my travels,\nThat I was making straight for Bloodybush Edge.\nI had my reasons, but, reason or none, it's certain\nThat I Id have turned up here, someday or other :\nFor I must travel. I've the itching foot.\nI talk of London, when I'm well out of it\nBy a hundred miles or so ; but, when I'm in it,\nThere always comes a time when I couldn't stay\nA moment longer, not for love or money :\nThough in the end it always has me back.\nI cannot rest. There's something in my bones\nThey 11 need to screw the lid down with brass screws\nTo keep them in my coffin. When I'm dead.\nIf I don't walk, I'll be surprised, I . . . Lord,"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1444, "texte": "We're on to ghosts again ! But I'm the sort\nThat's always hankering to be elsewhere,\nWherever I am. Some men can stick to a job\nAs though they liked it. I'm not made that way.\nI couldn't heave the same pick two days running.\nI've tried it: and I know. I must have change.\nIt's in my blood. And work, why work's for fools.\nDick : Aye, fools indeed: and yet they seem content.\nContent! why my old uncle, Richard Dodd,\nHe worked till he was naught but skin and bone,\nAnd rheumatism : and when the doctor told him :\n\" You must give up. It's no use ; you're past work.\"\n'' Past work,\" he says, \" past work, like an old horse :\n'' They shoot old nags, when they are past their work.\n\" Doctor,\" he says, \" I'll give you five pound down\n'' To take that gun, and shoot me like a nag.\"\nThe doctor only laughed, and answered, \" Nay.\"\n\" An old nag's carcase is worth money, Richard :\n\" But yours, why, who'ld give anything for yours! \"\nThey call me daft—Daft Dick. It pleases them.\nBut I have never been daft enough to work.\nI never did a hand's turn in my life :\nAnd won't, while there are trout-streams left, and women.\nAnd I am a traveller, too, I cannot rest.\nThe wind's in my bones, I think, and like the wind,\nI'm here, to-night; to-morrow, Lord knows where !\nTramp : London, perhaps, or well upon the road there,\nSince I'm on Bloodybush Edge.\nDick : Nay, never London.\nI cannot thole the towns. They stifle me."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1333, "texte": "I spent a black day in Newcastle, once.\nNever again! I cannot abide the crowds.\nI must be by myself. I must have air:\nI must have room to breathe, and elbow-room,\nWide spaces round me, winds and running water.\nI know the singing-note of every burn\n'Twixt here and High Cup Nick, by Appleby.\nAnd biids and beasts, I must have them about me.\nRabbits and hares, weasels and stoats and adders,\nPlover and grouse, partridge and snipe and curlew,\nRed-shank and heron. I think that towns would choke me;\nAnd lld go blind shut in by the tall houses,\nWith never a far sight to stretch my eyes.\nI must have hills, and hills beyond. And beds—\nI never held with beds and stuffiness.\nI'm seldom at my ease beneath a roof:\nThe rafters all seem crushing on my head,\nA dead weight. Though I sleep in barns in Winter,\nI'm never at home except beneath the stars.\nI've seen enough of towns ; and as for the women,\nFat blowsy sluts and slatterns. . . .\nTramp : Easy, Old Cock !\n\" What's one man's meat . . .\"as che saying is ; and so.\nEach man to his own world, and his own women.\n(They sit for awhile smoking in silence Then Daft Dick begins\nsinging softly to himself again.)\nDick : (singing)\n\" Their horses were the wrong way shod,\nAnd Hobbie has mounted his grey sae fine,\nWat on his old horse, Jock on his bay;"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1294, "texte": "And on they rode for the waters of Tyne.\n\" And when they came to Chollerton Ford,\nThey lighted down by the light o' the moon ;\nAnd a tree they cut with nogs on each side,\nTo climb up the wa' of Newcastle toun.\"\nTramp : What's that you're singing, matey ?\nDick : \" Jock o' the Side.\nA ballad of the days when men were men,\nAnd sheep were sheep, and not all mixter-maxter.\nThon were brave days, or brave nights, rather, thon !\nBrave nights, when Iyiddisdale was Iyiddisdale,\nAnd Tynedale, Tynedale, not all hand-in-glove,\nAnd hanky-panky, and naught but market-haggling\nTwixt men whose fathers' swords were the bargainers!\nThat was a man's work, riding out, hot-trod,\nOver the hills to lift a herd of cattle,\nAnd leave behind a blazing byre, or to steal\nYour neighbour's sheep, while he lay drunk and snoring—\nA man's work, ever bringing a man's wages,\nThe fight to the death, or life won at the sword's point.\nGod ! those were nights : the heather and sky alow\nWith the light of burning peel-towers, and the wind\nRinging with slogans, as the dalesmen met,\nOver the singing of the swords:\n\"An Armstrong ! An Armstrong ! \"\n\" A Milburne ! A Milburne !\n\"An Elliott! An Elliott! \"\n\" A Robson ! A Robson ! \"\n\" A Charlton ! A Charlton !\"\n\" A Fenwick! A Fenwick!''"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1320, "texte": "\" Fy, Tynedale, to it! \"\n\" Jethert's here ! Jethert's here ! \"\n\" Tarset and Tarretburn !\n\" Hardy and heatherbred !\n\" Yet! Yet! \"\nMan, did you ever hear the story told\nOf Barty Milburne, Barty of the Comb,\nDown Tarset way ? and how he waked one morning\nTo find that overnight some Scottish reiver\nHad lifted the pick of his flock : and how hot-foot\nHe was up the Blackburn, summoning Corbet Jock:\nAnd how the two set out to track the thieves\nBy Emblehope, Berrymoor Edge and Blackman's\nBy Blakehope Nick, and under Oh Me Edge,\nAnd over Girdle Fell to Chattlehope Spout,\nAnd so to Carter Bar ; but lost the trail\nSomewhere about the Reidswire : and how, being loth\nTo go home empty-handed, they just lifted\nThe best sheep grazing on the Scottish side,\nAs fair exchange : and turned their faces home.\nBy this, snow had set in : and 'twas sore work\nDriving the wethers against it over the fell;\nWhen, finding they were followed in their turn\nBy the laird of L,eatham and his son, they laughed,\nAnd waited for the Scots by Chattlehope Spout\nAbove Catcleugh: and in the snow they fought,\nTill Corbet Jock and one of the Scots were killed,\nAnd Barty himself sore wounded in the thigh;\nWhen the other Scot, thinking him good as dead,\nSprang on him, as he stooped, with a whickering laugh :"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1521, "texte": "And Barty, with one clean, back-handed blow,\nStruck off his head, and, as they tell the tale,\n\" Garred it spang like an onion along the heather.\"\nThen, picking up the body of Corbet Jock,\nHe slung it over his shoulder; and carried his mate\nWith wounded thigh, and driving the wethers before him\nThrough blinding snow, across the boggy fells\nTo the Blackburn, though his boot was filled with blood.\nOr the other tale, how one of the Robson lads\nStole a Scot's ewes : and when he'd got them home,\nAnd had mixed them with his own, found out, too late,\nThey'd got the scab : and how he went straight back\nWith a stout hempen rope to the Scot's house,\nAnd hanged him from his own rooftree by the neck\nTill he was dead, to teach the rascal a lesson,\nOr so he said, that when a gentleman called\nFor sheep the next time, held think twice about it\nBefore he tried to palm off scabbit ewes.\nPoachers and housebreakers and bargainers !\nThose men were men : and lived and died like men ;\nTaking their own road—asking no man's leave;\nDoing and speaking outright, hot and clean,\nThe thing that burned in them, and paying the price.\nAnd those same gawky, rawboned women mothered\nSuch sons as these ; and still do, nowadays—\nFor hunting foxes, and for market-haggJ ing !\nYou fear no living man! A glinting bullseye\nDown a dark lane would not have set them scuttling.\nThey didn't dread the mosshags iti the dark.\nAnd seemingly they'd little fear of ghosts,\nBeing themselves so free in making ghosts."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1387, "texte": "Ghosts ! why the night is all alive with ghosts,\nGhosts of dead raiders, and dead cattle-lifters;\nPoor, headless ghosts ; and ghosts with broken necks . . .\nSee that chap, yonder, with the bleeding thigh,\nOn a grey gelding, making for Hurklewmter—\nA horse-thief, sure . . . And the ghostly stallions whinney\nAs the ghostly reivers drive their flocks and heids . . .\n[listening)\nThey are quiet now: but I've often heard the patter\nOf sheep, or the trot-trot of the frightened stirks\nDown this same road . . .\nTramp : Stop man ! You'll drive me crazy !\nLet's talk no more of ghosts ! I want to sleep.\nI'm dog-tired. . . but I'll never sleep to-night.\nWhat's that ... I thought I heard . . . I'm all a-tremble.\nMy very blood stops, listening, in my veins.\nI'm all to fiddlestrings . . . Let's talk of London,\nAnd lights, and crowds, and women. Once I met\nA chap in the bar of The World Turned Upside Down,\nWith three blue snakes tattooed around his wrist:\nA joker, he was ; and what he didn't know\nOf women the world over you could shove\nBetween the nail and the quick, and never feel it.\nHe told me that in Valparaiso once\nA half-breed wench that he . . . but, Lord, what's that!\n(A low distant sound of trotting drawing quickly nearer).\nI thought I heard . . . Do you hear nothing ?\nDick: Naught.\nTramp : I'm all on edge; I could have sworn I heard—"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1536, "texte": "Where was I ? Well, as I was saying . . . God !\nCan you hear nothing now ? Trot-trot! Trot-trot!\nI must be going crazed, or you're stone deaf.\nDick : Nay, I'm none deaf.\nTramp: It's coming nearer, nearer . . .\nTrot-trot! trot-trot! Man, tell me that you hear it,\nFor God's sake, or 111 go mad !\nDick : No two men ever\nMay hear or see them, together, at one time.\nTramp : Hear what ? See what ? Speak, man, if you've a tongue !\nDick : The ghostly stirks.\nTramp (starting up) : The ghostly stirks ! Trot-trot!\nTrot-trot! They're almost on us. Look you ! there !\nAlong the road there, black against the sky.\nThey're charging down with eyes ablaze . . . O Christ . . .\n(He takes to his heels, running lamely down the road on the Scottish\nside, as a herd of frightened young stirks gallops down the road from\nthe English side. They pass Dick, who watches them, placidly\nsmoking, until they are by, when, taking his pipe from his mouth,\nhe gives a blood-curdling whoop, which sends them scampering more\nwildly after the tramp. Presently the cattle-drover, panting and\nlimping half-a-mile behind his herd, comes down the road. Seeing\nDick, he stops.)\nDrover : Have any beasts come by ? Lord, what a dance\nThey've led me, since we quitted Bellingham!\nI've chased them over half the countryside!\nDick : Aye : they were making straight for Dinlabyre.\nDrover: Then I can rest. They cannot go far wrong now.\nWe're for Saughtree ; and I'm fair hattered, and they\nCan't have the spunk left in them to stray far."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 537, "texte": "They'll be all right.\nDick : Aye ! and your brother's with them.\nDrover: Brother ? I have no brother . . .\nDick : Well, he and you\nAre as like as peas—a pair of gallows-birds.\nAnd he was driving them, and walloping them . .\nDrover [starting to run) : Good God! Just wait till I catch up\nwith him!\nDick (calling after him) : It will take you all your time, and more,\nto catch him.\n(To himself.)\nNow, I can sleep in peace, without bedfellows.\nTwo in a bed is one too many form\nAnd such a clatter-jaw!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "27", "page_fin": "27", "image_debut": 27, "image_fin": 27, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "SONNET", "titre_sommaire": "SONNET", "signature_source": "Rupert Brooke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 717, "texte": "SONNET\nRupert Brooke\nSuggested by some of the Proceedings\nof the Society for Psychical Research.\nNot with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,\nWell beat on the substantial doors, nor tread\nThose dusty high-roads of the aimless dead\nPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run\nDown some close-covered by-way of the air,\nSome low sweet alley between wind and wind,\nStoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find\nSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there\nSpend in pure converse our eternal day;\nThink each in each, immediately wise;\nIvearn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say\nWhat this tumultuous body now denies;\nAnd feel, who have laid our groping hands away;\nAnd see, no longer blinded by our eyes."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "28", "page_fin": "28", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 28, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "A MEMORY", "titre_sommaire": "A MEMORY", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 15, "fin_caractere_exclue": 684, "texte": "A MEMORY\n(from a sonnet-sequence.)\nSomewhile before the dawn I rose, and stept\nSoftly along the dim way to your room,\nAnd found you sleeping in the quiet gloom,\nAnd holiness about you as you slept.\nI knelt there; till your waking fingers crept\nAbout my head, and held it. I had rest\nUnhoped this side of Heaven, beneath your breast.\nI knelt a long time, still; nor even wept.\nIt was great wrong you did me; and for gain\nOf that poor moment's kindliness, and ease,\nAnd sleepy mother-comfort!\nChild, you know\nHow easily love leaps out to dreams like these,\nWho has seen them true. And love that's wakened so\nTakes all too long to lay asleep again.\nWaikiki. October, 1913."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "29", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "ONE DAY.", "titre_sommaire": "ONE DAY.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 666, "texte": "ONE DAY.\nTo-day I have been happy. All the day\nI held the memory of you, and wove\nIts laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,\nAnd sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,\nAnd sent you following the white waves of sea,\nAnd crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,\nStray buds from that old dust of misery,\nBeing glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.\nSo lightly I played with those dark memories,\nJust as a child, beneath the summer skies,\nPlays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,\nFor which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,\nAnd love has been betrayed, and murder done,\nAnd great kings turned to a little bitter mould.\nThe Pacific. October, 1913."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 30, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "MUTABILITY.", "titre_sommaire": "MUTABILITY.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 690, "texte": "MUTABILITY.\nThey say there's a high windless world and strange,\nOut of the wash of days and temporal tide,\nWhere Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,\nAeterna corpora, subject to no change.\nThere the sure suns of these pale shadows move;\nThere stand the immortal ensigns of our war;\nOur melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,\nAnd perishing hearts, imperishable IyOve\nDear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;\nBach kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;\nIyove has no habitation but the heart.\nPoor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,\nCling, and are borne into the night apart.\nThe laugh dies with the lips, \" Iyove \" with the lover.\nSouth Kensington—Makaweli,\n1913-"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 54, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "THE OLYMPIANS", "titre_sommaire": "THE OLYMPIANS", "signature_source": "Lascelles Abercrombie", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1347, "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\nIt is in Crete, a many years ago :\nUnder a peak that strained in icy stone\nTo thrust an endless gesture at the stars.\nTwo peasants, son and mother, in their hut\nWere talking : mouth close against ear they talkt,\nBecause a great storm poured over the hut\nA sound of rain, driven so hard it smackt\nAgainst the walls like pebbles thrown in volleys;\nAnd, carrying this, a rushing sound of wind\nThat fled through woods, tearing itself, and blew\nAcross the mountain piled above the hut,\nMaking the rocky hollows and ravines\nSnore like monstrous jars in its pauseless breath.\nYet it was time for pleasant days. The earth—\nAll winter long s'nce dried in her, and death\nSearcht out and crumbled in the ground by frost—\nWaited for spring to burn her once again,\nReady as tinder is for touch of fire\nTo thrill its tranced nature and unseal\nThe striving self-creative will of flame.\nYea, full time now for the woods to toss their flame,\nBurning with every green that water knows:\nFrom the green gold of oaks, like mounded waves\nIn green mid-sea full of a golden gleam,\nTo birches like the quiet depth beside\nSheer downward cliffs, where shallow light of green\nIs mixt with blue from under. And already\nFlowers began to hire the wings of bees\nAt a delicious wage to carry love,\nTheir golden ttrade, to far off unknown mates."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1290, "texte": "But the storm came, and with its wind trod out,\nAnd drencht with its rain, the spring's sweet travelling fire.\nNot heeding the loud air, these peasants talkt.\nSon : But 'tis a trade despised.\nMother : By tongues that go\nIyike tails of cows in summer, flicking the clegs:\nThey flourish their lithe talk in the air, to switch\nThe flies of jealousy that so prick their minds.\nIs it despised ? I,ook you, is man a beast,\nOr is he man ?\nSon : He's man till he's a corpse;\nAnd then he should be filth ; and scorn's the thing\nFor those whose trade is dabbling among filth.\nMother : The kitten miaows his scorn ! But think on it,\nThat you'ld be nothing of the handsome man\nYou take yourself to be—you'ld be a lump\nOf worse than dung—dabble your thought in that!—\nIf I'd not had my trade and fed you on it.\nSon : I know all this. But what I mean to say—\nI am grown now to work for both of us,\nAnd leave corpse-tending be.\nMother : No gain in that,\nAnd loss a plenty. You've a name abroad\nFor your strong work, Milon himself no better.\nAnd I've my name for setting corpses right;\nAs much to me as any feats to you.\nSon : My name's honest: it's queer you love your scorn.\nMother : Is man a beast, I say, or is he man ?\nAnd what is most the man in him ? 'Tis pride."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1419, "texte": "c\n\nAnd go through all his uses, you'll not see\nHis pride standing taller and more daring\nThan in my trade. Naught lives but must lie down\nHelpless, and fastened in a tomb must let\nThe earth at her detestable slow pleasure\nMeddle with what was once so much delight.\nWell, shall man go to his disgrace like beasts\nAll in a desperate huddle ? Not he ; hell go\nA neat corpse, a polite death. While he holds\nThe shape of man, he will have decent pride\nAbout the shape. And 'tis from me he has it.\nI, the scorn'd crone, who stretches out dead men,\n(But the boys daren't halloo me !) I think myself\nIyike a worn twisted shell the tide has beacht\nWhere man may find it, marred with an age of journey\nUnder the sea, and ruffian'd by the stones;\nBut if he set his purposed lips against\nThat knockt shell's breakage, he can make it sound\nA booming call, will thunder down the surf.\nAnd so his brave breath uses me ; he sends\nThrough my lame toil his purpose to be man\nAnd his own reverence past the great stound of death,\nAnnouncing it even to his own corruption.\nSon : You make it out a fine thing. But I'm sure\n'Tis a vile business you were best be quit of.\nMother : Truly I like my corpses, and the way\nI make death prouder sign of man than life.\nI like to watch, with hiding of my smiles,\nThe mourners making much of themselves with grief,\nHowling themselves into their neighbours' notice;"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1379, "texte": "And I the while knowing myself alone\nThe mind that has allowed their ceremony,\nThat caught death up out of wretchedly being\nAn asham'd riddance of poor carrion lumber.\nAnd sometimes I will eat their sins, poor fools :\n'Twere pity if I made the look of death\nDignity sleeping sound, and left the spirit\nA writhen thing, mean with a useless fear.\nSon : It is because they set you down so low,\nYou the straker of corpses, they can bear\nTo think of you defiled by death without,\nDefiled within by meals of their rank evil.\nMother : them be thinking; they give me their sins\nLike children laying pranks of mischief on\nTheir kindly nurse, who smiles to bear the blame.\nAs speech will drop from those who talk in quiet,\nBecause a sudden blow of dinning noise\nFalls there, and leaves the silence like stunn'd thought,\nBut ringing like a breadth of metal: so\nThese, who here talkt in an unheeded rage\nOf noise, were startled dumb because there smote\nUpon the steady roar of hurlymg air\nAbout them, huge and heavy and swift silence\nDown like the shock of hammer. No smallest whine\nOf sound moved under it, all so instantly\nThe night was tyrannized, though in their brains\nThe breakers of the wind were shouting still.\nAnd their amazement had not nerved their tongues\nTo venture stir of speech in the grave quiet,\nBefore the door rattled, and an old man"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1352, "texte": "Came in, limping, hideous, crooked with age.\nUnshod his feet, but in foul gear of mud,\nAnd tatter'd shame were all his clothes. He stood\nAnd bleared upon the candle, stoopt and gaping.\nUpon his wiry trembling neck pusht out,\nThe weight of his head was poised like a baboon's;\nAnd the draught played with his spare goatish beard.\nFrom pucker'd clefts as red as wounds his eyes\nIyookt weeping ; but the bone of his brow and face,\nThough peering horribly through the stretcht and scorcht\nMask of his tann'd age, was framed to hold\nThe governance and decree of mighty spirit,\nSuperb above control of common fate,\nBefore this ponderous disease of years\nHad clung about it. For a striving while\nSome still unmastered royalty in him\nWould right the toughen'd warping of his spine;\nBut could not. Then he spoke. His voice,\nClear strength with feeble harshness jarring through it,\nWas like a trumpet when the brass is flawed ;\nSo nobly in the hollows of his skull\nThe sound was muster'd, but began from strings\nSo slack and fretted, and with rheum so hinder'd.\n\" O Cretans, he is dead ! \"\nHe stumbled back,\nAnd then came burdened in again ; he bore\nLapt in a goatskin bundle some small weight\nA boy would swing in single-handed play;\nBut he with strains and age's gasping grumble\nWorkt hard to be its porter. Up to the bench"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1329, "texte": "He sidled, backt against it, bent his knees,\nAnd with a grunt he let his parcel slide\nDown the hunch of his shoulders. Then to his hosts\nHe turned, with dropt jaw quivering, eyebrows up\nHigh-pitcht in anxious bridges over their sockets;\nAnd from the thrust of them the curving horrour\nPusht his forehead rugged up to his pate\nIn creases of bald skin ; like the half-rounds\nOf ripples pusht backward by a buttress\nAgainst a steady stream. He faced them so,\nAll signed with the absurd deformity\nThe labour of grief must be content to earn\nWhen it is working for life pincht in age.\nAnd leaning over the small thing that lay\nWrapt up before him, at last he spoke again.\nOld Man : He is dead now, and you must be with me\nIn burying him.\nMother : A baby ! And by your speech\nYou're some outlandish vagabond. It will be\nYou've made some demon happy with the blood\nAnd burnt fat of the bairn ; ay, it has been\nSome wizard's murder, I'll be bound. And now\nIt's I must get you quit of your pitiful rubbish !\nBut you are wrong there.\nS°n •' You go too hard upon him.\nLook how his mind stares from his ancient face,\nPosed to make out your wording, what it means.\nHe's honest, sure, and brings no harm in him.\nMother : What, an old shabby man who tramps abroad\nIn a fiends' holiday of a storm, and brings"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1362, "texte": "I,apt up strangely and slung on his wicked back\nA dead baby ! I warrant, he deals in them ;\nHe is a sorcerers' monger. I would know\nMore of him, if he wants my skill. And the wind,\nWhen he came in, fell down from noising aloft,\nHeadlong down as a drunk man falls, who runs\nBlind and shouting over a cliff: belike\nThat means some wicked league goes faithful with him.—\nWhose is this baby ? Have you strangled it ?\nSon : The grasp, see, of those wavering hands would scarce\nStrangle a worm.\nOld Man : You said the wind had fallen ?\nYes, surely it would : I should have noted it.\nIndeed, they would call it off, whistle it back\nTo kennel, now it has worried him to death.\nI pickt him up, and bore him in my arms\nHither, soon as I knew he was to die.\nBut that fierce hound of a storm was after us\nAll my stumbling way ; it tore at him,\nAnd with a hundred dreadful snatching jaws\nWould jerk him from the fold of my trembling arms\nWhere he lay snuggled, whimpering to be safe.\nAnd terror at last of all that hatred yelling\nInto his face and biting at his limbs\nForced death upon him ; he was so weak, so weak ;\nBreath could not live in such a shaken body.\nSo it is ended now; now he is yours\nTo wash and bury : and will you eat his sins ?\nMother : An easy mouthful that, poor bairn ! Ay, sad\nTo think of all the lusty cheerful sins"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1343, "texte": "He might have played with, but for that killjoy death.\nO I will eat his sins : I've had my meals\nOf rapes, murders, and jeering at the gods,\nAnd never known them quarrel with me yet,\nNot even saying a twinge of colic against me.\nAy, baby ! your little secret spawn of sins\nWill make no bother for my heart: soft roe\nWere tastier, but not milder in my belly.\nIyook, sir; this is the trick we use.—\nBoy, be stirring, undo the poor wee brat.\nShe took a crust, sopt it and salted it,\nAnd gave it to the crouching man ; and he\nOver the bundled thing upon the bench\nHanded the morsel back. She muncht it down,\nThen turned to bustle with her needs, and get\nHer skill in order for the laying out.\nTruly she was unwilling ; but their minds\nThrilled strangely in the look of his tarnisht eyes,\nThat sent invisibly burning rays among\nTheir pierced thoughts, and gathered them to shape\nThe act of his desire, like powder'd iron\nDrawn into pattern of a magnet's force.\nYet as she turned from bolting down that crust\nHer casual rite had made bitter as tears,\nA sign for the reproach of sin, his face\nWent blank with timid wonder, in its stare\nAfter her busily searching corners and cupboards;\nL,ike an old puzzled ploughman at a fair,\nWho gapes after a juggling tightrope dancer,\nSeeing him, when his risky show is done,"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1335, "texte": "Push unconcerned and whistling through the crowd:\nSo he was looking, as it were dreadfully strange\nShe made so little of those eaten sins.\nMeanwhile, she ferreting for cloths and pans,\nAnd the ancient traveller lost in his feckless gaze,\nThe son was fingering the feeble knots\nThat kept the stranger's baggage,—very loath\nTo pluck the ragged hide unfastened, yet\nHe could not fumble there for long, so slack\nAnd such a foolish work the tying was.\nA stealing cat, left in a room alone\nWhere supper's on the table, smelling out\nA dram of milk low down in a narrow jug ;\nCareful not to be noisy and not to spill,\nHer dainty paw dips in and soaks her fur,\nThen daintily draws out again and licks\nThe dripping theft. Even so gingerly\nInto the bundle's folds his hand went loosening.\nShe heard, the mother bustling with her things,\nSuddenly heard, from where she left her son,\nSuch a harsh gasp of forced desperate breath\nAs comes from lungs coopt in hard agony\nOf terror, muscles clencht about the bones\nIyike a red-hot tyre that shrinks on a smoking wheel.\nShe turned, and saw her boy in palsy, his arms\nFixt half-way raised, and eyes that could not wink\nBut only glare into the opened pack.\nShe scurried to him ; and a grim thing lay\nFor her to see : no baby, but a man\nUnbelievably withered into age,"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1449, "texte": "The cinder of a man, parcht and blasted\nTo smallness like a baby, puny and dried,\nHis body all drawn up into a fist;\nThe pined legs, crooked as burnt candle-wicks,\nSo taut with perisht sinews that their knees\nThrusted the shrivelled belly; and his arms\nHugg'd his chest with little graspless hands.\nBrown as though age had scorcht like fire at last\nAnd full of creases was the ancient skin.\nBut nothing babyish was the wasted head\nThrawn on his chest (and bigger than his chest\nThe great head seemed) : the sharpened edge of jaws,\nWith thin beard scanted to a crisp grey wool;\nThe lean nose peaking like a puffin's bill;\nAnd brow and brain pan smooth as it were wrought wood,\nBut vaulted for a god's imagination.\nHorrour was feasted in their minds. But he,\nThe wretch who brought with him that dreadful luggage,\nStill lookt towards where the woman had been busy,\nMoveless but for the bent knees shivering,\nA standing swoon, empty of all but sorrow.\nThey turned on him; the life in them broke loose\nFrom pausing aghast, and clamoured like a stream\nBursting a weir: the son threaten'd, and she\nWrung his shoulder and spoke in angry fear:\n\" L,eave off your doating, you monstrous old man ;\nWhat's this you've brought us ? \" Then again he tried\nTo brave the burden of his years and stand\nUpright before their question ; and again\nHe summoned from his wreck of royal life\nCommanding voice: it came broken and crippled"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1332, "texte": "To serve him, and five words were toil enough\nNow for the voice of his greatness to endure\nBefore it fainted:\n\" Zeus ! It is Father Zeus ! \"\nGrief seemed to clench his body. Down he fell\nFrom difficult stature and lay crouching there\nAs low as worship before these poor folk ;\nAnd from the heap came shaken whispering :\n\" The thundering Zeus! His favour was the prayer\nOf gods and men, his sentence was their lives.\nNow he is that small twisted husk ; and I,\nThis halt misery of perishing age,\nI am Apollo, I am Apollo ! \"\nA long while, sobbing and with shrill breath, he lay ;\nAt last, his head a little sideways turned,\nHe told his tale, in voice all dwindled small\nTo husky twittering, a hissing whine\nThat sometimes went into a peewit-squeak:\nIvike to the rustling drag of a fray'd rope\nOver a pulley creaking in its rust,\nWhen he that hauls is tired and often waits.\nApollo : We were upon the mountainous Height of the gods\nThat has the whole world under it; and thence—\nI,ike mountain-water feeding the fuming seas—\nDivine life down from our lofty quiet streamed,\nDown where the tides of men were labouring\nIn hollow earth, and rolling to and fro\nTheir floods of brackish fortune: into the depths\nOf all that living brine we poured our power,\nFresh heavenly water sweetening the vast salt,"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1337, "texte": "A shining song into the helpless roaring.\nBut lately there had seemed some growth of change\nTo hold the speed and plenty of our gift:\nAs on the flanks of ancient naked stone\nAges of water grind sheer rock to soil,\nAnd soil at last grows into moss and weed,\nTill falling water soaks the whole hillside\nAnd drips from ledge to ledge of sodden turf.\nAnd to our sight, scanning the scope of time\nEasily as the distance of the earth,\nAppeared, behind the haze of things to come,\nEnormity, disaster crouching low,\nLike darkness charged with fire—the far-off sleep\nOf ruinous purpose, dreaming itself awake\nIn dreams that made the dark drowze suddenly blaze.\nWe glanced at it as feasted men will look\nAt lightning, when the storm is so far off\nThe winking glare burns noiseless as the stars\nAlong the rim of pale sweet summer-dark,\nGiving a moment's shadow to the trees.\nOr if fear toucht our hearts, it was as light\nAs tickling threads of spider-work will touch\nThe face of one who loiters in the evening.\nWe knew how the whole drift of living world\nLies in the nets of law, that hoist and drag\nTheir booty of Existence out of depths\nUnknown to land it dying none knows where.\nBut, for the ages while that cast is drawing,\nWe thought the pressure of its grasp would fall\nUpon us through our element as mild"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1350, "texte": "As light, the sun's command, shines through a pool\nOf rippled water, and rules with quivering gleam\nThe sand that sleeps beneath in golden nets.\nCertain, within the world's slow draught, our keep\nStood mountainous above the tides of men ;\nAnd they, in surge against its sightless prow\nOf anchor'd stone, were spent about the huge\nFoundations of our fate, and backward failed\nInto surrendering spray from rearing towards us.\nZeus the Father assembled us, and spoke:\n\" It has been known, that from some other source\nThan our divinely streaming mountain, men\nHave tempered the old brine of mortal souls.\nGods like a wandering rain have plenisht them\nWith sweetness, when perhaps our gift was stayed:\nBacchus we found descended among men\nOut of the flying winds of shapeless spirit,\nDying into them like a rain at sea,\nShedding divine fresh water of his life\nOver their salty torrent, and again\nFrom out the depths of them rising a ghost\nPure of the bitter earth they have dissolved,\nAgain to pour on them immortal moods.\nWe treated with him to dwell here, to take\nA heavenly name, and to be Dionysus.\nSo we did well, and he.\"\nWe turned to smile\nBrotherly pleasure on our lovely guest.\nHe was not in his place ; he was not found\nIn heaven that day, the last of heaven's days.\nWhere had he gone, our belov'd Dionysus ?"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1399, "texte": "The Father spoke again: \"On the low earth\nNow in a patch of men another god\nAppears. Despise him not, Olympian gods!\nHim too we will persuade into our manner;\nWhat has been once well done, may be again.\"\nSo to mankind we bent. Our gaze devoured\nThe height that made the press of flocking lives\nMolten in one vague to-and-fro of sea ;\nOur eager sense closed with the life of man,\nTill the whole sight of it roaming the earth\nIn single swaying flow, one driven tide,\nCrumbled into passionate wilful men\nInnumerously seen, in separate hastes\nWrangling their groping purposes. We found\nAmid the ruffle of confused small errands,\nThat moil of jarring wills, a piece of earth\nWhere all the crossing lives seemed to be stroked\nInto one pause of strain'd wondering order\nBy ruling passage of some great event;\nAs when there have been floods upon the fields,\nThe matted twigs and straws of broken woods\nL,ie combed and laid and handled by the water,\nAll packt one way. So these lives, massed and straighten'd.\nWere held from their loose custom in a firm\nIntent, towards where they had three of their kind\nHung up on gallows crosses. Bleak they spiked\nIn twilight against splendid cloudy flames\nOf scarlet evening. It was a low bare mound\nThat thrust these cruelties up at the sky,\nSo that it seemed the half-nave, and the poles\nThe jutting spokes, of a great ruin'd wheel"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1360, "texte": "Sunk to the axle in the fens of life.\nBut in the heaven behind it, the sun's rays\nWere like a wheel of white-hot burning gold,\nTerrible whirling spokes of spouted fire,\nThe blazing pillars of a wheel that fled\nOver the earth travelling gloriously.\nFor we had found the stranger god—a god\nHang'd and dying between murderers :\nOnce more a god kill'd for earthly worship !\nHis death was while we lookt and said, \" He dies,\nHe dies ! Again it is a god that dies ! \"\nBut in his death this was a mightier god\nThan those that died before. There fell on us\nAt once a frost of horrour from above.\nDarkness was perfect over us : it was\nTime, the immense muster'd power of the whole\nTime of the world, stowed in one moment's nature.\nThe darkness we had seen far off, that was\nThe mere length of our lucid view in time\nEnding as darkness, like to searching light\nIn a clear depth of water losing itself,—\nThat darkness of our sight was real now\nAnd triumphing,—vengeance for all the debt\nWe had not heeded owing, neglected time\nGathered into a single storm that struck\nA single fire of all the years till then,\nBlasting us instantly into dry age,\nBut leaving us a while to feel our deaths.\nAnd I saw Zeus, charr'd to that infant posture,\nIyie shrunk before me with bound twitching limbs,\nWith helpless rocking head and puling breath;"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1335, "texte": "And with the last of my divinity\nSet out to nurse him hither, bearing him\nTo die where he was born, in Crete.\nHe stopt.\nHe was so still they thought death had him now,\nBut kept their stared astonishment unmoved\nUpon him. 'Twas uot death ; for soon they saw\nShudders in his old body, and his hands work\nAs they would dig the floor to clutch in it.\nThe woman stole a pace to see what ailed\nHis quivering silence ; and she found his eyes\nAppalled, reading some terror in the door.\nShe lookt towards his fear : it was a gleam\nThat came from the outside darkness, piercing through\nThe cracks at sill and lintol and the warpt\nParting of the worm'd cross-ledged boards. It shone\nMore white than any flame or the sun's self,\nAs white as stars and eager as the sun.\nKver closer and brighter it seemed to come\nAgainst the door, thronging upon it, jetting\nWhere any seam it found to let it through\nIyike pressure into the shadowy room. They thought\nIt must push on the door with torrent force,\nSuch bursting light came through; and they were dazed\nTo see the timber did not shake and give.\nAnd now the door's whole wood was full of light,\nAs if it had been paper against the glare,\nThe grain like a fiue web of glowing threads.\nAnd of a sudden there was no door, but white\nBlinding vacancy, measureless light;"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1367, "texte": "And in the midst a young man glorious.\nHe stood among them, lookt at Apollo, and laught.\nApollo : Unhurt, unaged ! Dionysus ! Thou !\nBacchus : Call me no more that name. All Bacchus now\nI am, and have nor heavenly name nor nature.\nApollo: lam disguised to thee, Bacchus, I think.\nBacchus : I know you, cripple, easily as I know\nThat shrivelled rind yonder was Father Zeus.\nApollo : And thou hast mightier divinity !\nElse that I take thee with the ashamed new sense\nOf this incapable mortality.—\nDidst thou desert us, knowing of our doom ?\nWhere hast thou been ? How art thou grown so radiant,\nEscaping our destruction, thriving in it ?\nBacchus : You never understood me in Olympus.\nYour ignorant bland friendship grew to me\nMore tiresome than a fawning fondling love\nTo one in whom love sickens. You courteous gods!—\nWhat ailed me, siding with that mummy there ? —\nYour serene feasts! And I sitting among you\nParleying with your boasts of immortal reign ;\nAnd this despair of yours chained murderous\nIn my dark heart, tugging to hunt you down\nThe slope of heaven to graves in the base earth.\nAy, bury your Zeus, else 'tis a god that stinks !\nApollo : How are you safe, when no Uranian god\nBut dies, or goes, like me, an idiot palsy ?\nBacchus : For that I am not, though once seated there,\nA heavenly god! And I have lodged among"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1334, "texte": "The gods of hell, those cobwebs in your cellars,\nFine-spun wavering silk of the nether dirt,\nAnd am not hellish either. Know you not,\nNow you are doddering, how the vast dead world\nLives, as all death lives, as dead Zeus will live ?\nApollo : Will live ?\nBacchus : In maggots, if such withered stuff\nCan rot at all. And as death lives in worms\nAnd points of finer death-dissolving life,\nThe immense death of the world lives in gods,\nBred in it by decay of unity.\nLike gentles with their potent little mouths\nSoftening stiffen'd death to the broth they need,\nYou gods workt in the carcase of the world\nTo melt its obstinate death, and made therein\nPowers and laws and fluid obedience.\nAnd quickened so, ye were the life of the world ;\nBut what comes out of death, death takes again.—\nHe winces ; and I taunt where I should teach.\nlam too cruel: I will shift my likeness,\nMaking my lesson out of sleep, not death.\nFor one who sleeps hath in the midst of rest\nBusy creation, dreams: they are himself,\nHis unknown person shaped to image known ;\nThe many unflagging toils whereby his flesh\nNegotiates life, labouring of lungs\nAnd piston-jet of blood and belly's seething—\nThe rumour of all this out of his body\nShakes in his slumbering brain, and its dull motion\nThere meets imagination's sleepless art;"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1354, "texte": "o\n\nAnd into phantom event,—sound, hue, and figure—\nIs forged familiar to his will's desire ;\nAnd this is dream. Even so in the sleep of the world\nGods are dreams. The great imagining spirit,\nThat lives sealed fast within the drowzed world,\nIs always toucht by steady obscure turmoil\nOut of its own surrounding nature thrilling\nConfused and general—the slumbering world's\nLabour of being hugely still itself;\nLike humming din that fills the masonry\nOf a mill's inmost darkest room. And this,\nThe murmur of its own substantial life,\nThe spirit imagines into dream, the life\nOf gods : and man is the sleeping spirit's brain,\nWhere it contrives the fictions of its will.\nBut there are dreams that shine and move in music\nAnd after vanish ; and there is one dream\nThat always stays : and I, I am that dream.\nFor know me now at last!— What is the world\nThat sleeps so busily around the spirit,\nQuickening its restless forgery of dream ?\nIt is the chance of a seeming-steady whorl\nOf motion shaped on infinite pouring depths:\nRapture that is for ever not the world\nCaught in a wavering spin, and gone for ever,\nThe whorl abiding, incessantly supplied\nFrom the unending unbeginning stream.\nI am the water of the eddying world :\nIn me the spirit hath dreamt the ceaseless rush\nOf constant being swept through changing manners."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1320, "texte": "I am a god not apt for heaven and hell;\nMeasureless joy and measureless woe, I am\nThe rapture that is not the world, for ever\nNarrowed into the world and thence escaping.\nBut you, what dreams are you ? What prompts you gods\nThat live so stately in your heaven and hell,\nOrder'd delight and bounded grief ?— You are\nNaught but the shifty manner of this life,\nThat shaping eddy which hath made a world\nIn the abyss of the eternal water.\nAnd who knows not that eddies slide and totter ?\nThe dream of you—the formal round that keeps\nCreated the unpurposed nameless passion—\nMy uncontrollable dream with inroad strange\nHath often shaken ; now it has burnt among you\nWithering you all at last. There is naught of you,\nThere is naught but a new dream of me. How else ?\nThe shape of the whorl has stirred and changed : the world\nIs no more what it was when you were dreamt\nIts images. But it is not my hurt,\nFor I am always dreamt and to be dreamt.\nApollo : But there will be our like again : in gods\nThe spirit will know again the shapely course\nAnd music of the measured world.\nBacchus: While you,\nTimorously haunting there, applaud !\nBut not if, as I mean, I keep the spirit,\nNow I have all its sway, amazed in long\nThrilling dream of incredible desire\nForsaking still its momentary round"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1384, "texte": "Of measure in the world, a god of hope\nThat anguishes for flight beyond all nature.\nAnd let the new gods come. They cannot stay;\nI shall be in among them, and shall bid\nFarewell to their fleeting heaven, when once again\nThe circling world shifts into some new shape.\nAy, even as now— Farewell, shall I say ?\nFare as ye may, dead god and dying god !\nHe spoke and laught again and was not there.\nThe glimmering room came back about them like\nThe blackness of a cavern ; and they stood still.\nAt last that old Apollo, without words,\nBade their blank minds be his. The woman washt\nAnd dried the crumpled wreck of Zeus ; her son\nGathered it in the goatskin to his breast;\nAnd in the quiet night the three went out\nTo climb the Cretan mountain. \" Haste ! Before\nI see the sun, bring me and my business\nTo the last height of the peak \" : so the god's thought\nWorkt in their minds and drove them. Misty dawn\nWas known already by the crags, called forth\nTo watch each other in their lonely frosts\nEnduring still, while all the bottom earth\nThey seemed to suffer for slept in its cloud.\nThese peasants and the god at length had climbed\nThe top of Crete ; and, like a common task,\nTo throw aside the loosen'd weather'd stones\nThe son bent down, scooping a shallow hole,\nThe grave of Zeus; and there the panting woman\nL,aid in its package the Olympian corpse."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1332, "texte": "Apollo spoke to them across the grave.\nApollo: True is, lam cut off ; true what he said,\nBacchus refresht in splendour when we die down;\nFor our occasion fails from under us.\nThe cliffs of the mountains in this cloudy light\nSeem lifted free from their low ground, the earth\nNow voided and annulled which bore them up\nLike sublime faculties : in perfected height\nOf patience and hard honour amid fate,\nThey seem, for their cwn ceaseless glee alone,\nIyeft here in bright erect self-maintenance\nArduous. So may it not be with the gods,\nSince with the gods, whatever seems is truth :\nIt was our glory ; now it is our death.\nFor now hath clouded change come in between\nThe earthly life and us ; our far-off ground\nSeems blotted from beneath us, though it is there.\nBut 'tis enough that it so seem : we crumble,\nWe are left insupportable, ruining.\nYou look your last upon the broken gods.\nBacchus remains, I know not what new Bacchus\nGuising his everlasting deity.\nWill he content you ? Will you love for long\nTo serve him with a scorn of shapely law,\nOf bounded measured life under the stars ?\nAt last will you not know his godhead is\nThe vengeance of the uncreated passion\nOn that which holds it in creation, you,\nThe living world ? And a delicate vengeance !\n\" Deny the seeming beauty of the world,"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1324, "texte": "Follow me out of seeming ! \" This is the cry.\nHow long before whatever seems become\nOlympian truth again ? How long shall be\nThe glory of your world reckon'd its shame ? —\nYou minds that seize the rage of infinite force\nAnd master it to seem desirable,\nA firm and shining world, you take a god\nWho turns your triumph to a meddling sin,\nAnd holds you contrite for it! Ay, say it pours,\nThat formless race of being, pours through you\nThe real and eternal of your lives :\nHave this sheer being for your god, you make\nWorthless yourselves, worthless to be the world.\nBut all the measured fires that fill the sky\nRejoicing in their glittering certainty,\nThe times of earth, and waters in their rounds,\nAnd your own shapely thought—all this that is\nSeeming and mortal—this is your mastery!—\nThe seizure into boundaries of beauty\nThat overcomes the eternity in you.\nMake this your god, and life is its own value.\nWill you have life once more that loves itself ?\nThen of the world shaped into radiant seeming\nIn midst of flux, let there be Zeus again ;\nYea, and another son of Zeus, a new\nApollo, god of the life that knows itself\nMade of eternal being, but made with power\nTo shape the eternal into mortal world.\nSo prophesying was the end of him.\nHis wretched figure sunk to crooked kneeling ;"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 581, "texte": "His mouth gaped as lie would be speaking still,\nBut only choked ; with jerks of throttling grip\nHe laid hold on his windpipe like self-murder ;\nAnd then he bowed his head, and tumbled down\nBeside that other. Quickly the peasants moved,\nReleased from him, but not yet from his fear,\nTo load his death, piling a cairn of boulders.\nBack in their hut, son and mother no word\nHad for each other a long while. At last\nThe woman, stirring about dinner, spoke:\n\" Boy, you shall have your way. From to-day on\nI*et no one come to me for washing corpses.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "55", "page_fin": "55", "image_debut": 55, "image_fin": 55, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "THE POET TO HIS MISTRESS", "titre_sommaire": "THE POET TO HIS MISTRESS", "signature_source": "John Drinkwater", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 421, "texte": "THE POET TO HIS MISTRESS\nJohn Drinkwater\nIf 1 should take\nthought of gentleness\nFor your dear sake\nThan for the poignant labours that possess\nMy blood, then surely by so much were signed\nMy shame and loss in the world's recording mind.\nIf you should be\nJealous of my desire,\nAnd, loving me,\nRebuke my patient hopes from your sweet fire,\nThen would you take a lover to your bed\nAbased with the pale submission of the dead."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "56", "page_fin": "56", "image_debut": 56, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "THE NEW MIRACLE", "titre_sommaire": "THE NEW MIRACLE", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 17, "fin_caractere_exclue": 810, "texte": "THE NEW MIRACLE\nOf old men wrought strange gods for mystery,\nImplored miraculous tokens in the skies,\nAnd lips that most were strange in prophecy\nWere most accounted wise.\nThe hearthstone's commerce between mate and mate,\nBarren of wonder, prospered in content,\nAnd still the hunger of their thought was great\nFor sweet astonishment.\nAnd so they built them altars of retreat\nWhere life's familiar use was overthrown,\nAnd left the shining world about their feet,\nTo travel worlds unknown.\n* * ♦ *\nWe hunger still. But wonder has come down\nFrom alien skies upon the midst of us;\nThe sparkling hedgerow and the clamorous town\nHave grown miraculous.\nAnd man from his far travelling returns\nTo find yet stranger wisdom than he sought,\nWhere in the habit of his threshold burns\nUnfathomable thought."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "57", "page_fin": "57", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 57, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "THE BOUNDARIES", "titre_sommaire": "THE BOUNDARIES", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 469, "texte": "THE BOUNDARIES\nAlthough beyond the track of unseen stars\nImagination strove in weariless might,\nYet loomed at last inviolable bars\nThat bound my farthest flight.\nAnd when some plain old carol in the street\nQuickened a shining angel in my brain,\nI knew that even his passionate wings should beat\nUpon those bars in vain.\nAnd then I asked if God omnipotent\nHimself was caught within the snare, or free,\nAnd would the bars at his command relent,—\nAnd none could answer me."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "58", "page_fin": "58", "image_debut": 58, "image_fin": 58, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "A TOWN WINDOW", "titre_sommaire": "A TOWN WINDOW", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 418, "texte": "A TOWN WINDOW\nBeyond my window in the night\nIs but a drab inglorious street,\nYet there the frost and clean starlight\nAs over Warwick woods are sweet.\nUnder the grey drift of the town\nThe crocus works among the mould\nAs eagerly as those that crown\nThe Warwick spring in flame and gold\nAnd when the tramway down the hill\nAcross the cobbles moans and rings,\nThere is about my window-sill\nThe turn ult of a thousand wings."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-02-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "59", "page_fin": "59", "image_debut": 59, "image_fin": 59, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "MEMORY", "titre_sommaire": "MEMORY", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 402, "texte": "MEMORY\nOne told me in the stress of days\nOf ease that memory should bring,\nAnd so I feared my trodden ways\nFor snares against my labouring.\nLest I should spend my brain amiss\nIn wrath for bitterness gone by,\nOr amorous for some old kiss,\nI would not deal with memory.\nBecause one said—' In memory\nIs half the health of your estate,'\nI smote the dead years under me,\nI smote, and cast them from my gate."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.1", "texte": "New Numbers\nVolume 1.\nNumber 1.\nFebruary, 1914."}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.2", "texte": "Princeton University Library\nFrom the collection of\nDAVID AIKEN REED\nClass of igoo\nPresented in his memory by Mrs. Reed"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.3", "texte": "NEW NUMBERS"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.4", "texte": "New Numbers\nPUBLISHED AT\nRYTON. DYMOCK, GLOUCESTER.\n\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nRupert Brooke\nLascelles Abercrombie\nJohn Drinkwater"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.5", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nBloodybush Edge is a remote spot on the border-line between England\nand Scotland, marked by a dumpy obelisk, on which is inscribed an\nold scale of tolls. A rough sandy road runs down across the dark\nmoors, into England on the one hand, and into Scotland on the\nother. It is a fine, starry night in early September. Daft Dick, a\nfantastic figure, in appearance half-gamekeeper, half tramp {dressed\nas he is in cast-off clothes of country-gentlemen) swings up the road\nfrom the Scottish side, singing.\n\" Now Iyiddisdale has ridden a raid;\nBut I wat they better hae stayed at hame ;\nFor Michael o' Winfield, he lies dead;\nAnd Jock o' the Side is prisoner ta'en.\"\nHe stands for a moment, looking across the fells, which are very dark,\nin spite of the starry sky ; then flings himself down in the heather,\nwith his back to the obelisk, and lights his pipe. Presently, he sees\na dark figure, stumbling with uncertain steps across the boggy moor;\nand watches it keenly as it approaches, until it reaches the road, when\nhe sees that it is a strange man, evidently a tramp.\nTramp : A track, at last, thank God !\nDick : Aye, there be whiles\nWhen beaten tracks are welcome.\nTramp: Who the . . . Oh!\nI didn't count on having company\nAgain in this world ; and when I heard a voice\nI thought it must be another ghost. It's queer\nHearing a voice bleat when you haven't heard\nA mortal voice for ages. I've not changed\nA word with a soul since noon ; and when you spoke\nIt gave me quite a turn. A feather, Iyord !\nBut it wouldn't take the shadow of a feather\nTo knock me over. I'm in such a stickle,\nDead-beat, and fit to drop. To drop ! I've dropped\nA hundred times already, humpty-dumpty !"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.6", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nWhy, I've been tumbling in and out black holes,\nSince sunset, on that god-forsaken moor,\nHalf-crazed with fear of ... Ah, you've got a light:\nAnd I've been tramping all the livelong day\nWith a pipeful of comfort in my waistcoat-pocket;\nAnd would have swopt the frizzling sun itself ;\nFor a match to kindle it. Thanks, mate, that's better.\nAnd now, what was it you were saying, Old Cock,\nWhen I mistook you then for Hamlet's father ?\nLord ! if you'd seen him at the \" Elephant,\"\nIn queer, blue sheeny armour, you'ld have shivered.\n\" I am thy father's spirit,\" he says, like that,\nDown in his boots. But you were saying\nDick : There are times\nWhen beaten tracks are welcome.\nTramp : True for you :\nAnd truer by a score of bumps, for me.\nMy neck's been broken half-a-dozen times :\nMy body's just an aching bag of bones.\nI'm one big bruise from top to toe, as though\nI'd played in the Cup final, as the ball.\nAnd mud, I'm mud to the eyes, and over, carrying\nHalf of the country that I've passed through on me.\nMy best suit, too ! And I was always faddy\nAbout my clothes. My mother used to call me\nFinicky Fred. If she could see me now !\nI couldn't count the times that I've pitched headlong\nInto black bog.\nDick : Aye, there are clarty bits\nIn Foulmire Moss. But what set you stravaging"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.7", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAmong the peat-hags at this time of night ?\nUnless you know the tracks by heart. . .\nTramp : I know\nThe Old Kent Road by heart.\nDick : The Old Kent Road ?\nTramp : London, S.E. You've heard of London, likely ?\nDick : Aye ! aye ! I've heard. . .\nTramp : Well, mate, I've walked from London.\nDick : You've walked from London, here ?\nTramp : Well, not to-day.\nIt must be nigh three hundred mile, I reckon.\nJust five weeks, yesterday, since I set out:\nBut, as you say, I've walked from London, here :\nThough where \" here \" is, the devil only knows!\nWhat is \" here \" called, if it has any name\nBut Back o' Beyond, or World's End, eh ?\nDick : You're sitting\nOn Bloodybush Edge this moment.\nTramp : To think of that!\nBloodybush Edge ! And that's what I have come to ;\nWhile all my friends, the men and women I know,\nAre strolling up and down the Old Kent Road,\nChattering and laughing by the lighted stalls\nAnd the barrows of bananas and oranges;\nOr sitting snugly in bars ; while, here am I,\nOn Bloodybush Edge, talking to Hamlet's father.\nDick : My name's Dick Dodd.\nTramp : Well, no offence, Old Cock !\nAnd Hamlet's father was a gentleman,\nA king of ghosts ; and Lord ! but he could groan."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.8", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nMy name's ... Jack Smith : and Jack would give a sovereign,\nA sovereign down, if he could borrow it,\nAnd drinks all round, and here's to you, and you!\nJust to be sitting in The Seven Stars,\nAnd listening to the jabber, just to snuff\nA whiff of the smoke and spirit. Seven Stars !\nI'm lodging under stars enough to-night:\nSeven times seven hundred. . .\nDick : Often I have tried\nTo count them, lying here upon my back:\nBut they're too many for me. Just when you think\nYou've reckoned all between two sprigs of heather,\nOne tumbles from its place, or else a hundred\nSpring out of nowhere. If you only stare\nHard at the darkest patch, for long enough,\nYou'll see that it's all alive with little stars ;\nAod there isn't any dark at all.\nTramp: No dark!\nIf you'd been tumbling into those black holes,\nYou'ld not think overmuch of these same stars.\nI couldn't see my hand before me. Stars !\nGive me the lamps along the Old Kent Road:\nAnd I'm content to leave the stars to you.\nThey're well enough ; but hung a trifle high\nFor walking with clean boots. Now a lamp or so . . .\nDick : If it's so fine and brave, the Old Kent Road,\nHow is it you came to leave it ?\nTramp : I'd my reasons.\n>\nDick : Reasons ! Queer reasons surely to set you trapesing"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.9", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nOver Foulmire in the dark : though I could travel\nThe fells from here to Cheviot, blindfold. Aye !\nAnd never come a cropper.\nTramp : 'Twas my luck,\nMy lovely luck, and naught to do with reasons —\nMy gaudy luck, and the devilish dust and heat,\nAnd hell's own thirst that drove me ; and too snug\nA bed among the heather. Oversleeping,\nThat's always played the mischief with me. Once\nI slept till three in the morning, and . . .\nDick : Till three ?\nYou're an early bird, if you call that oversleeping.\nFolk hereabouts are mostly astir by three :\nBut, city-folk, I thought. . .\nTramp : I'm on the night-shift.\nI sleep by day, for the most part, like a cat.\nThat's why, though dog-tired now, I couldn't sleep\nA wink though you paid me gold down.\nDick : Night-shift, you !\nAnd what may your job be ? Cat's night-shift, likely,\nAs well as day's sleep !\nTramp : Now, look here, Old Cock,\nThere's just one little thing that we could teach you\nDown London way. Why, even babes in London\nKnow better than to ask too many questions.\nYou ask no questions, and you'll hear no lies,\nIs the first lesson that's hammered into them.\nNo London gentleman asks questions. Lord !\nIf you went \" What's-your-job ? \"-itig down our way.\nYou'ld soon be smelling someone's fist, I reckon ;"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.10", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilsoji Gibson\n\nOr tripping over somebody in the dark\nUpon the stairs : and with a broken neck,\nBe left, still asking questions in your coffin,\nTill the worms had satisfied you. Not that I\nHave anything to hide, myself. I'm only\nAdvising you for your own good. But, Old Chap,\nWe were talking of something else . . . that hell-hot rnad.\nI'd pegged along it through the blazing dust\nFrom Bellingham, till I could peg no more,\nMy mouth was just a limekiln ; and each foot,\nOne bleeding blister. A kipper on the grid,\nThat s what I was 011 the road. And the heather looked\nSo cool and cosy, I left the road for a bit;\nAnd coming 011 a patch of wet green moss,\nI took my boots off; and it was so champion\nTo feel cold water squelching between my toes,\nI paddled on like a child, till I came to a clump\nOf heather in full bloom, just reeking honey;\nAnd curled up in it, and dropt sound asleep ;\nAnd, when I wakened, it was dark, pitch-dark,\nFor all your stars. The sky was light enough,\nHad I been travelling that way. But, for the road,\nI hadn't a notion of its whereabouts.\nA blessed babe-in-the-woods I was, clean lost;\nAnd fit to cry for my mammy. Babes-in-the-wood i\nBut there were two of them, for company,\nAnd only one of me, by my lone self.\nHowever, I said to myself : You've got to spend\nA night in the heather. Well, you've known worse beds,\nAnd worse bed-fellows than a sheep or so—\nTrying to make believe I wasn't frightened."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.11", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAnd then, somehow, I couldn't, God knows why !\nBut I was scared : the loneliness, and all;\nThe quietness, and the queer creepy noises;\nAnd something that I couldn't put a name to,\nA kind of feeling in my marrow bones,\nAs though the great black hills against the sky\nHad come alive about me in the night;\nAnd they were watching me ; as though I stood\nNaked, in a big room, with blind men sitting,\nUnseen, all round me, in the quiet darkness,\nThat was not dark to them. And all the stars\nWere eyeing me; and whisperings in the heather\nWere like cold water trickling down my spitie;\nAnd when I heard a cough. . .\nDick : A coughing sheep.\nTramp : May be : but 'twas a coughing ghost to me.\nI've never yet set eyes on a ghost, unless . . . (looking askance at\nThough I've often felt them near me. Once, when I. . [Dick.\nBut, Iyord, I'm talking, talking . .\nDick : I've seen ghosts,\nA hundred times. The ghosts of reivers ride\nThe fells at night; and you'ld have ghosts in plenty\nAbout you, lad, though you were blind to them.\nBut, why d' you fear them ? There's no harm in ghosts.\nKven should they they ride over you, it's only\nLike a cold wind blowing through you. The other night,\nAs I came down by Girsonsfield, the ghost\nOf Parcy Reed, with neither hands nor feet,\nRode clean through me ; the false Halls, and the Croziers\nClose on his heels, though I kept clear of them;"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.12", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAnd often I've heard him, cracking his hunting-crop,\nOn a winter's night, when the winds were in full cry ;\nAnd heard the yelp of the pack, and the horn's halloo,\nOver the howl of the storm, or caught at dawn\nA glimpse of the tails of his green hunting-jacket.\nWhenever you shudder, or break in a cold sweat,\nNot knowing why, folk say that someone's stepping\nOver your grave ; but that's all stuff and nonsense.\nIt's only some poor ghost that's walking through you.\nTramp : Well, ghosts or sheep, I'd had my fill of them ;\nWent all to pieces, took to my heels and ran ;\nAnd hadn't run three yards, when I pitched headlong.\nThat was the first. Since then, I've felt the bottom\nOf every hole, five hundred to my reckoning,\nFrom there to here.\nDick : You've covered some rough ground.\nBut you have doubled back upon your tracks,\nIf you were making North.\nTramp : Aye : I was making\nFor Scotland. I'd a notion . . .\nDick : Scotland lies\nUnder your left heel, though your right's in England.\nTramp : To think of that! Well, I can't feel much difference\nTwixt one and the other. Perhaps, if I'd my boots off ... .\nBut, Hamlet's father, isn't it a king's bed\nWe're lying on, and sprawling over two countries !\nAnd yet, I'd rather be in Millicent Place,\nLondon, ,S. E., and sleeping three in a bed.\nThis room's too big for me, too wide and windy;"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.13", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nThe bed, too broad, and not what I call snug :\nThe ceiling, far too high, and full of eyes.\nI hate the loneliness. I like to feel\nThere are houses, packed with people, all about me\nFor miles on miles; I'm fond of company;\nI'm only really happy in a throng,\nCrowds jostling thick and hot about me. Here\nI feel, somehow, as if I were walking naked\nAmong the hills, the last man left alive.\nI haven't so much as set eyes on a house,\nNot since I left that blistering road.\nDick : The nearest\nIs three miles off. or more.\nTramp : Well, country-people\nShould be good neighbours, and quiet; but, for me,\nI'd rather be packed like herrings in a barrel.\nI hate the loneliness: it makes me think.\nI'm fond of company; too fond at times.\nIf I hadn't been so fond of company\nA while back, I'ld hardly have been lying now\nOn Bloodybush Edge, talking of ghosts at midnight,\nWhen I might be . . . but it won't bear thinking on.\nYet, even with you beside me, Bloodybush Edge\nIs a size too big in beds—leaves too much room\nFor ghosts, to suit my fancy. Three in a bed,\nAnd you sleep sound.\nDick : And why should you fear ghosts,\nWhen, one fine night, you'll be a ghost yourself ?\nHow soon, who knows ! Why, even at this moment,\nIf you had broken your neck among the moss-hags"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.14", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nYou'ld be your own ghost sitting there, not you.\nIf you hadn't been so muddy, and so frightened. . .\nNay ; but I've seen too many ghosts in my time\nFor you to take me m. Ghosts often lean\nOver me, when I'm fishing in the moonlight.\nThey're keen, are ghosts. I sometimes feel their breath\nUpon my neck, when I am guddling trout;\nOr the clutch of their clammy fingers 011 my wrist\nWhen I am spearing salmon, lest I miss.\nAnd always at the burning of the water\nYou'll see them lurking in the shadows, beyond\nThe flare and the smoke of the torches, in the night,\nEager as boys to join in the sport; and at times,\nWhen they have pressed too near; and a torch has flared,\nI've seen the live flame running through their bodies.\nBut oftenest they appear to me when alone\nI'm fishing like a heron ; and last night\nAs I stooped over Deadwater, I felt. . .\nTramp : And you're an honest man to be asking questions\nOf gentlemen on tour ! So, you're a poacher,\nA common poacher : though it must be rare sport,\nI've often fancied. . .\nDick : To creep up to a pool\nWhere a big bull-trout lies beneath a boulder\nWith nose against the stream, his tail scarce flicking;\nTo creep up quiet and without a shadow,\nAnd lie upon your belly in the gravel;\nAnd slide your hands as noiseless as an otter\nInto the water, icy-cold and aching,\nAnd tickle, tickle, till you have him fuddled;"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.15", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nThen lift him, cold and slithery, from the burn,\nA quivering bit of silver in the moonlight. . .\nTramp : Aye, that must be rare sport; but, for myself,\nI'ld rather manage without the help of ghosts.\nOnce, I remember, I was bending down—\n'Twas in an empty house . . . I'd cut my thumb,\nThe window jamming somehow, a nasty cut:\nThe mark's still there . . (not that! nay, that's the place\nI was bitten by a friend) and as I fumbled\nWith a damned tricky lock, some Yankee patent,\nI felt a ghost was standing close behind me ;\nAnd dare not stir, or squint over my shoulder :\nBut crouched there, moving neither hand nor foot,\nTill I was just a solid ache oi terror,\nAnd could have squealed aloud with the numb cramp,\nAnd pins and needles in my arms and legs.\nAnd then at last, when I was almost dropping,\nI lost my head, took to my heels, and bolted\nHeadfirst down stairs, and through the broken window,\nLeaving my kit and the swag, without a thought:\nAnd never coming to my senses, till\nI saw a bullseye glimmering down the lane.\nAnd then I found my brow was bleeding, too—\nAt first I thought 'twas sweat—a three-inch cut,\nClean to the bone. I had to have it stitched.\nI told the doctor that I'd put my head\nThrough a window in the dark, but not a word\nAbout my body following it. The doctor,\nHe was a gentleman, and asked no questions.\nA civil chap : he'd stitched my scalp before"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.16", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nOnce, when the heel of a lady's slipper . . .\nDick: So you\nAre a common poacher, too ; although you take\nOnly dead silver and gold. Still, it must be\nA risky business, burgling, when the folk . . .\nTramp : Risk! aye, there's risk ! That's where the fun comes in :\nTo steal into a house, with people sleeping\nSo warm aod snug and innocent overhead;\nTo hear them snoring as you pass their doors\nWith all they're dreaming of stowed in your pockets ;\nTo tiptoe from the attic to the basement,\nWith a chance that you may find on any larding\nA door flung open, and a man to taclde.\nIt's only empty houses I'm afraid of.\nI've more than once looked up a pistol's snout,\nAnd never turned a hair . . . though once I heard\nA telephone-bell ring in an empty house—\nAnd I can hear the damned thing tinkling yet. . . .\nI'm all in a cold sweat just thinking of it.\nIt tinkled, tinkled . . . Risk! Why man alive,\nLife's all a risky business, till you're dead.\nThere's no risk then . . . unless ... I never feared\nA living man, sleeping or waking, yet.\nBut ghosts, well, ghosts are different somehow. There's\nA world of difference between men and ghosts.\nL,et's think no more of ghosts—but lighted streets,\nAnd crowds, and women ; though it's my belief\nThere's not a woman in all this country-side.\nDick : There's womenfolk, and plenty. And they are kind,\nThe womenfolk, to me. Daft Dick is ever"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.17", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nB\n\nA favourite with the womenfolk. His belly\nWould oft go empty, were it not for them.\nTramp : You call those women, gawky, rawboned creatures,\nThin-lipped, hard-jawed, cold-eyed ! I like fat women.\nIf you could walk just now down the Old Kent Road,\nAnd see the plump young girls in furs and feathers,\nWith saucy black eyes, sparkling in the gaslight;\nAnd looking at you, munching oranges,\nOr whispering to each other with shrill giggles\nAs you go by, and nudging one another ;\nOr standing with a soldier eating winkles,\nGrimacing with the vinegar and pepper,\nThen laughing so merrily you almost wish\nYou were a red-coat, too! And the fat old mothers,\nToo old for feathers and follies, with their tight\nNigh-bursting bodices, and their double chins,\nThey're homely, motherly and comfortable,\nAnd do a man's eyes good. There's not a sight\nIn all the world that's half as rare to see\nAs a fat old wife with jellied eels and porter.\nAye, women should be plump . . . though Ellen Ann\nWas neither old nor fat, when she and I\nWere walking out together, and she'd red hair,\nAs red as blazes, and a peaked white face.\nBut 'twas her eyes, her eyes that always laughed,\nAnd the merry way she had with her. . . But, Lord,\nI'm talking ! Only mention petticoats,\nAnd I'm the boy to talk till doomsday. Women !\nIf it hadn't been for a petticoat, this moment\nI might be drinking my own health m the bar"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.18", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nOf The Seven Stars or The World Turned Upside Down,\nInstead of . . . Well, Old Cock, it's good to have\nSomeone to talk to, after such a day.\nYou cannot get much further with a sheep ;\nAnd I met none but sheep, and they all scuttled,\nNot even stopping to pass the time of day,\nAnd the birds, well, they'd enough to say, and more,\nWhen I was running away from myself in the dark,\nWith their \" Go back ! Go back ! \"\nDlck •' You'd scared the grouse.\nThey talk like Christians. Often in the dawn . . .\nTramp: Bloodybush Edge! But why the Bloodybush ?\nI see no bush. . . .\n•' Some fight in the old days, likely,\nIn the days when men were men. . . .\nTramp : j little thought,\n_ 1\nWhen I set out from London on my travels,\nThat I was making straight for Bloodybush Edge.\nI had my reasons, but, reason or none, it's certain\nThat I Id have turned up here, someday or other :\nFor I must travel. I've the itching foot.\nI talk of London, when I'm well out of it\nBy a hundred miles or so ; but, when I'm in it,\nThere always comes a time when I couldn't stay\nA moment longer, not for love or money :\nThough in the end it always has me back.\nI cannot rest. There's something in my bones\nThey 11 need to screw the lid down with brass screws\nTo keep them in my coffin. When I'm dead.\nIf I don't walk, I'll be surprised, I . . . Lord,"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.19", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nWe're on to ghosts again ! But I'm the sort\nThat's always hankering to be elsewhere,\nWherever I am. Some men can stick to a job\nAs though they liked it. I'm not made that way.\nI couldn't heave the same pick two days running.\nI've tried it: and I know. I must have change.\nIt's in my blood. And work, why work's for fools.\nDick : Aye, fools indeed: and yet they seem content.\nContent! why my old uncle, Richard Dodd,\nHe worked till he was naught but skin and bone,\nAnd rheumatism : and when the doctor told him :\n\" You must give up. It's no use ; you're past work.\"\n'' Past work,\" he says, \" past work, like an old horse :\n'' They shoot old nags, when they are past their work.\n\" Doctor,\" he says, \" I'll give you five pound down\n'' To take that gun, and shoot me like a nag.\"\nThe doctor only laughed, and answered, \" Nay.\"\n\" An old nag's carcase is worth money, Richard :\n\" But yours, why, who'ld give anything for yours! \"\nThey call me daft—Daft Dick. It pleases them.\nBut I have never been daft enough to work.\nI never did a hand's turn in my life :\nAnd won't, while there are trout-streams left, and women.\nAnd I am a traveller, too, I cannot rest.\nThe wind's in my bones, I think, and like the wind,\nI'm here, to-night; to-morrow, Lord knows where !\nTramp : London, perhaps, or well upon the road there,\nSince I'm on Bloodybush Edge.\nDick : Nay, never London.\nI cannot thole the towns. They stifle me."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.20", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nI spent a black day in Newcastle, once.\nNever again! I cannot abide the crowds.\nI must be by myself. I must have air:\nI must have room to breathe, and elbow-room,\nWide spaces round me, winds and running water.\nI know the singing-note of every burn\n'Twixt here and High Cup Nick, by Appleby.\nAnd biids and beasts, I must have them about me.\nRabbits and hares, weasels and stoats and adders,\nPlover and grouse, partridge and snipe and curlew,\nRed-shank and heron. I think that towns would choke me;\nAnd lld go blind shut in by the tall houses,\nWith never a far sight to stretch my eyes.\nI must have hills, and hills beyond. And beds—\nI never held with beds and stuffiness.\nI'm seldom at my ease beneath a roof:\nThe rafters all seem crushing on my head,\nA dead weight. Though I sleep in barns in Winter,\nI'm never at home except beneath the stars.\nI've seen enough of towns ; and as for the women,\nFat blowsy sluts and slatterns. . . .\nTramp : Easy, Old Cock !\n\" What's one man's meat . . .\"as che saying is ; and so.\nEach man to his own world, and his own women.\n(They sit for awhile smoking in silence Then Daft Dick begins\nsinging softly to himself again.)\nDick : (singing)\n\" Their horses were the wrong way shod,\nAnd Hobbie has mounted his grey sae fine,\nWat on his old horse, Jock on his bay;"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.21", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAnd on they rode for the waters of Tyne.\n\" And when they came to Chollerton Ford,\nThey lighted down by the light o' the moon ;\nAnd a tree they cut with nogs on each side,\nTo climb up the wa' of Newcastle toun.\"\nTramp : What's that you're singing, matey ?\nDick : \" Jock o' the Side.\nA ballad of the days when men were men,\nAnd sheep were sheep, and not all mixter-maxter.\nThon were brave days, or brave nights, rather, thon !\nBrave nights, when Iyiddisdale was Iyiddisdale,\nAnd Tynedale, Tynedale, not all hand-in-glove,\nAnd hanky-panky, and naught but market-haggling\nTwixt men whose fathers' swords were the bargainers!\nThat was a man's work, riding out, hot-trod,\nOver the hills to lift a herd of cattle,\nAnd leave behind a blazing byre, or to steal\nYour neighbour's sheep, while he lay drunk and snoring—\nA man's work, ever bringing a man's wages,\nThe fight to the death, or life won at the sword's point.\nGod ! those were nights : the heather and sky alow\nWith the light of burning peel-towers, and the wind\nRinging with slogans, as the dalesmen met,\nOver the singing of the swords:\n\"An Armstrong ! An Armstrong ! \"\n\" A Milburne ! A Milburne !\n\"An Elliott! An Elliott! \"\n\" A Robson ! A Robson ! \"\n\" A Charlton ! A Charlton !\"\n\" A Fenwick! A Fenwick!''"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.22", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\n\" Fy, Tynedale, to it! \"\n\" Jethert's here ! Jethert's here ! \"\n\" Tarset and Tarretburn !\n\" Hardy and heatherbred !\n\" Yet! Yet! \"\nMan, did you ever hear the story told\nOf Barty Milburne, Barty of the Comb,\nDown Tarset way ? and how he waked one morning\nTo find that overnight some Scottish reiver\nHad lifted the pick of his flock : and how hot-foot\nHe was up the Blackburn, summoning Corbet Jock:\nAnd how the two set out to track the thieves\nBy Emblehope, Berrymoor Edge and Blackman's\nBy Blakehope Nick, and under Oh Me Edge,\nAnd over Girdle Fell to Chattlehope Spout,\nAnd so to Carter Bar ; but lost the trail\nSomewhere about the Reidswire : and how, being loth\nTo go home empty-handed, they just lifted\nThe best sheep grazing on the Scottish side,\nAs fair exchange : and turned their faces home.\nBy this, snow had set in : and 'twas sore work\nDriving the wethers against it over the fell;\nWhen, finding they were followed in their turn\nBy the laird of L,eatham and his son, they laughed,\nAnd waited for the Scots by Chattlehope Spout\nAbove Catcleugh: and in the snow they fought,\nTill Corbet Jock and one of the Scots were killed,\nAnd Barty himself sore wounded in the thigh;\nWhen the other Scot, thinking him good as dead,\nSprang on him, as he stooped, with a whickering laugh :"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.23", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nAnd Barty, with one clean, back-handed blow,\nStruck off his head, and, as they tell the tale,\n\" Garred it spang like an onion along the heather.\"\nThen, picking up the body of Corbet Jock,\nHe slung it over his shoulder; and carried his mate\nWith wounded thigh, and driving the wethers before him\nThrough blinding snow, across the boggy fells\nTo the Blackburn, though his boot was filled with blood.\nOr the other tale, how one of the Robson lads\nStole a Scot's ewes : and when he'd got them home,\nAnd had mixed them with his own, found out, too late,\nThey'd got the scab : and how he went straight back\nWith a stout hempen rope to the Scot's house,\nAnd hanged him from his own rooftree by the neck\nTill he was dead, to teach the rascal a lesson,\nOr so he said, that when a gentleman called\nFor sheep the next time, held think twice about it\nBefore he tried to palm off scabbit ewes.\nPoachers and housebreakers and bargainers !\nThose men were men : and lived and died like men ;\nTaking their own road—asking no man's leave;\nDoing and speaking outright, hot and clean,\nThe thing that burned in them, and paying the price.\nAnd those same gawky, rawboned women mothered\nSuch sons as these ; and still do, nowadays—\nFor hunting foxes, and for market-haggJ ing !\nYou fear no living man! A glinting bullseye\nDown a dark lane would not have set them scuttling.\nThey didn't dread the mosshags iti the dark.\nAnd seemingly they'd little fear of ghosts,\nBeing themselves so free in making ghosts."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.24", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nGhosts ! why the night is all alive with ghosts,\nGhosts of dead raiders, and dead cattle-lifters;\nPoor, headless ghosts ; and ghosts with broken necks . . .\nSee that chap, yonder, with the bleeding thigh,\nOn a grey gelding, making for Hurklewmter—\nA horse-thief, sure . . . And the ghostly stallions whinney\nAs the ghostly reivers drive their flocks and heids . . .\n[listening)\nThey are quiet now: but I've often heard the patter\nOf sheep, or the trot-trot of the frightened stirks\nDown this same road . . .\nTramp : Stop man ! You'll drive me crazy !\nLet's talk no more of ghosts ! I want to sleep.\nI'm dog-tired. . . but I'll never sleep to-night.\nWhat's that ... I thought I heard . . . I'm all a-tremble.\nMy very blood stops, listening, in my veins.\nI'm all to fiddlestrings . . . Let's talk of London,\nAnd lights, and crowds, and women. Once I met\nA chap in the bar of The World Turned Upside Down,\nWith three blue snakes tattooed around his wrist:\nA joker, he was ; and what he didn't know\nOf women the world over you could shove\nBetween the nail and the quick, and never feel it.\nHe told me that in Valparaiso once\nA half-breed wench that he . . . but, Lord, what's that!\n(A low distant sound of trotting drawing quickly nearer).\nI thought I heard . . . Do you hear nothing ?\nDick: Naught.\nTramp : I'm all on edge; I could have sworn I heard—"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.25", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nWhere was I ? Well, as I was saying . . . God !\nCan you hear nothing now ? Trot-trot! Trot-trot!\nI must be going crazed, or you're stone deaf.\nDick : Nay, I'm none deaf.\nTramp: It's coming nearer, nearer . . .\nTrot-trot! trot-trot! Man, tell me that you hear it,\nFor God's sake, or 111 go mad !\nDick : No two men ever\nMay hear or see them, together, at one time.\nTramp : Hear what ? See what ? Speak, man, if you've a tongue !\nDick : The ghostly stirks.\nTramp (starting up) : The ghostly stirks ! Trot-trot!\nTrot-trot! They're almost on us. Look you ! there !\nAlong the road there, black against the sky.\nThey're charging down with eyes ablaze . . . O Christ . . .\n(He takes to his heels, running lamely down the road on the Scottish\nside, as a herd of frightened young stirks gallops down the road from\nthe English side. They pass Dick, who watches them, placidly\nsmoking, until they are by, when, taking his pipe from his mouth,\nhe gives a blood-curdling whoop, which sends them scampering more\nwildly after the tramp. Presently the cattle-drover, panting and\nlimping half-a-mile behind his herd, comes down the road. Seeing\nDick, he stops.)\nDrover : Have any beasts come by ? Lord, what a dance\nThey've led me, since we quitted Bellingham!\nI've chased them over half the countryside!\nDick : Aye : they were making straight for Dinlabyre.\nDrover: Then I can rest. They cannot go far wrong now.\nWe're for Saughtree ; and I'm fair hattered, and they\nCan't have the spunk left in them to stray far."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.26", "texte": "BLOODYBUSH EDGE\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\n\nThey'll be all right.\nDick : Aye ! and your brother's with them.\nDrover: Brother ? I have no brother . . .\nDick : Well, he and you\nAre as like as peas—a pair of gallows-birds.\nAnd he was driving them, and walloping them . .\nDrover [starting to run) : Good God! Just wait till I catch up\nwith him!\nDick (calling after him) : It will take you all your time, and more,\nto catch him.\n(To himself.)\nNow, I can sleep in peace, without bedfellows.\nTwo in a bed is one too many form\nAnd such a clatter-jaw!"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.27", "texte": "SONNET\nRupert Brooke\nSuggested by some of the Proceedings\nof the Society for Psychical Research.\nNot with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,\nWell beat on the substantial doors, nor tread\nThose dusty high-roads of the aimless dead\nPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run\nDown some close-covered by-way of the air,\nSome low sweet alley between wind and wind,\nStoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find\nSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there\nSpend in pure converse our eternal day;\nThink each in each, immediately wise;\nIvearn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say\nWhat this tumultuous body now denies;\nAnd feel, who have laid our groping hands away;\nAnd see, no longer blinded by our eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.28", "texte": "Rupert Brooke\n\nA MEMORY\n(from a sonnet-sequence.)\nSomewhile before the dawn I rose, and stept\nSoftly along the dim way to your room,\nAnd found you sleeping in the quiet gloom,\nAnd holiness about you as you slept.\nI knelt there; till your waking fingers crept\nAbout my head, and held it. I had rest\nUnhoped this side of Heaven, beneath your breast.\nI knelt a long time, still; nor even wept.\nIt was great wrong you did me; and for gain\nOf that poor moment's kindliness, and ease,\nAnd sleepy mother-comfort!\nChild, you know\nHow easily love leaps out to dreams like these,\nWho has seen them true. And love that's wakened so\nTakes all too long to lay asleep again.\nWaikiki. October, 1913."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.29", "texte": "ONE DAY.\nTo-day I have been happy. All the day\nI held the memory of you, and wove\nIts laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,\nAnd sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,\nAnd sent you following the white waves of sea,\nAnd crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,\nStray buds from that old dust of misery,\nBeing glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.\nSo lightly I played with those dark memories,\nJust as a child, beneath the summer skies,\nPlays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,\nFor which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,\nAnd love has been betrayed, and murder done,\nAnd great kings turned to a little bitter mould.\nThe Pacific. October, 1913.\n\nRupert Brooke"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.30", "texte": "MUTABILITY.\nThey say there's a high windless world and strange,\nOut of the wash of days and temporal tide,\nWhere Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,\nAeterna corpora, subject to no change.\nThere the sure suns of these pale shadows move;\nThere stand the immortal ensigns of our war;\nOur melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,\nAnd perishing hearts, imperishable IyOve\nDear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;\nBach kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;\nIyove has no habitation but the heart.\nPoor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,\nCling, and are borne into the night apart.\nThe laugh dies with the lips, \" Iyove \" with the lover.\nSouth Kensington—Makaweli,\n1913-\n\nRupert Brooke"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.31", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\nIt is in Crete, a many years ago :\nUnder a peak that strained in icy stone\nTo thrust an endless gesture at the stars.\nTwo peasants, son and mother, in their hut\nWere talking : mouth close against ear they talkt,\nBecause a great storm poured over the hut\nA sound of rain, driven so hard it smackt\nAgainst the walls like pebbles thrown in volleys;\nAnd, carrying this, a rushing sound of wind\nThat fled through woods, tearing itself, and blew\nAcross the mountain piled above the hut,\nMaking the rocky hollows and ravines\nSnore like monstrous jars in its pauseless breath.\nYet it was time for pleasant days. The earth—\nAll winter long s'nce dried in her, and death\nSearcht out and crumbled in the ground by frost—\nWaited for spring to burn her once again,\nReady as tinder is for touch of fire\nTo thrill its tranced nature and unseal\nThe striving self-creative will of flame.\nYea, full time now for the woods to toss their flame,\nBurning with every green that water knows:\nFrom the green gold of oaks, like mounded waves\nIn green mid-sea full of a golden gleam,\nTo birches like the quiet depth beside\nSheer downward cliffs, where shallow light of green\nIs mixt with blue from under. And already\nFlowers began to hire the wings of bees\nAt a delicious wage to carry love,\nTheir golden ttrade, to far off unknown mates."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.32", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nBut the storm came, and with its wind trod out,\nAnd drencht with its rain, the spring's sweet travelling fire.\nNot heeding the loud air, these peasants talkt.\nSon : But 'tis a trade despised.\nMother : By tongues that go\nIyike tails of cows in summer, flicking the clegs:\nThey flourish their lithe talk in the air, to switch\nThe flies of jealousy that so prick their minds.\nIs it despised ? I,ook you, is man a beast,\nOr is he man ?\nSon : He's man till he's a corpse;\nAnd then he should be filth ; and scorn's the thing\nFor those whose trade is dabbling among filth.\nMother : The kitten miaows his scorn ! But think on it,\nThat you'ld be nothing of the handsome man\nYou take yourself to be—you'ld be a lump\nOf worse than dung—dabble your thought in that!—\nIf I'd not had my trade and fed you on it.\nSon : I know all this. But what I mean to say—\nI am grown now to work for both of us,\nAnd leave corpse-tending be.\nMother : No gain in that,\nAnd loss a plenty. You've a name abroad\nFor your strong work, Milon himself no better.\nAnd I've my name for setting corpses right;\nAs much to me as any feats to you.\nSon : My name's honest: it's queer you love your scorn.\nMother : Is man a beast, I say, or is he man ?\nAnd what is most the man in him ? 'Tis pride."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.33", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nc\n\nAnd go through all his uses, you'll not see\nHis pride standing taller and more daring\nThan in my trade. Naught lives but must lie down\nHelpless, and fastened in a tomb must let\nThe earth at her detestable slow pleasure\nMeddle with what was once so much delight.\nWell, shall man go to his disgrace like beasts\nAll in a desperate huddle ? Not he ; hell go\nA neat corpse, a polite death. While he holds\nThe shape of man, he will have decent pride\nAbout the shape. And 'tis from me he has it.\nI, the scorn'd crone, who stretches out dead men,\n(But the boys daren't halloo me !) I think myself\nIyike a worn twisted shell the tide has beacht\nWhere man may find it, marred with an age of journey\nUnder the sea, and ruffian'd by the stones;\nBut if he set his purposed lips against\nThat knockt shell's breakage, he can make it sound\nA booming call, will thunder down the surf.\nAnd so his brave breath uses me ; he sends\nThrough my lame toil his purpose to be man\nAnd his own reverence past the great stound of death,\nAnnouncing it even to his own corruption.\nSon : You make it out a fine thing. But I'm sure\n'Tis a vile business you were best be quit of.\nMother : Truly I like my corpses, and the way\nI make death prouder sign of man than life.\nI like to watch, with hiding of my smiles,\nThe mourners making much of themselves with grief,\nHowling themselves into their neighbours' notice;"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.34", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nAnd I the while knowing myself alone\nThe mind that has allowed their ceremony,\nThat caught death up out of wretchedly being\nAn asham'd riddance of poor carrion lumber.\nAnd sometimes I will eat their sins, poor fools :\n'Twere pity if I made the look of death\nDignity sleeping sound, and left the spirit\nA writhen thing, mean with a useless fear.\nSon : It is because they set you down so low,\nYou the straker of corpses, they can bear\nTo think of you defiled by death without,\nDefiled within by meals of their rank evil.\nMother : them be thinking; they give me their sins\nLike children laying pranks of mischief on\nTheir kindly nurse, who smiles to bear the blame.\nAs speech will drop from those who talk in quiet,\nBecause a sudden blow of dinning noise\nFalls there, and leaves the silence like stunn'd thought,\nBut ringing like a breadth of metal: so\nThese, who here talkt in an unheeded rage\nOf noise, were startled dumb because there smote\nUpon the steady roar of hurlymg air\nAbout them, huge and heavy and swift silence\nDown like the shock of hammer. No smallest whine\nOf sound moved under it, all so instantly\nThe night was tyrannized, though in their brains\nThe breakers of the wind were shouting still.\nAnd their amazement had not nerved their tongues\nTo venture stir of speech in the grave quiet,\nBefore the door rattled, and an old man"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.35", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nCame in, limping, hideous, crooked with age.\nUnshod his feet, but in foul gear of mud,\nAnd tatter'd shame were all his clothes. He stood\nAnd bleared upon the candle, stoopt and gaping.\nUpon his wiry trembling neck pusht out,\nThe weight of his head was poised like a baboon's;\nAnd the draught played with his spare goatish beard.\nFrom pucker'd clefts as red as wounds his eyes\nIyookt weeping ; but the bone of his brow and face,\nThough peering horribly through the stretcht and scorcht\nMask of his tann'd age, was framed to hold\nThe governance and decree of mighty spirit,\nSuperb above control of common fate,\nBefore this ponderous disease of years\nHad clung about it. For a striving while\nSome still unmastered royalty in him\nWould right the toughen'd warping of his spine;\nBut could not. Then he spoke. His voice,\nClear strength with feeble harshness jarring through it,\nWas like a trumpet when the brass is flawed ;\nSo nobly in the hollows of his skull\nThe sound was muster'd, but began from strings\nSo slack and fretted, and with rheum so hinder'd.\n\" O Cretans, he is dead ! \"\nHe stumbled back,\nAnd then came burdened in again ; he bore\nLapt in a goatskin bundle some small weight\nA boy would swing in single-handed play;\nBut he with strains and age's gasping grumble\nWorkt hard to be its porter. Up to the bench"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.36", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nHe sidled, backt against it, bent his knees,\nAnd with a grunt he let his parcel slide\nDown the hunch of his shoulders. Then to his hosts\nHe turned, with dropt jaw quivering, eyebrows up\nHigh-pitcht in anxious bridges over their sockets;\nAnd from the thrust of them the curving horrour\nPusht his forehead rugged up to his pate\nIn creases of bald skin ; like the half-rounds\nOf ripples pusht backward by a buttress\nAgainst a steady stream. He faced them so,\nAll signed with the absurd deformity\nThe labour of grief must be content to earn\nWhen it is working for life pincht in age.\nAnd leaning over the small thing that lay\nWrapt up before him, at last he spoke again.\nOld Man : He is dead now, and you must be with me\nIn burying him.\nMother : A baby ! And by your speech\nYou're some outlandish vagabond. It will be\nYou've made some demon happy with the blood\nAnd burnt fat of the bairn ; ay, it has been\nSome wizard's murder, I'll be bound. And now\nIt's I must get you quit of your pitiful rubbish !\nBut you are wrong there.\nS°n •' You go too hard upon him.\nLook how his mind stares from his ancient face,\nPosed to make out your wording, what it means.\nHe's honest, sure, and brings no harm in him.\nMother : What, an old shabby man who tramps abroad\nIn a fiends' holiday of a storm, and brings"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.37", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nI,apt up strangely and slung on his wicked back\nA dead baby ! I warrant, he deals in them ;\nHe is a sorcerers' monger. I would know\nMore of him, if he wants my skill. And the wind,\nWhen he came in, fell down from noising aloft,\nHeadlong down as a drunk man falls, who runs\nBlind and shouting over a cliff: belike\nThat means some wicked league goes faithful with him.—\nWhose is this baby ? Have you strangled it ?\nSon : The grasp, see, of those wavering hands would scarce\nStrangle a worm.\nOld Man : You said the wind had fallen ?\nYes, surely it would : I should have noted it.\nIndeed, they would call it off, whistle it back\nTo kennel, now it has worried him to death.\nI pickt him up, and bore him in my arms\nHither, soon as I knew he was to die.\nBut that fierce hound of a storm was after us\nAll my stumbling way ; it tore at him,\nAnd with a hundred dreadful snatching jaws\nWould jerk him from the fold of my trembling arms\nWhere he lay snuggled, whimpering to be safe.\nAnd terror at last of all that hatred yelling\nInto his face and biting at his limbs\nForced death upon him ; he was so weak, so weak ;\nBreath could not live in such a shaken body.\nSo it is ended now; now he is yours\nTo wash and bury : and will you eat his sins ?\nMother : An easy mouthful that, poor bairn ! Ay, sad\nTo think of all the lusty cheerful sins"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.38", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nHe might have played with, but for that killjoy death.\nO I will eat his sins : I've had my meals\nOf rapes, murders, and jeering at the gods,\nAnd never known them quarrel with me yet,\nNot even saying a twinge of colic against me.\nAy, baby ! your little secret spawn of sins\nWill make no bother for my heart: soft roe\nWere tastier, but not milder in my belly.\nIyook, sir; this is the trick we use.—\nBoy, be stirring, undo the poor wee brat.\nShe took a crust, sopt it and salted it,\nAnd gave it to the crouching man ; and he\nOver the bundled thing upon the bench\nHanded the morsel back. She muncht it down,\nThen turned to bustle with her needs, and get\nHer skill in order for the laying out.\nTruly she was unwilling ; but their minds\nThrilled strangely in the look of his tarnisht eyes,\nThat sent invisibly burning rays among\nTheir pierced thoughts, and gathered them to shape\nThe act of his desire, like powder'd iron\nDrawn into pattern of a magnet's force.\nYet as she turned from bolting down that crust\nHer casual rite had made bitter as tears,\nA sign for the reproach of sin, his face\nWent blank with timid wonder, in its stare\nAfter her busily searching corners and cupboards;\nL,ike an old puzzled ploughman at a fair,\nWho gapes after a juggling tightrope dancer,\nSeeing him, when his risky show is done,"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.39", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nPush unconcerned and whistling through the crowd:\nSo he was looking, as it were dreadfully strange\nShe made so little of those eaten sins.\nMeanwhile, she ferreting for cloths and pans,\nAnd the ancient traveller lost in his feckless gaze,\nThe son was fingering the feeble knots\nThat kept the stranger's baggage,—very loath\nTo pluck the ragged hide unfastened, yet\nHe could not fumble there for long, so slack\nAnd such a foolish work the tying was.\nA stealing cat, left in a room alone\nWhere supper's on the table, smelling out\nA dram of milk low down in a narrow jug ;\nCareful not to be noisy and not to spill,\nHer dainty paw dips in and soaks her fur,\nThen daintily draws out again and licks\nThe dripping theft. Even so gingerly\nInto the bundle's folds his hand went loosening.\nShe heard, the mother bustling with her things,\nSuddenly heard, from where she left her son,\nSuch a harsh gasp of forced desperate breath\nAs comes from lungs coopt in hard agony\nOf terror, muscles clencht about the bones\nIyike a red-hot tyre that shrinks on a smoking wheel.\nShe turned, and saw her boy in palsy, his arms\nFixt half-way raised, and eyes that could not wink\nBut only glare into the opened pack.\nShe scurried to him ; and a grim thing lay\nFor her to see : no baby, but a man\nUnbelievably withered into age,"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.40", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nThe cinder of a man, parcht and blasted\nTo smallness like a baby, puny and dried,\nHis body all drawn up into a fist;\nThe pined legs, crooked as burnt candle-wicks,\nSo taut with perisht sinews that their knees\nThrusted the shrivelled belly; and his arms\nHugg'd his chest with little graspless hands.\nBrown as though age had scorcht like fire at last\nAnd full of creases was the ancient skin.\nBut nothing babyish was the wasted head\nThrawn on his chest (and bigger than his chest\nThe great head seemed) : the sharpened edge of jaws,\nWith thin beard scanted to a crisp grey wool;\nThe lean nose peaking like a puffin's bill;\nAnd brow and brain pan smooth as it were wrought wood,\nBut vaulted for a god's imagination.\nHorrour was feasted in their minds. But he,\nThe wretch who brought with him that dreadful luggage,\nStill lookt towards where the woman had been busy,\nMoveless but for the bent knees shivering,\nA standing swoon, empty of all but sorrow.\nThey turned on him; the life in them broke loose\nFrom pausing aghast, and clamoured like a stream\nBursting a weir: the son threaten'd, and she\nWrung his shoulder and spoke in angry fear:\n\" L,eave off your doating, you monstrous old man ;\nWhat's this you've brought us ? \" Then again he tried\nTo brave the burden of his years and stand\nUpright before their question ; and again\nHe summoned from his wreck of royal life\nCommanding voice: it came broken and crippled"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.41", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nTo serve him, and five words were toil enough\nNow for the voice of his greatness to endure\nBefore it fainted:\n\" Zeus ! It is Father Zeus ! \"\nGrief seemed to clench his body. Down he fell\nFrom difficult stature and lay crouching there\nAs low as worship before these poor folk ;\nAnd from the heap came shaken whispering :\n\" The thundering Zeus! His favour was the prayer\nOf gods and men, his sentence was their lives.\nNow he is that small twisted husk ; and I,\nThis halt misery of perishing age,\nI am Apollo, I am Apollo ! \"\nA long while, sobbing and with shrill breath, he lay ;\nAt last, his head a little sideways turned,\nHe told his tale, in voice all dwindled small\nTo husky twittering, a hissing whine\nThat sometimes went into a peewit-squeak:\nIvike to the rustling drag of a fray'd rope\nOver a pulley creaking in its rust,\nWhen he that hauls is tired and often waits.\nApollo : We were upon the mountainous Height of the gods\nThat has the whole world under it; and thence—\nI,ike mountain-water feeding the fuming seas—\nDivine life down from our lofty quiet streamed,\nDown where the tides of men were labouring\nIn hollow earth, and rolling to and fro\nTheir floods of brackish fortune: into the depths\nOf all that living brine we poured our power,\nFresh heavenly water sweetening the vast salt,"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.42", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nA shining song into the helpless roaring.\nBut lately there had seemed some growth of change\nTo hold the speed and plenty of our gift:\nAs on the flanks of ancient naked stone\nAges of water grind sheer rock to soil,\nAnd soil at last grows into moss and weed,\nTill falling water soaks the whole hillside\nAnd drips from ledge to ledge of sodden turf.\nAnd to our sight, scanning the scope of time\nEasily as the distance of the earth,\nAppeared, behind the haze of things to come,\nEnormity, disaster crouching low,\nLike darkness charged with fire—the far-off sleep\nOf ruinous purpose, dreaming itself awake\nIn dreams that made the dark drowze suddenly blaze.\nWe glanced at it as feasted men will look\nAt lightning, when the storm is so far off\nThe winking glare burns noiseless as the stars\nAlong the rim of pale sweet summer-dark,\nGiving a moment's shadow to the trees.\nOr if fear toucht our hearts, it was as light\nAs tickling threads of spider-work will touch\nThe face of one who loiters in the evening.\nWe knew how the whole drift of living world\nLies in the nets of law, that hoist and drag\nTheir booty of Existence out of depths\nUnknown to land it dying none knows where.\nBut, for the ages while that cast is drawing,\nWe thought the pressure of its grasp would fall\nUpon us through our element as mild"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.43", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nAs light, the sun's command, shines through a pool\nOf rippled water, and rules with quivering gleam\nThe sand that sleeps beneath in golden nets.\nCertain, within the world's slow draught, our keep\nStood mountainous above the tides of men ;\nAnd they, in surge against its sightless prow\nOf anchor'd stone, were spent about the huge\nFoundations of our fate, and backward failed\nInto surrendering spray from rearing towards us.\nZeus the Father assembled us, and spoke:\n\" It has been known, that from some other source\nThan our divinely streaming mountain, men\nHave tempered the old brine of mortal souls.\nGods like a wandering rain have plenisht them\nWith sweetness, when perhaps our gift was stayed:\nBacchus we found descended among men\nOut of the flying winds of shapeless spirit,\nDying into them like a rain at sea,\nShedding divine fresh water of his life\nOver their salty torrent, and again\nFrom out the depths of them rising a ghost\nPure of the bitter earth they have dissolved,\nAgain to pour on them immortal moods.\nWe treated with him to dwell here, to take\nA heavenly name, and to be Dionysus.\nSo we did well, and he.\"\nWe turned to smile\nBrotherly pleasure on our lovely guest.\nHe was not in his place ; he was not found\nIn heaven that day, the last of heaven's days.\nWhere had he gone, our belov'd Dionysus ?"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.44", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nThe Father spoke again: \"On the low earth\nNow in a patch of men another god\nAppears. Despise him not, Olympian gods!\nHim too we will persuade into our manner;\nWhat has been once well done, may be again.\"\nSo to mankind we bent. Our gaze devoured\nThe height that made the press of flocking lives\nMolten in one vague to-and-fro of sea ;\nOur eager sense closed with the life of man,\nTill the whole sight of it roaming the earth\nIn single swaying flow, one driven tide,\nCrumbled into passionate wilful men\nInnumerously seen, in separate hastes\nWrangling their groping purposes. We found\nAmid the ruffle of confused small errands,\nThat moil of jarring wills, a piece of earth\nWhere all the crossing lives seemed to be stroked\nInto one pause of strain'd wondering order\nBy ruling passage of some great event;\nAs when there have been floods upon the fields,\nThe matted twigs and straws of broken woods\nL,ie combed and laid and handled by the water,\nAll packt one way. So these lives, massed and straighten'd.\nWere held from their loose custom in a firm\nIntent, towards where they had three of their kind\nHung up on gallows crosses. Bleak they spiked\nIn twilight against splendid cloudy flames\nOf scarlet evening. It was a low bare mound\nThat thrust these cruelties up at the sky,\nSo that it seemed the half-nave, and the poles\nThe jutting spokes, of a great ruin'd wheel"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.45", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\ni\n\nSunk to the axle in the fens of life.\nBut in the heaven behind it, the sun's rays\nWere like a wheel of white-hot burning gold,\nTerrible whirling spokes of spouted fire,\nThe blazing pillars of a wheel that fled\nOver the earth travelling gloriously.\nFor we had found the stranger god—a god\nHang'd and dying between murderers :\nOnce more a god kill'd for earthly worship !\nHis death was while we lookt and said, \" He dies,\nHe dies ! Again it is a god that dies ! \"\nBut in his death this was a mightier god\nThan those that died before. There fell on us\nAt once a frost of horrour from above.\nDarkness was perfect over us : it was\nTime, the immense muster'd power of the whole\nTime of the world, stowed in one moment's nature.\nThe darkness we had seen far off, that was\nThe mere length of our lucid view in time\nEnding as darkness, like to searching light\nIn a clear depth of water losing itself,—\nThat darkness of our sight was real now\nAnd triumphing,—vengeance for all the debt\nWe had not heeded owing, neglected time\nGathered into a single storm that struck\nA single fire of all the years till then,\nBlasting us instantly into dry age,\nBut leaving us a while to feel our deaths.\nAnd I saw Zeus, charr'd to that infant posture,\nIyie shrunk before me with bound twitching limbs,\nWith helpless rocking head and puling breath;"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.46", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nAnd with the last of my divinity\nSet out to nurse him hither, bearing him\nTo die where he was born, in Crete.\nHe stopt.\nHe was so still they thought death had him now,\nBut kept their stared astonishment unmoved\nUpon him. 'Twas uot death ; for soon they saw\nShudders in his old body, and his hands work\nAs they would dig the floor to clutch in it.\nThe woman stole a pace to see what ailed\nHis quivering silence ; and she found his eyes\nAppalled, reading some terror in the door.\nShe lookt towards his fear : it was a gleam\nThat came from the outside darkness, piercing through\nThe cracks at sill and lintol and the warpt\nParting of the worm'd cross-ledged boards. It shone\nMore white than any flame or the sun's self,\nAs white as stars and eager as the sun.\nKver closer and brighter it seemed to come\nAgainst the door, thronging upon it, jetting\nWhere any seam it found to let it through\nIyike pressure into the shadowy room. They thought\nIt must push on the door with torrent force,\nSuch bursting light came through; and they were dazed\nTo see the timber did not shake and give.\nAnd now the door's whole wood was full of light,\nAs if it had been paper against the glare,\nThe grain like a fiue web of glowing threads.\nAnd of a sudden there was no door, but white\nBlinding vacancy, measureless light;"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.47", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLa see lies Abercrombie\n\nAnd in the midst a young man glorious.\nHe stood among them, lookt at Apollo, and laught.\nApollo : Unhurt, unaged ! Dionysus ! Thou !\nBacchus : Call me no more that name. All Bacchus now\nI am, and have nor heavenly name nor nature.\nApollo: lam disguised to thee, Bacchus, I think.\nBacchus : I know you, cripple, easily as I know\nThat shrivelled rind yonder was Father Zeus.\nApollo : And thou hast mightier divinity !\nElse that I take thee with the ashamed new sense\nOf this incapable mortality.—\nDidst thou desert us, knowing of our doom ?\nWhere hast thou been ? How art thou grown so radiant,\nEscaping our destruction, thriving in it ?\nBacchus : You never understood me in Olympus.\nYour ignorant bland friendship grew to me\nMore tiresome than a fawning fondling love\nTo one in whom love sickens. You courteous gods!—\nWhat ailed me, siding with that mummy there ? —\nYour serene feasts! And I sitting among you\nParleying with your boasts of immortal reign ;\nAnd this despair of yours chained murderous\nIn my dark heart, tugging to hunt you down\nThe slope of heaven to graves in the base earth.\nAy, bury your Zeus, else 'tis a god that stinks !\nApollo : How are you safe, when no Uranian god\nBut dies, or goes, like me, an idiot palsy ?\nBacchus : For that I am not, though once seated there,\nA heavenly god! And I have lodged among"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.48", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nThe gods of hell, those cobwebs in your cellars,\nFine-spun wavering silk of the nether dirt,\nAnd am not hellish either. Know you not,\nNow you are doddering, how the vast dead world\nLives, as all death lives, as dead Zeus will live ?\nApollo : Will live ?\nBacchus : In maggots, if such withered stuff\nCan rot at all. And as death lives in worms\nAnd points of finer death-dissolving life,\nThe immense death of the world lives in gods,\nBred in it by decay of unity.\nLike gentles with their potent little mouths\nSoftening stiffen'd death to the broth they need,\nYou gods workt in the carcase of the world\nTo melt its obstinate death, and made therein\nPowers and laws and fluid obedience.\nAnd quickened so, ye were the life of the world ;\nBut what comes out of death, death takes again.—\nHe winces ; and I taunt where I should teach.\nlam too cruel: I will shift my likeness,\nMaking my lesson out of sleep, not death.\nFor one who sleeps hath in the midst of rest\nBusy creation, dreams: they are himself,\nHis unknown person shaped to image known ;\nThe many unflagging toils whereby his flesh\nNegotiates life, labouring of lungs\nAnd piston-jet of blood and belly's seething—\nThe rumour of all this out of his body\nShakes in his slumbering brain, and its dull motion\nThere meets imagination's sleepless art;"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.49", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\no\n\nAnd into phantom event,—sound, hue, and figure—\nIs forged familiar to his will's desire ;\nAnd this is dream. Even so in the sleep of the world\nGods are dreams. The great imagining spirit,\nThat lives sealed fast within the drowzed world,\nIs always toucht by steady obscure turmoil\nOut of its own surrounding nature thrilling\nConfused and general—the slumbering world's\nLabour of being hugely still itself;\nLike humming din that fills the masonry\nOf a mill's inmost darkest room. And this,\nThe murmur of its own substantial life,\nThe spirit imagines into dream, the life\nOf gods : and man is the sleeping spirit's brain,\nWhere it contrives the fictions of its will.\nBut there are dreams that shine and move in music\nAnd after vanish ; and there is one dream\nThat always stays : and I, I am that dream.\nFor know me now at last!— What is the world\nThat sleeps so busily around the spirit,\nQuickening its restless forgery of dream ?\nIt is the chance of a seeming-steady whorl\nOf motion shaped on infinite pouring depths:\nRapture that is for ever not the world\nCaught in a wavering spin, and gone for ever,\nThe whorl abiding, incessantly supplied\nFrom the unending unbeginning stream.\nI am the water of the eddying world :\nIn me the spirit hath dreamt the ceaseless rush\nOf constant being swept through changing manners."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.50", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nI am a god not apt for heaven and hell;\nMeasureless joy and measureless woe, I am\nThe rapture that is not the world, for ever\nNarrowed into the world and thence escaping.\nBut you, what dreams are you ? What prompts you gods\nThat live so stately in your heaven and hell,\nOrder'd delight and bounded grief ?— You are\nNaught but the shifty manner of this life,\nThat shaping eddy which hath made a world\nIn the abyss of the eternal water.\nAnd who knows not that eddies slide and totter ?\nThe dream of you—the formal round that keeps\nCreated the unpurposed nameless passion—\nMy uncontrollable dream with inroad strange\nHath often shaken ; now it has burnt among you\nWithering you all at last. There is naught of you,\nThere is naught but a new dream of me. How else ?\nThe shape of the whorl has stirred and changed : the world\nIs no more what it was when you were dreamt\nIts images. But it is not my hurt,\nFor I am always dreamt and to be dreamt.\nApollo : But there will be our like again : in gods\nThe spirit will know again the shapely course\nAnd music of the measured world.\nBacchus: While you,\nTimorously haunting there, applaud !\nBut not if, as I mean, I keep the spirit,\nNow I have all its sway, amazed in long\nThrilling dream of incredible desire\nForsaking still its momentary round"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.51", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nOf measure in the world, a god of hope\nThat anguishes for flight beyond all nature.\nAnd let the new gods come. They cannot stay;\nI shall be in among them, and shall bid\nFarewell to their fleeting heaven, when once again\nThe circling world shifts into some new shape.\nAy, even as now— Farewell, shall I say ?\nFare as ye may, dead god and dying god !\nHe spoke and laught again and was not there.\nThe glimmering room came back about them like\nThe blackness of a cavern ; and they stood still.\nAt last that old Apollo, without words,\nBade their blank minds be his. The woman washt\nAnd dried the crumpled wreck of Zeus ; her son\nGathered it in the goatskin to his breast;\nAnd in the quiet night the three went out\nTo climb the Cretan mountain. \" Haste ! Before\nI see the sun, bring me and my business\nTo the last height of the peak \" : so the god's thought\nWorkt in their minds and drove them. Misty dawn\nWas known already by the crags, called forth\nTo watch each other in their lonely frosts\nEnduring still, while all the bottom earth\nThey seemed to suffer for slept in its cloud.\nThese peasants and the god at length had climbed\nThe top of Crete ; and, like a common task,\nTo throw aside the loosen'd weather'd stones\nThe son bent down, scooping a shallow hole,\nThe grave of Zeus; and there the panting woman\nL,aid in its package the Olympian corpse."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.52", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nApollo spoke to them across the grave.\nApollo: True is, lam cut off ; true what he said,\nBacchus refresht in splendour when we die down;\nFor our occasion fails from under us.\nThe cliffs of the mountains in this cloudy light\nSeem lifted free from their low ground, the earth\nNow voided and annulled which bore them up\nLike sublime faculties : in perfected height\nOf patience and hard honour amid fate,\nThey seem, for their cwn ceaseless glee alone,\nIyeft here in bright erect self-maintenance\nArduous. So may it not be with the gods,\nSince with the gods, whatever seems is truth :\nIt was our glory ; now it is our death.\nFor now hath clouded change come in between\nThe earthly life and us ; our far-off ground\nSeems blotted from beneath us, though it is there.\nBut 'tis enough that it so seem : we crumble,\nWe are left insupportable, ruining.\nYou look your last upon the broken gods.\nBacchus remains, I know not what new Bacchus\nGuising his everlasting deity.\nWill he content you ? Will you love for long\nTo serve him with a scorn of shapely law,\nOf bounded measured life under the stars ?\nAt last will you not know his godhead is\nThe vengeance of the uncreated passion\nOn that which holds it in creation, you,\nThe living world ? And a delicate vengeance !\n\" Deny the seeming beauty of the world,"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.53", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nFollow me out of seeming ! \" This is the cry.\nHow long before whatever seems become\nOlympian truth again ? How long shall be\nThe glory of your world reckon'd its shame ? —\nYou minds that seize the rage of infinite force\nAnd master it to seem desirable,\nA firm and shining world, you take a god\nWho turns your triumph to a meddling sin,\nAnd holds you contrite for it! Ay, say it pours,\nThat formless race of being, pours through you\nThe real and eternal of your lives :\nHave this sheer being for your god, you make\nWorthless yourselves, worthless to be the world.\nBut all the measured fires that fill the sky\nRejoicing in their glittering certainty,\nThe times of earth, and waters in their rounds,\nAnd your own shapely thought—all this that is\nSeeming and mortal—this is your mastery!—\nThe seizure into boundaries of beauty\nThat overcomes the eternity in you.\nMake this your god, and life is its own value.\nWill you have life once more that loves itself ?\nThen of the world shaped into radiant seeming\nIn midst of flux, let there be Zeus again ;\nYea, and another son of Zeus, a new\nApollo, god of the life that knows itself\nMade of eternal being, but made with power\nTo shape the eternal into mortal world.\nSo prophesying was the end of him.\nHis wretched figure sunk to crooked kneeling ;"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.54", "texte": "THE OLYMPIANS\nLascelles Abercrombie\n\nHis mouth gaped as lie would be speaking still,\nBut only choked ; with jerks of throttling grip\nHe laid hold on his windpipe like self-murder ;\nAnd then he bowed his head, and tumbled down\nBeside that other. Quickly the peasants moved,\nReleased from him, but not yet from his fear,\nTo load his death, piling a cairn of boulders.\nBack in their hut, son and mother no word\nHad for each other a long while. At last\nThe woman, stirring about dinner, spoke:\n\" Boy, you shall have your way. From to-day on\nI*et no one come to me for washing corpses.\""}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.55", "texte": "THE POET TO HIS MISTRESS\nJohn Drinkwater\nIf 1 should take\nthought of gentleness\nFor your dear sake\nThan for the poignant labours that possess\nMy blood, then surely by so much were signed\nMy shame and loss in the world's recording mind.\nIf you should be\nJealous of my desire,\nAnd, loving me,\nRebuke my patient hopes from your sweet fire,\nThen would you take a lover to your bed\nAbased with the pale submission of the dead."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.56", "texte": "John Drinkwater\n\nTHE NEW MIRACLE\nOf old men wrought strange gods for mystery,\nImplored miraculous tokens in the skies,\nAnd lips that most were strange in prophecy\nWere most accounted wise.\nThe hearthstone's commerce between mate and mate,\nBarren of wonder, prospered in content,\nAnd still the hunger of their thought was great\nFor sweet astonishment.\nAnd so they built them altars of retreat\nWhere life's familiar use was overthrown,\nAnd left the shining world about their feet,\nTo travel worlds unknown.\n* * ♦ *\nWe hunger still. But wonder has come down\nFrom alien skies upon the midst of us;\nThe sparkling hedgerow and the clamorous town\nHave grown miraculous.\nAnd man from his far travelling returns\nTo find yet stranger wisdom than he sought,\nWhere in the habit of his threshold burns\nUnfathomable thought."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.57", "texte": "THE BOUNDARIES\nAlthough beyond the track of unseen stars\nImagination strove in weariless might,\nYet loomed at last inviolable bars\nThat bound my farthest flight.\nAnd when some plain old carol in the street\nQuickened a shining angel in my brain,\nI knew that even his passionate wings should beat\nUpon those bars in vain.\nAnd then I asked if God omnipotent\nHimself was caught within the snare, or free,\nAnd would the bars at his command relent,—\nAnd none could answer me.\n\nJohn Drinkwater"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.58", "texte": "A TOWN WINDOW\nBeyond my window in the night\nIs but a drab inglorious street,\nYet there the frost and clean starlight\nAs over Warwick woods are sweet.\nUnder the grey drift of the town\nThe crocus works among the mould\nAs eagerly as those that crown\nThe Warwick spring in flame and gold\nAnd when the tramway down the hill\nAcross the cobbles moans and rings,\nThere is about my window-sill\nThe turn ult of a thousand wings.\n\nJohn Drinkwater"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.59", "texte": "MEMORY\nOne told me in the stress of days\nOf ease that memory should bring,\nAnd so I feared my trodden ways\nFor snares against my labouring.\nLest I should spend my brain amiss\nIn wrath for bitterness gone by,\nOr amorous for some old kiss,\nI would not deal with memory.\nBecause one said—' In memory\nIs half the health of your estate,'\nI smote the dead years under me,\nI smote, and cast them from my gate.\n\nJohn Drinkwater"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "[60]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191402-01.1.60", "texte": "CRYPT HOUSE PRESS,\nGLOUCESTER."}]}