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JANUARY1963
DITTO
Literary Magazine of KING'SSCHOOL, WORCESTER
CONTENTS
Editorial
ThoughtsforTomorrowRejoinder toaReply
AMillionBlindMice
Drawing Hope Despair
TwoPoems
TheBridge
Wednesday,24thOctober,1962
Poem
OnlytheLonely
Horace, BookIOdeXI
Why Life?
TheAutumn Leaves
AScientific Analysis
Three Poems
Drawing
TwoPoems
UponDiglisDocks
AGameofRugger
ALetterfrom Germany
J. B. J.
C.J.W.Allen
C. J. Tarrant
J. M. Sharp
P.M.R. Millard
G. H. Harper
N. Boyle
A. J. Boughton
I. C. Bartlett
M. G. Remes
P. Johnson
M. G. Remes
P. J. G. Brown
R. N. Hedges
G. L. Marchant
M K Pye
J. M. Sharp
C. H. Sarland
C. J. Tarrant
C.J. Robbins
IngridReschreiter
M. K. Pye
Thelaboursthatwentintothefirsteditionsofthismagazineareatlast beginningtotakeeffect. Atleast, itispleasanttothinkthattheyare. If thenumber of contributions receivedis anythingto goby, therewould appeartobeanincreaseintheamountofcreativeworkbeingproducedin the school. Thisisagoodsign, andismadeevenbetterbythefact that several contributionswere receivedfrom the lower halfoftheschool.
Therehavebeencomplaintsinthepastaboutthecynicismanddespairshownbythewriters. Thisisageneralfeature ofschoolmagazines -unless it is removed byeditorsproudoftheir schools' reputations as institutions of hope, orbowingtothewishesofover-zealousstaff. Itis alwayseasytowritewhendejectedorsorrowful; writing isagoodoutlet for emotions. However, when you'rehappy, youwant tokeep your emotions;you'retoobusyenjoyingyourselftowrite. Destructivecriticism of this very natural tendencyisunwantedandservesnouseful purpose. Letno-onecall"Ditto"pseudo. Thesubjectsincludedandthemethodsofexpressionarevaried, andIhopethateveryonewillbesatisfiedandatleast afewpleased -withtheresult. Letno-onesayitwasrunby aclique, aneliteoranintellectualgang. Allwerewelcometotheeditorialmeetings. Theonlydepartmentnotrepresentedwastheartdept. and I join C.J. W.AlleninbewailingthedepartureofMikeBailey. People ralliedroundgallantly, andcoverdesignscamefromabiologist, alinguist, a chemist andahistorian. Allthesebefore atitlewasdecidedon, too! "Ditto"doesnotmeanthatthisisthesameoldstuff churnedoutinadifferent guise by adifferent person, for I am sure it isnot. Thelarge numberofcontributions, andthelimitationsenforced bythebudget, have enabled usto be selective to anextent notpossiblein"ThisHere"and "Song". I haveaimedatproducinganinteresting, diversified magazine, rather than onewith a limited theme inwhichfewmightbeinterested.
Ishouldliketothankallthosewhosubmittedworktothemagazine, and Ihope theupward trend inqualityandquantityofcontributionswill continue. Ishouldalsoliketothankthepermanentmembersofthecommitteefortheir assistance.
So? Youasktoomanyquestions, men: Put'onthoseglassesandpickupthatpen.
CHRISBARON (ChairmanofCommittee)
AlthoughmostofMr. Reddick's articleseemscomparatively harmless, Ifeelthattherearesomepointswhichcannotbeleft unanswered.
Hisargumentmaybesummarisedverybriefly as follows:-
1. Educationmustbeasystemwherebyachild'spotential isdevelopedtothefullestpossible extent.
2. Publicschoolssubjectboystopressure from (a) theirowncompanions, (b) the"hierarchical" system.
3. Aboyeducatedatapublicschoolgoesinatoneendanindividualand comesoutattheotheranautomaton.
I agree with the first point as far asitgoes, butIthinkthat education shouldaimalsoatmakingapersoncivilised. Theidealatwhichtoaim should bethatoftheRenaissance -acultureofmindandbody. Withinsuchaneducationtherewouldbeampleopportunityforthedevelopmentofachild'spotential, butthisdevelopment shouldneverinvolveaone-sidededucation (This argumentmaybepurelyacademic asitwouldbealmostimpossibletodecide whether aboyhasnopotentialinacertainlinetobedeveloped.)
AccordingtoMr. Reddick, agroupofboysexertpressureonone another. Iacceptthatthisissotoacertainextent, butIthinkthatitisimportantto considerwhatarethepressurestowhichtheboysinthegroupare subjecting oneanother. Unfortunately, Mr. Reddickdidnotbelieveittobehispurpose toanswerthisandwasoftheopinionthatinfactitwasultimately unimportant Pressures aretobefoundineveryform ofsociety. Theyareboundtobeprohibitive, andif'one's individualityistobepreservedabsolutelyonemust avoid beinginfluenced bythem, andtodothisitwouldbenecessarytocutoneself off from societyaltogether. Theimpracticability, evenimpossibility, ofthisis obvious. Moreover, 1thinkitfallacioustoconceiveofanyindividualhavingan entirely separateentity. Anindividualorpersonalityisboundtobeaffected to acertainextentbyoutsideinfluences andpressures, andtheseinfluences and pressures arecontinuallycausingthepersonalitytodevelop. Icannotfeel that theinfluenceofapublicschoolismoreperniciousthananyother. Oneissubjectedtoasmuch, ifnotmore, pressure athome; thedayschoolhas its influences andpressures, andforthoseattendingsuchschoolsthereisthe addedcomplicationoffrequent dailychangesfrom onesetofpressuresto another Ithinkthatitisessentialtoacceptthefactthatwebelongtosocietyandto realise thatthereisnothingshamefulinthis. Oncethisisconcededitmustbeclearthat thesoonerweareableto"geton"withotherpeoplethebetter, andthatthe early yearsatapublicschool, thoughtheymaybeunhappyonesforsome, savevaryingdegreesofunhappinessanddifficulty lateron
I reject the idea that "unsociable behaviour" can be equated with"any act| thought or gesture that comes from the centre of a boy's personality." I have never found this to be so, and I should be greatly surprised if Mr. Reddick's contemporaries had either.
Nor have I ever found that the "hierarchical" system replaces concern for !;'true personal values with an unquestioning respect for position". One respects authority to the extent of obeying it to avoid the consequences of disobedience, or because one accepts that it is necessary. I concede that it is just possible for a young boy to think that a monitor or master automatically possesses superior qualities, but by the time he has reached the stage of bothering about the "true personal worth"of either I think that the illusion will have worn off. It is also possible that a monitor or master may think that he possesses superior qualities. "All power corrupts", but it would, I think, be folly to abolish authority on account of the risk of minimal and, in the case of monitors, temporary corruption. I must add that I should like Mr. Reddick to define the set pattern of thought and behaviour, apart from the general one of keeping the rules, for a would-be monitor to adopt to achieve his ambition.
In conclusion, I ask if we are seriously expected to accept that the masters and governing bodies of public schools are conspiring to force us to "conform" with the result that we become "incapable of direct emotional responses or of energetic intellectual originality" and "capable only of registering automatic stereotyped reactions". If it were not for the attempts at argument in earlier paragraphs of his article I should find it difficult to believe that the writer is sincere. Even now I have doubts when I look at the hysterical generalisations, unsupported by any evidence, which have appeared. "Psychological havoc""boys . . . debased and conditioned by the system" - "calculated conditioning of minds" - this is not the language of serious argument.
CHRISTOPHER ALLEN. (1955-'60)
(The editorial committee feel that this subject is now exhausted.)
A MILLION BLIND MICE
The fools - they will not look within, yet merely see what all can see, - a maze of black and white, a pretty tune, or just attractive colours on the wall. They glimpse and do not understand, so do not like, and so they will condemn, when one more glance could well have led to light. They will not be convinced, and so They make a mock of those who really ought to scorn, They will not even see, that which I give you now - "a wordy maze", "it's just a phase" or "otherwise, a nice boy".
To show them this is giving blind a rainbow.
If straightaway they sound no bells, they will not toll again, they never take a second glance, and still worse, they condemn.
C. J. TARRANT
HOPE
Thelights flicker, Thetrees, sostrong, sway. Butamongstthoseimagesandshapes Theyseenosense; Beforethemthey stand. Theyseebutonlybeautifulthings, Hearbutnever listen. Weepwithjoyneverwithtears. Theirhavenisquiet buthappy? Theylivethereinadream.
Thesedaysarehardandcruel ButwemustgoonAlone. For, thereisnoending; Beyondthere is Anotherworldfar greater Inlove, withnohateandwar. Ourhopeisthatworldofhappiness, Knowntomostasheaven.
PAULMILLARD.
DESPAIR
Leaves blowing about on the playground. Over there they swirl around in circles. Nearer they speed along in small groups. In one direction for a short time; then they change and blow across others. And others still pass in the other direction. Now and again they lift up into the air - soon to fall back.
This might be us, with just such influence to determine our direction. The influences that influenced the wind - and of course these were determined by things before. Logarithmic, producing inconceivable complexity of influences in time past, that must all be considered. I choose these, you choose those: he chooses yet more you didn't think of. And we come to different conclusions. We cross each other. We go in different directions.
But I choose these. Theory. Conviction. Argument. Setback. Reconsideration. Recovery. Conviction.
Stop!
Testing is the next stage - a stage never to come. For they are not guinea pigs, they are human beings. You cannot risk with them. You get some willing. No use - they are not representative. And it really is love that drives you, not just scientific curiosity. You really want to help them. Surely the method can do something for them: surely they cannot develop aimlessly, in the random manner of so far.
Maybe they can, maybe the method is no good.
Despair - part one.
So I went back to my test-tubes, my rats, and my cyclotron. Thrilling; enchanting; exciting; enthralling. To hell with people. You cannot do anything with them. This is control. This is new. It gets you.
But think - it is of some use. Yes - I can serve the community this way. Power stations. Machines to do the chores. Cars to carry you around. Only to carry you around? That's what they are built for - what else? They are not built for anything else. Or maybe a bit of fun.
Yes, we do build them things for a bit of fun, for entertainment. Well what's wrong? There's time for entertainment, Without you suffer sense of injustice. You make sure you get it. Built for entertainment or no, you can still get fun out of it.
We accumulate power. Not over people particularly - things mostly. Things are fun. You can do what you want with them. Twiddle the dial, spin the wheel, flick the lever - you can get excitement, enjoyment. All on tap. Haven't had this before. So it takes up our time.
Grandmatut-tuts Notliketheolddays No, it'snot, isit? Didn't havetimeforthissortofthingthen. No, youdidn't.
Andyouinthefuture -tut-tut Notliketheolddays Didn'thavetime foryourpranksthen. Wejustmuckedaroundwithmotorbykes, carsandthe tele.
Allaquestionoftime, isitnot? Grandmadoesn'trealisethatnowwe don'thavetimefor somethingstoo. Timedoesn'texpand. Youdon'thave timeforthethingsoftheolddays, justastheydidn'thavetimefor the thingsoftoday. Sosocietychanges. Butbysubstitutionnotbyaddition. Wearelosingthingsallthetime. Welosethematrandom. Wedon'tnotice themslippingaway. Wedon'tknowwhentheyhavegone-becausewedon't recognise them.
Someofusdothough Historydigsupthingsleftbehindbysociety Andthesciencestoo. Bemoanthelackofloveinus. Bewailthelossof selfdiscovery Buttheyarepast, lost
Despair -parttwo
Sowehaveananswer, orbelievewehave. Othersbelievetheyhavethe answer -adifferent one. Andothersstill. Allminorities. Thewholelot one, impressiveminority. Alwayswillbe;sincealthoughwemultiply, so doesalltherest atthesamerate. Ourracewasnotselectedinanenvironmentofcars, thetele, bombs. Themajority willhavecontrolover things whichonlytheminoritiesknowabout. Themajority willnotyieldto correctionbytheminorities. Goodthingtheydon't. Fortheywouldendupas haphazardastheleavesontheplayground. Wecannotdeterminehowwe shalldevelop. Itwillallgoitsownsweetway. Whichisanotherwayof sayingthatwefailto appreciatealltheaffecting influences.
Soitis
Despair - continued.
G. H. HARPER
ONTHEFULLMOON
Inthemoonriseofour life
Ourchildhoodclimbs, Leavingthehorizon'ssilhouettedclutches, Tovisionary Light, Bythecloudshiddenabove Inthenight Untroubled. Butstarsalreadypockour face
Andourshineis aged Andcold
ANIMA
Whoareyou, palefacedtyrantofmy dreams? Whatcharmsareyours, that, image ill-defined, Youstirmyheartwithanunguesseddeeplyyearning? Youpassedaninstant, nameless, Faceless. Idonotevenknow
ForwhatIyearnedinyouYouweremyyearning, and YourvisionhadfadedbeforeIawoke.
N. BOYLE
THEBRIDGE
Thatlittlewoodenfootbridgehasaneeriefeeling aboutit. Somehow wheneverIgooveritIfeelasifthereissomeonebehindmeandIstartto run. OneofthesenightsIwillfall, forwantofwatchingthebridge's rottenplanks
Watchitnow, you'reonthebridge! anyminutenowyoumight slip and, ... . help, SPLOOSH!! ... . I'vefallenin! Keepyour headnow, don'tpanic, - - - - thisstream'snostream, it'sabottomlessgulf! . . . . WhenamIgoingtocometothesurface? ... . WhenamIgoingtocomeup? . . . . Ah! thankgoodnessthebottom! Nowthendon'tstruggle, ... . tryandstandup. ... . Air, whew! thatwasclose. Ihaveneverthoughtthatthatstream couldhavebeenas deepasthat. Stillthat'snotthefirstthingIhaven'texpected. Nowtorun homeandgetchangedintodryclothes . . . .Oh! butIamontheother bank, thebankfurther awayfromhome. TogethomeIhavetocrossthat bridge! Onlyafoolmakesthesamemistaketwice, soI'mboundtofall inagain. I'lltrytostandup. Brrrrrrh! -I'mcold. OhwellIhadbetter tryandgetacrossthebridge. Betterwatchthatslimyplankfromnowonwards Somehowthisbridgeseemshigherupthanbefore When IwasonthebridgebeforeIcouldn'treachthatbranch, butnowIcan grasp it!! Something'seerieaboutthisplaceforcertain I'moffhome!
Ihaven'tnoticedthosetreesbefore, andthatholewasn'tthere whenI cameherebefore. Everything'sdifferent, andI'vejustrealised something, I'veneverbeenhereinmylife. I'm lost!!!
WherecanIbe? Thattree, it'smoving, andwhat'sthatnoise? It's comingfrombehindme! Lookit'sthatbridge! It'scomingafter me!!! Run, run, run, run, runfaster, faster, faster, they'regettingcloser, RUN FASTER, Imustrunfaster, quickly, runquickly... . WhereamI? There'sastream, thestream!!! ThestreamIfellinto!!! Andthere'sno bridge! WhatshallIdo? They'regettingnearer, allthosetrees after meand thatbridge. Stopthemsomebody! Pleasesomebodystopthemfrom chasing me, stopthem, stopthem
Eh! What'sthe matter?
No, Ihaven'thadanynightmare, andIdon'tseethatthere'sanyreason formyshoutinginthenight!!!
A. J. BOUGHTON
Wednesday, 24th October, 1962
Am I so dead already matters it not to me who knows no god that we might die tonight. All I can do is sit and think and dream the Walter Mitty dreams of my survival.
Are we so dead already that this world can die without a care from me who used to love to walk and see the light of morning rise over a living world.
Can it now be murdered without a passing thought from me for any but the ones I love, from me who thought that he would be the first to cry and shout the "Murderers".
But now it's just the final execution unimportant when one thinks of the defence mankind could give. Tronic though, the hangman couldn't come and we had to kill ourselves.
IAN BARTLETT
HighupontheTowerofBabel sits theSpider surroundedbyhisconcubinesandbottles; smokingacigarette. Andlookingdown heseesthe ants inwhitehypocritic robes withprayer-booksopen swarming overstained-glasswindowand fan-tracery; andothers struggling throughthewildernessoflongcoarse grass not seeing theCathedral Tower.
Highhigh above sitsGod, whoyetdrawshope fromwhatHesees far far below.
M. G. HEMES.
Let me tell youaboutmyself.
LetmetellyouhowLondon'skickingmearoundandhowIwalkhomeon Sundaynightsupthecoolvistasofmist-shroudedstreetlamps, upGloucester RoadintoKensingtonHigh Turnleftalongthedewytree-shadedparkandon uptheasheypaving-stonestoRioCafebytheglisteningmoonlitrailway sidings andthebigscreamingadvertisementboardswhichyoucanseeclearover from topofthe28bus-solitaryenginesgunningitbacktotheir sheds,-green lights alltheway
Kickopenplainblue-greychippeddoor, closeitandwalkunderhanging netsalongsideoflargenegroidmuralstothebarandgetalightformySenior Servicefrom coolcoffee-boy spade. -Slickyoungnegrowaitress sitting, grey andwhitecheckedlegshanging, onthefridge -
'I'llhaveacoke-in-a-can'
Longbonybrownfingersworktheopener, andslidemyflorinovertotheir sideofthe bar.
'That'sit, man!'
Verylowdeeptonedlightsanddeeplaughterfrom contrastingwhiteteeth andpinktongues-RayCharlessingingandmoaningouthismelodiousblues.
'Whattimedoyouclose, huh?'
'Whenthecrowsdon'tcomenomore, that'swhenweclose, man.'
Carry mycokecanovertosmalltableanddosomeserious sucking, whilelisteningtothebassoprofundo voices.
'Yougottacigarette. IjustloveSenior Service.' Ithrowovermynowemptypacket.
'You'rewelcometoaBachelor, misswaitress. They'reallIgot left.' Quicksmile- 'Why, thankyou!'
Iholdupmyfagtohersandnoteitsrelativepallidness, andwhatasicklookingbonyhand, shrunkenfrom eighthourswashingup.
Backoutintothecoolfresh leafy airandlatertoreachmy sleeping-bag bedat200a m
Thenightgetscolderandfogcreepsinthroughthewindowandroundthe curtain, downontomynakedneck.
Badnight-dreamsandcoloursconfused andcontorted-andfinally the phonestimulatesmyconciousnessandIgettoittostopit
'Yourcall, sir -it's9. 5'.
'Yeah, yeah-O.K. -thanks, thankyou, cheersandsolong.'
LetmetellyouabouthowIfeelafter sixoddhoursofbadsleep; red eyesandanynoiseorsuddenmovementshakesandjoltsme, makesme jumpyandgivenanychanceIbawloutanyofthesocalledwaitresseswho happentobeabout.
Let me support, 'I went to the city' and shout that he was writing about the people in Sarabiaf, the commutors on the Backerloo. I feel like climbing on top of a lamp-post and yelling out to the assembled city. "This light is you. You blind yourselves with your own artificial light and so the sky is obscured and it's a long way to ground. "
And I want my sweat and tears to belt down the lamp-post in a blueblack grey torrent and that will wash them all away to their mewses and shadows and only the voice of Kenneth Patchen* and the motions of a little girl I met, will remain.
She was a ballet dancer with big deep brown eyes setting off her long blond mass of hair; beautiful full-formed mouth and wearing a red dress and high heeled boots -
And the chamber jazz sextet* will cut in real cool and ballet-doll will dance and swing in her high-heeled boots and the citizens will worriedly stay back in their mewses, and watch in wet bewilderment from the roofs and from back in their shadows and the choruses will blow on into the night until the fog comes unobtrusively obscuring all the vista, dulling the sounds and choking the dancing girl.
PIERS JOHNSON
f Sarabia: coffee bar (arabic) where I worked as coffee-boy.
* Reference: recording of Kenneth Patchen reading his poetry to the music of the Chamber Jazz Sextet. 'I went to the city': one of the poems read above, quote:
I went to the city
And there I did bitterly cry Men out of touch with the earth With never a glance at the sky.
HORACE, BOOKIODEXI
Donotseektofind(for 'tis forbidden) Whatendsthegodshavegrantedyouandme, OLeuconoe, \ norconsultthe schemes ofBabylonianseers. Howmuchbetter 'Tistobearwhate'erthefuture holds, WhetherJovehasgrantedyoumoreyears, Orwhethernowthiswinterisyour last ThatmakestheTyrrhenewaterspoundtherocks.
Bewise! Drinkfree andinsobrief aspace Cutshortyourtoofar-reaching hopesof life. E'enwhilewe'respeakingjealoustimedothflee. Soseizethepresent-donottrust tomorrow.
M. G. HEMES
WHYLIFE?
Lifeis strange. WhyshouldIbehuman? WhyshouldIliveat all?
Icomeintotheworld, afrightened creature. Igotoschool-adisciplined life? One's"happiest days"?
Ileavethis"bell-ruled"life-marry andthendie. Thisis life. IworshipGod, I sin. Why?
Whythis life, thisvery existence? Somanyhumans, eachwithadifferent character. Me;thehighestformoflifeonearth. Surely, itisjustafantasy.
P. J. G. BROWN
- 16-
THEAUTUMNLEAVES
Oneseesthem. . . eachday. Driftingoverpathways, abandoned, brushedaside. Wheelinganonymouslypastinmellowclouds. Now, swirlingtogetherinfrenzied excitement, stirredbytheechoingblastsofbleak, ominouswinds. Yetremainingadiffused massof security.
Melancholyfragments oftheirvital, floridyouth, theylie harmlessly, tobeassaulted, kickedupbyyouthfulfeet. Callous, irresponsible feet, developedonthemouldofthesesameleaves;hasteningtoforgetthoseof whomtheywereborn.
Theseleaves, fetedfor alingeringmomentattheclimaxoftheiryouth, sinksilentlyasthesapdrainsaway-twisted, parchedimagesofyesterday. Victimsofacycle, irrepressible, butcomplete. Enemiesofpromise, these wornoutshells, althoughcontainingtheessenceofmaturityand sincerity.
Stormsbutnotbreezesare recalled, Stormsbutnotbreezes are resisted.
Naturebowstonature, Theleavesfall ...
R. N. HEDGES
ASCIENTIFICANALYSIS
Homogeneous Mixtures (Painand Pleasure)
Canonlybe separated (PainandPleasure)
Byadditionoffurther solvent (Love)
However: Heterogeneous Mixtures (LoveandDishonour)
Areeasily parted (LoveandDishonour)
Byallowingthemixturetostand (For Eternity?)
GRAHAMMARCHANT. - 17-
JUST WAR
Man on the letter T hangs dying
Man in the strafed streets running
Man in corrosive heat incinerated
By a political sun
Man in Hiroshima
Man in the cyanide
Man named named nominal unnamed in mass destruction
Man kill, kill dead, down dead, despite your dying love of life
Man on the cross hangs dying
Because of a "justice" too
Some of us do not agree.
This is a minority report.
MICHAEL PYE
A CERTAIN AFFINITY WITH HIROSHIMA
Grotesquely into the black fire-water
Collapses a column, shattered, sooted, burnt,
Eyes scoured by heat, their limbs and wombs corroded
An old man's hand under his-firewood home
A woman arching naked in the flash
An ignorant watching emaciated dead contort, The shaved head blooded and the eyes -
My God the eyes, no eyes, yet eyes, blind, hopless . .
An ear destroyed in fire, a mockery, a silent fraud.
The suddenness; the belching, billowing treason -
Cloud of dust and particles sucked from the City that once was . . . the plane flies off,
A silver groaning into the thickened sky.
MICHAEL
PYE
DON'T HURRY ME
Don'thurry me.
SomedayIwijlrememberIbelieved Andthenperhapsasuddenclearness
SomedayIwillremembersheconceived Andthenperhapsasuddendearness . . .
Strangehowsoononecanforget, youknow. Forgetthelackoflogicinafaith, Forgettheoriginsoffaith, Thelackofboundarybetweentheegoandtheworld
Whenonehasneed, then, then, God, then. . .
Andthenaflash, akindofsilence storm Andpast, pastsorts, degreesoflove. Memory.
Butonlymemory, noreality
Exceptasbrain-trace, Godandlove. . . Don'thurry me.
MICHAELPYE
DON'THURRYME
VERSES
Your background, sir, is doubtful, I to my neighbour said, Would that mine were doubtful, Would that I were dead.
Your hair it is too long, sir, Your nose it is too bent, But you are still alive, sir, While I to Hell am sent. You fight with the stream, sir, I am on my own. You get to the top, sir, I am never known.
Your courage is not great, sir, More than mine all told. Your views are not mine, sir, Mine are lead than gold.
Hurry to the edge, sir, Your country bids you fall. I shall watch you go, sir, And that is all.
I look down and wonder, You do as you're told. I look down and think again, All that glitters is not gold.
I think of my love, sir. Your love is not mine. , You can love your loye, sir, I have not the time.
Youryardishighwithbodies. Ihavenotmyown. YouwillgotoHeaven, Imuststayathome.
Ijuststandandwatch, sir, AndthinkthatIam grand. Youplaywithyourlove, sir, Inamongthe sand.
ButIgotothechurch, sir, Andtherefindpeaceatlast. Youhangroundinstreets, sir, AndwaittillSunday'spast.
CHARLESSARLAND
TO S.J.C.
Slowly, slowly, wendsitsway, Upthestepsandchancelthere, Redandwhitetheysteadymove, Domainofyouthfulyouth. Theyarebutfew, Chosenbythoseunknown TosingHispraise Whoarethey, youwouldask. No-ones, Nowheres, Music, Voices Voices, Music, Voices. Listentothesoundtheymake; Followtwistingfloating flowing, Inthecrypt, amongthegraves, Throughtheroof andintheeaves, Roundthepillarssolid, tall, Inthevaultinggettinglost. Ithasapermanence unmoved Bymanorbeastorflying bat. Itisthereintwentycenturiestime Amidthecrumblingruinsandthedaises. Andwehavegoneforgetting.
