Georgian Poetry 1918-19

Produced by Keren Vergon, Clytie Siddall and PG Distributed Proofreaders

Georgian Poetry


edited by

Sir Edward Howard Marsh


Eighth Thousand

The Poetry Bookshop
35 Devonshire St. Theobalds Rd.
London W.C.1


To Thomas Hardy

Table of Contents

  • Lascelles Abercrombie
Witchcraft: New Style
  • Gordon Bottomley
  • Francis Brett Young
The Leaning Elm
(from Poems)
  • William H. Davies
Lovely Dames
When Yon Full Moon
On Hearing Mrs. Woodhouse Play the Harpsichord
Oh, Sweet Content!
A Child’s Pet
The Bell
(from Forty New Poems)

(from Forty New Poems)

  • Walter de la Mare
The Sunken Garden
The Tryst
The Linnet
The Veil
The Three Strangers
The Old Men
Fare Well
(from Motley)

(from Motley)

  • John Drinkwater
Moonlit Apples
Southampton Bells
(from Loyalties)
(from Tide)
(from Loyalties)
(from Lincoln)
(from Loyalties)
  • John Freeman
O Muse Divine
The Wakers
The Body
Ten O’clock No More
The Fugitive
The Alde
Night and Night
The Herd
(from Memories of Childhood)
  • Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
The Parrots
The Cakewalk
(from Home)

(from Home)

  • Robert Graves
A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme
A Frosty Night
True Johnny
The Cupboard
The Voice of Beauty Drowned
Rocky Acres
(from Country Sentiment)
  • D. H. Lawrence
Seven Seals

(from New Poems)

  • Harold Monro
The Nightingale Near the House
Man Carrying Bale
  • Thomas Moult
For Bessie in the Garden
‘Truly he hath a Sweet Bed’
Lovers’ Lane
  • Robert Nichols
The Sprig of Lime
The Stranger
‘O Nightingale my Heart’
The Pilgrim
  • J. D. C. Fellow
The Templefrom Child Lovers
  • Siegfried Sassoon
Sick Leave
Repression of War Experience
Does it Matter
Concert Party
Songbooks of the War
The Portrait
Everyone Sang
(from War Poems)

(from War Poems)

  • Edward Shanks
A Night-Piece
In Absence
The Glow-worm
The Cataclysm
A Hollow Elm
Fête Galante
(from The Queen of China)

(from The Queen of China)

  • Fredegond Shove
A Dream in Early Spring
The World
The New Ghost
A Man Dreams that he is the Creator
(from Dreams and Journeys)
  • J. C. Squire
Epitaph in Old Mode
The Birds
(from Poems, First Series)

(from Poems, First Series)
(from The Birds and Other Poems)

  • W. J. Turner
Kent in War
Talking with Soldiers
The Princess
(from The Dark Fire)

Prefatory Note

This is the fourth volume of the present series. I hope it may be thought to show that what for want of a better word is called Peace has not interfered with the writing of good poetry.

Thanks and acknowledgements are due to Messrs. Beaumont, Blackwell, Collins, Constable, Fifield, Heinemann, Seeker, Selwyn & Blount, and Sidgwick & Jackson; and to the Editors of The Anglo-French Review, The Athenæum, The Chapbook, Land and Water, The Nation, The New Statesman, The New Witness, The New World, The Owl, The Spectator, To-day, Voices, and The Westminster Gazette.

E. M.

September 1919.


Lascelles Abercrombie

Witchcraft: New Style

The sun drew off at last his piercing fires.
Over the stale warm air, dull as a pond
And moveless in the grey quieted street,
Blue magic of a summer evening glowed.
The sky, that had been dazzling stone all day,
Hollowed in smooth hard brightness, now dissolved
To infinite soft depth, and smoulder’d down
Low as the roofs, dark burning blue, and soared
Clear to that winking drop of liquid silver,
The first exquisite star. Now the half-light
Tidied away the dusty litter parching
Among the cobbles, veiled in the colour of distance
Shabby slates and brickwork mouldering, turn’d
The hunchback houses into patient things
Resting; and golden windows now began.

A little brisk grey slattern of a woman,
Pattering along in her loose-heel’d clogs,
Pushed the brass-barr’d door of a public-house;
The spring went hard against her; hand and knee
Shoved their weak best. As the door poised ajar,
Hullabaloo of talking men burst out,
A pouring babble of inflamed palaver,
And overriding it and shouted down
High words, jeering or downright, broken like
Crests that leap and stumble in rushing water.
Just as the door went wide and she stepped in,
‘She cannot do it!’ one was bawling out:
A glaring hulk of flesh with a bull’s voice.
He finger’d with his neckerchief, and stretched
His throat to ease the anger of dispute,
Then spat to put a full stop to the matter.

The little woman waited, with one hand
Propping the door, and smiled at the loud man.
They saw her then; and the sight was enough
To gag the speech of every drinker there:
The din fell down like something chopt off short.
Blank they all wheel’d towards her, with their mouths
Still gaping as though full of voiceless words.
She let the door slam to; and all at ease,
Amused, her smile wrinkling about her eyes,
Went forward: they made room for her quick enough.
Her chin just topt the counter; she gave in
Her bottle to the potboy, tuckt it back,
Full of bright tawny ale, under her arm,
Rapt down the coppers on the planisht zinc,
And turned: and no word spoken all the while.

The first voice, in that silent crowd, was hers,
Her light snickering laugh, as she stood there
Pausing, scanning the sawdust at her feet.
Then she switcht round and faced the positive man
Whose strong ‘She cannot do it!’ all still felt
Huskily shouting in their guilty ears.

‘She can’t, eh? She can’t do it? ‘ — Then she’d heard!

The man, inside his ruddy insolent flesh,
Had hoped she did not hear. His barrel chest
Gave a slight cringe, as though the glint of her eyes
Prickt him. But he stood up to her awkwardly bold,
One elbow on the counter, gripping his mug
Like a man holding on to a post for safety.

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