The Bird-Catcher

by Martin Armstrong

  The Bird-Catcher

  and Other Poems

  By Martin Armstrong

  Contents

  I

  The Bird-catcher

  Honey Harvest

  Spanish Vintage

  Summer in Winter

  Rhapsody on a Pink-Iced Cake

  The Eve of the Fair

  II

  Before the Battle

  Immortality

  Bugles

  Epitaph

  Man Seeks to Cage Delight

  To Hate

  III

  To Messaline

  Puppets

  IV

  Heard in a Lane

  Rain in Spring

  Blue Night

  On the Salt Marsh

  Frost in Lincoln’s Inn Fields

  The Naiad

  Christmas Eve

  V

  The Fisherman’s Rest

  Mrs. Reece Laughs

  VI

  Expostulation to Helen

  To Helen with a Bottle of Scent

  Serenade

  The House of Love

  Autumn

  The Immortals

  Fog in the Channel

  From the French

  VII

  Cathedral at Night

  Poetry and Memory

  The Secret

  All is One

  The Cage

  A Note on the Author

  I

  The Bird-Catcher

  O you with the five-stopped pipe

  And delicate, close-webbed net and eyes that have stared

  Into worlds unknown, what poor wild bird have you snared,

  What plover or lark or snipe?

  I roved to the rim of the world,

  To the borders of life and death, to the glimmering land

  Where matter and spirit are one, and I closed my hand

  On a marvellous prey in the mouth of the net upcurled:

  For while with the breath of dream

  I filled the pipe and fingered the stops with the touch of thought,

  In a web of sweet and intricate tunes I caught

  God, to be caged awhile among things that seem.

  Honey Harvest

  Late in March, when the days are growing longer

  And sight of early green

  Tells of the coming spring and suns grown stronger,

  Round the pale Willow-catkins there are seen

  The year’s first honey-bees

  Stealing the nectar; and bee-masters know

  This for the first sign of the honey-flow.

  Then in the dark hillsides the Cherry-trees

  Gleam white with loads of blossom where the gleams

  Of piled snow lately hung, and richer streams

  The honey. Now, if chilly April days

  Delay the Apple-blossom and the May’s

  First week comes in with sudden summer weather,

  The Apple and the Hawthorn bloom together,

  And all day long the plundering hordes go round

  And every overweighted blossom nods.

  But from that gathered essence they compound

  Honey more sweet than nectar of the gods.

  Those blossoms fall ere June, warm June that brings

  The small white Clover. Field by scented field,

  Round farms like islands in the rolling weald,

  It spreads thick-flowering or in wildness springs

  Short-stemmed upon the naked downs, to yield

  A richer store of honey than the Rose,

  The Pink, the Honeysuckle. Thence there flows

  Syrup of clearest amber, redolent

  Of every flowery scent

  That the warm wind upgathers as he goes.

  In mid-July be ready for the noise

  Of million bees in old Lime-avenues,

  As though hot noon had found a droning voice

  To ease her soul. Here for those busy crews

  Green leaves and pale-stemmed clusters of green flowers

  Build heavy-perfumed, cool, green-twilight bowers

  Whence, load by load, through the long summer days

  They fill their glassy cells

  With dark green honey, clear as chrysoprase,

  Which housewives shun; but the bee-master tells

  This brand is more delicious than all else.

  In August-time, if moors are near at hand,

  Be wise and in the evening twilight load

  Your hives upon a cart, and take the road

  By night; that, ere the early dawn shall spring

  And all the hills turn rosy with the Ling,

  Each waking hive may stand

  Established in its new-appointed land

  Without harm taken, and the earliest flights

  Set out at once to loot the heathery heights.

  That vintage of the heather yields so dense

  And glutinous a syrup that it foils

  Him who would spare the comb and drain from thence

  Its dark, full-flavoured spoils:

  For he must squeeze to wreck the beautiful

  Frail edifice. Not otherwise he sacks

  Those many-chambered palaces of wax.

  Then let a choice of every kind be made

  And, labelled, set upon your storehouse racks,—

  Of Hawthorn-honey that of almond smacks;

  The luscious Lime-tree-honey, green as jade;

  Pale Willow-honey, hived by the first rover;

  That delicate honey culled

  From Apple-blossom, that of the sunlight tastes,

  And sunlight-coloured honey of the Clover.

  Then, when the late year wastes,

  When night falls early and the noon is dulled

  And the last warm days are over,

  Unlock the store and to your table bring

  Essence of every blossom of the spring.

  And if, when wind has never ceased to blow

  All night, you wake to roofs and trees becalmed

  In level wastes of snow,

  Bring out the Lime-tree-honey, the embalmed

  Soul of a lost July, or Heather-spiced

  Brown-gleaming comb wherein sleeps crystallized

  All the hot perfume of the heathery slope.

  And, tasting and remembering, live in hope.

  Spanish Vintage

  Now that the tropic August days are ended

  Come Bacchus and Silenus great of girth

  And Autumn with her kindly witchcraft blended

  Of suns and showers and the dark creative earth,

  To stain the swelling grape-skins and to muster

  The flavorous juice in every ripening cluster

  Where, over all the southern slopes extended,

  The laden vineyards wait the vintage-birth.

  So in the golden-hued September weather

  The master of the vineyard and his men

  Bearing small wicker baskets pace together

  Down the leaf-shadowed alleys, pausing when

  Among the vines thick-leaved and deeply-rooted

  They chance upon those bunches heaviest-fruited

  And fullest-ripened: these alone they gather

  And softly in the baskets lay; and then

  Convey them to a sunny spot, made ready

  With little mats of woven grass; for here

  They must be laid awhile beneath the steady

  Streams of the sunshine. But when night draws near,

  With other mats they shield them, nor uncover

  Till all the dark and dewy hours are over:

  So for three days, till the juice turns sweet and heady

  From four and twenty hours of sun and air.

  Now to the winep
ress. Now the mounded treasure

  Load upon load into the trough is tossed,

  But never heaped above the proper measure

  Lest something of the scented juice be lost

  When, stripped to the thighs, the peasants take their station

  And tread the grape to rich annihilation,

  While all the rest stand round and laugh with pleasure

  To see the foam seethe up as keen as frost.

  But when above that pool of bubbling juices

  Not one whole cluster shows, with wine-stained legs

  Then men step forth, and some unstop the sluices

  And catch the gurgling must in wooden kegs

  Which soon, close-packed, the rocking mule-cart beareth

  Two dusty miles away to white-walled Jerez

  Where the great vats, set for their ancient uses,

  Sweetened and scoured of former lees and dregs,

  Wait in the dark bodega. There unloaded,

  The kegs are heaved and emptied one by one

  Into the portly vats. So having stowed it

  They leave the must to work. Now has begun

  That early fermentation musky-scented

  And softly-hissing, called “the tumultuous,” ended

  After a few brief days, which but foreboded

  That slower, stealthier change whose stages run

  Beyond Christ’s Birthday to the old year’s ending

  And on into the New Year till the first

  Or second month, while the slow dregs descending

  Leave the wine clear, all cloudy films dispersed.

  Thereafter, from its lees drawn off, enduring

  Through the long months it waits the slow maturing

  Laid up in other vats, till ripe for blending

  With older wine, in whose soft flame immersed,

  It grows to subtler essence. And that older

  Is mixed with older yet, from every vat

  A little drawn, till Time, the patient moulder

  Of pure perfection, who on Ararat

  Watered the vine of Noah, slowly fashion

  The pure Solera, daughter of the passion

  Of Earth and Sun, and make the gold one golder,

  The ripe one riper than that old king who sat

  On Israel’s ivory throne, and every nation

  Drew near to taste his wisdom. For in wine

  Lie wisdom and that fair illumination

  That charms the brain to fancies half divine.

  Then drink! For, kindling in our crystal rummers,

  Wakes the bright Phœnix of a thousand summers

  And the great gods stand again, each in his station,

  With garlands crowned of the immortal vine.

  Summer in Winter

  Winter lies on the fields so cold and grey

  That morning and noon are dim as the fall of day.

  Colour is gone from the world, and the rustle of leaves,

  And the song of the birds; but under the loaded eaves

  Icicles drip and drip to the ground below,

  Melting a line of holes in the floor of snow.

  Shut out this desolation. Here indoors

  Are bright, warm rooms. The fire of pine-logs roars:

  In polished brass and blushing mirror flares

  The hearth’s red gleam. Long sofas, deep soft chairs,

  And books are here. Let snow mount to the sill,

  Here we have made a summer no frost can kill.

  And here, conserved in jars, is the wealth of June,—

  Raspberry, strawberry, waiting the silver spoon;

  Jelly of autumn brambles, gleaming pots

  Of plums, greengages, tawny apricots

  Steeped in clear syrups, and the crystal spoil

  Of bees, the vintage of a five-months’ toil.

  But, more than this, in cellared gloom are laid

  Other and older vintages that swayed

  In purple clusters on Burgundian plains,

  On Lusitanian mountain-slopes or Spain’s

  Swart vineyards, in whose generous nectar runs

  The prisoned soul of long-forgotten suns.

  Unlock the door, then; down the dark stone stair

  Grope in the taper’s wavering light to where

  The cobwebbed bottle slumbers; gently lift—

  Gently as new-born babe—lest you should shift

  The cloudy sediment; then thief-like slink

  Upstairs again and in the pantry sink

  Knock off the sealing-wax, then draw with care,

  Decant, and set in a warm room to air.

  Then shall we sit and sip in candle light

  And let the storm roar out its heart all night.

  Rhapsody on a Pink-Iced Cake

  To Gertrude Freeman

  When Earth arose out of the Flood

  And sang before the throne of God,

  So shone on Ararat sublime,

  Bright in the second dawn of Time,

  The rosy Ark, its roofing laid

  With beam of ruby, tile of jade,

  And the bright bulwarks crusted o’er

  With silver limpets from the floor

  Of the drowned Earth. So Solomon,

  Dreaming towards evening alone,

  In the clear kingdom of his brain

  Wrought that first temple without stain,

  Too pure for stone or the rough grain

  Of cedar or the dross of gold.

  And Homer, blind and very old,

  Along the wide plains of his thought

  Saw battles and long sieges fought

  Round ramparts rosy even as these.

  So soared above the glooming trees

  That tower of laughter and of tears

  Where Beauty slept a hundred years.

  And, built of sweetness and pure light,

  So love and hope and heart’s-delight

  And all the lovely things of dream,

  Hovering an instant on the stream

  Of Man’s ambitious spirit, glow

  And vanish like an April snow.

  The Eve of the Fair

  Green grows the grass in these well-watered meadows

  For here there bubbles from a hundred springs

  The bright Clitumnus under dappled shadows

  Of slender poplars where the faint breeze sings

  And the green-showering tresses of weeping willows;

  And all the pool is floored with woven weed

  And caverns lined with glimmering mossy pillows

  And pale blue rocks. Those bubbling waters feed

  Rich farms, half-hidden behind a feathery screen

  Of silver olive-boughs and trailing vines

  Heavy with clusters purple, red, and green,

  Soon to be trodden to red and golden wines.

  And bounding either edge of the green plain,

  The violet mountains lift their peaceful crowns,

  Soaring like waves crest above crest again,

  Still peopled by remote and ancient towns,—

  Lofty Spoleto with its rocky gorge

  Spanned by the aqueduct, and many a keep,

  Spello and Montefalco, towns that urge

  Stone street and scowling palace up the steep

  And set a crown of towers on many hills,

  Leaping abrupt and stark against the sky

  And turbid at noon and eve with clanging bells.

  From these and all the villages that lie

  Scattered upon the plain, the countryfolk

  Are flocking towards Foligno for the fair,

  Bringing their goods. With song and curse and joke

  They swelter along in the dry and dusty glare.

  All day along the parched and dazzling roads

  That straggle to the town from every part,

  Oxen and mules and horses draw their loads

  In wain and barrow and brightly painted cart.

  While in the town all day, alon
g the streets

  And in that empty space within the walls

  Edged with cool-shaded trees and long stone seats,

  A crowd of busy folk are building stalls;

  Till the place rings with hammering and knocking

  And cracking whips and jangling harness-bells

  And rumbling wheels of all the traffic flocking

  In from the teeming plains and those blue hills.

  Still with the growing crowd the din grows louder

  With shouts of drivers, wagons turning, backing,

  And stamping hooves that churn the dust to powder

  And sweating men unloading and unpacking,

  Spreading the wares in clusters on the grass

  All duly planned like little towns with walls

  And lanes and streets to let the buyers pass,

  Or carefully disposed upon the stalls.

  And carts and mules come pushing through the throng

  Or scarlet wagon like a stranded hulk

  That great white oxen slowly haul along

  Heaving the yoke with all their noble bulk,

  Patient, with branching horns and deep calm eyes

  Like forest pools, and scarlet-tasselled brows.

  Evening draws on; but ere the sunset dies

  The bells in every tower and belfry rouse

  A hum of clanging bronze that builds a dome

  Of mellow noise above the din below,

  So bright, it seems as if the shining foam

  Of dust-motes and the golden evening glow

  Were suddenly enchanted into sound.

  But when both sound and light from the sky have faded

  And colour has faded from all the hills around

  And streets and squares are all grown cool and shaded,

  Those weary folk make ready for the night.

  Some with tarpaulin sheets build bivouacs

  Or over the wide wagons stretch them tight

  To form a hutch, or spread their rugs and sacks

  Under the carts, while every tethered beast

  With drooping head crops at the scanty grass.

  Then, before rest, they spread the evening feast