The Influence Of Lust
With padded feet from out his own dark den
Comes smiling Lust, once fair and hard to
please,
But now long overworked with dabbling men,
Who cry, 'We've tasted this and tired of these.'
Pausing in doubt, suspecting some defence,
He stares with eyes blue-lidded, at the Shape,
Then stooping, whispers low of innocence,
Of waiting chastity and sweetest rape.
With hairless hands awave, lisps reeking tales
'Mid smothered sighs, acquivering the while
he sees a horrored frown and fears he fails,
But smiling much whene'er he sees a smile.
Then pressing, 'Flesh is this, they needed food,'
And, 'Flesh is warmest in its stolen blood.'
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Cripple
He totters round and dangles those odd shapes
That were his legs. His eyes are never dim.
He brags about his fame between the tapes,
And laughs the loudest when they laugh at him.
Amid the fights of snow he takes a hand;
Accepts his small defeats, and with a smile
He rises from the ground, and makes his stand
With clumsiness, but battles hard the while.
So quick to see the pain in fellow men,
He chides them; yea.-and laughs them into
youth:
and yet, when death was near to one, ‘twas then
about his kindly heart we learnt the truth,
since nowadays of cheer there is a dearth,
‘Twas smiles or tears, and he chose the mirth.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Speech Of Flattery
See how he lies, still mighty in his ease,
The fields' huge fear, the terrifying saint;
And nothing needed but his straightened knees,
A polished helm,-perhaps a little paint.
His breast is broad, as when behind the shield
He thrust its front across the clanging line,
And stood with Gore, as trembling armies kneeled
To lay their carven trophies at his shrine.
And now the very gates would yield at sight,
The earth cry 'Welcome' and the maidens sing
'The day has come, at last, lat last, the light!
Sick Peace is slain, and slaying War is king!'
Oh, even yet will Beauty yield to Might,
And deck his couch while Numa's temples ring.'
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Dead
These there were, who lost their everything.
Gave all! And left the earth a vaster sphere
In memories: a song or two to sing,
Some takes to tell, some thoughts to think,
more near
To humanness by death, and blood of death
Than life itself, which in the passing hence
Enriched the world with an awakened breath,
And fled no longer nameless form the sense.
‘Twas not the shed of blood, but fearless mirth
that set a wondrous pattern to the earth.
And these,, - within a corner that is theirs,
Are laid in smiling peace – a rich content.
The pain has been – the glory is. Old cares
Have dropped, and left no drooping wonder –
ment.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Death
I’m hit. It’s come at last, I feel a smart
Of needles in ……My God …. I’m hit again!
No pain this time……no pain….. and yet…..
my heart……
Where is my heart? ‘Tis strange I feel no pain.
The night is still, the night is very still
I feel the April rain upon my hair.
I see the lights upon yonder hill
Agleam and shining in the silent air.
How soft the grasses seem-how soft and cool!
How long the valley looks-how long and deep!
How warm the rain! I feel a little pool
Beside my hand. I feel…..Can this be sleep?
Can this be sleep…. This buzzing in my head?….
Good God! A light! A light! The pool! I’m ***
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Teacher
A Cross is slanting ‘tween two withered trees -
I saw him first in peace, amid a crowd
Of streets, nor dreamed him ever one of these,
So wistfully he mused, so shyly proud,
So chalk-besmeared he walked his weary pace.
A space went, - and on an early day
Within the trench, I saw a half-known face
Awake with wonder; a child-lived heart at play
With dreamed romance: a Drake-keen eye ashine
For newer worlds……A thunder tore the line!…..
A shell burst!….. He smiled as Sidney smiled-
And fell…..There came the crying of a child,
…..A wave of little hands…..a soft breeze
The cross is slanting ‘tween two withered trees.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Invocation Of Jealousy
The conquered world is bowed and worshipful,
And lovely Peace smooth-gowned in lightest grey
Cries, 'War is Dead' and treads upon it's skull.
While silken women walk their rosy way
Sneering at swords, and tittering at deeds,
And kicking relics with their pearl-shod feet,
Saying with mirth, 'The body never bleeds.
Old Mars is corpsed beneath great Bacchus'
seat.'
Young Mothers tell their babies of rusted spears
Of timid wolves, long fled to northern skies,
Of priests that sang of March in olden years,
And died in May with vain, despairing eyes,
The world is soothed with olive-juice and wine,
And spits upon the Quirinalian* shrine.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Murder
Upon the threshold, red-eyed Murder stands,
Fresh from his slaughter-house of human meat,
Blood on his broken teeth and on his hands,
Blood on his nails and on his purple feet.
With hollow voice he speaks, and sick'ning breath,
'A way there is, that only way is death!….
The dead will rise no more,-the dead are dead!
The spared will creep behind the sparer's back,
And breathe their plots and stab. The dead are dead!
And lie along the safe triumphal track.
The young-eyed babe, will lisp it's little tales.
The loving girl will slay her main in bed
Kissing his savage mouth, the victor fails
At Mercy's seat. The dead are safely dead'.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Ease. 1914
The iron is hidden in forgetfulness.
A smoothness comes to men and lies on lands.
Women of peace arise in lustred dress,
and hold aloft their sleek and perfect hands.
the birds are in the morn, the bees in the noon.
The eve has song and sleep and slow repose.
A lazy Ease treads soft on feathered shoon
that leaves no sign to show the way she goes.
Soft cheeks there are; and Guile with coiling hair
smiles at the earth and croons within her chair.
The slow leaves fall, and rustling Night begins
Her reign of furriness. the slinking feet
Of half-seen things and thoughts bring brushing sins
and warmths of fog that touch a smouldering heat.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Lemnos Revisited
Lemnos! Lemnos! Thine enfolding arms
Have held too much, they patterned hills are over shorn
Of all their one-time freshness. Loud alarms
And trampling tread have left thee stained and torn,
Oh, gone those bleating lambs! Those grinding mills!
Those smiles of peace that were thy constant joy.
Hast gathered to thyself too much those ills
And pains smoke-fouled from off the plain of Troy.
Which, bruised and bloody in its modernness,
And wet with tears, as those Achilles shed
For Patroclus, has spoiled thy loveliness.
And housed thy bosom with its wear dead.
Lemnos! There are those who still can trace
Soft lines of beauty on thy dusty face.
poem by Leon Gellert
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