The Burial: In Memory of W.L.E.

What task is this that so unnerves me now?
When pity should be dead, and has been dead.
Unloose that sheet from round the pierced brow;
What matter blood is seen, for blood is red,
And red’s the colour of the clammy earth.
Be not so solemn,-There’s no need to pray;
But, rather smile, - yea, laugh! If pure, thy mirth
Is right. He laughed himself but yesterday.
That pay-book? Take it from him. Ours a debt
No gold can ever pay. That cross of wood
About his neck? That must remain, and yet
He needs it no, because his heart was good.
We’ll house him ‘neath those broken shrubs; dig deep.
He’s tired. God knows, and needs a little sleep.

poem by Leon Gellert
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The Moving Of The Shades

The black revolving depths have moved and stirred
with news. their Lord has cried. 'Send these, and these.'
Swift feet awake. Shapes speed. The dreadful word
resounds along the tunnels of the seas.
Sly Falsehood comes, with Sin and Flattery,
and long toothed Fear runs shrieking by the wall.
Face-hidden Sorrow follows Cruelty,
and peering Jealousy grown over-tall
Slobbering Lust is there, asmear with slime,
and Vice's ushers from the Uttermost;
Comes painted Pleasure, somewhat fat with time;
and Murder takes his place amid the host.
thronewardds they stand and gazzee, the Foull Voice screams.
'Invoke this God! Go hand in hand with dreams?'

poem by Leon Gellert
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The Advice Of Treachery

This well-feigned trance, this still and
stupored sleep
is aptly timed, and nobly fits the scheme.
The cloud-encircled Sword with Night may creep
Beside the gates, and catch the world adream,
Snatching as life before the sluggish breath
Awakes to morning and to vultured death,
Till Craft appeared, the blunted Grecian spears
That scratched at Troy, and all the blistered
Hands
That tore at stones and prayed upon the sands
Were weak and vain, and vain the bloody years.
Oh, let the winds take up the heavy tones
Of sleeping. Move within a mist! Shun light!
Then swing the hidden weapon once, and smite,
And gaze with laughter on the slaughtered throne.

poem by Leon Gellert
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The Consumptive

The stars, the fields, will know him never-
more;
his friends, his trees, the restless swerving sea.
‘Three days to live,’ they said – the kind gave four.
They glide about his bed silently.
‘Twas not the lead of battle nor the shell
the spitting of Maxim’s basiliskine breath –
‘Twas through the falseness of the winds he fell;
the snow’s mock-warmth – a chill. His humble
death
will ne’er be sung in elegy and rhyme,
his passage bloodless was, unstained and still.
It brought no stir; and smiling all the time
He waved his last farewell behind the Hill.
I saw him die with my half-closed eyes,
And closing them I thought of Paradise.

poem by Leon Gellert
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The Change

Last year I heard the songs of birds,
And heard the trumpets of the bees.
I caught the winding river’s words,
And clutched at leaves of trees.

I heard the gales upon the height;
And heard each frightened windy rush,
I lay within the sultry night,
Eaves-dropping in the bush.

But now I walk within a town,
And hear the slyness of its feet.
Great cruel things stride up and down
Within a shady street.

I see quick things with ugly nails,
And hear their low half-smothered cries.
I hear men tell strange trembling tales
With big beseeching eyes.

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poem by Leon Gellert
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The Return

I have come home again!
Dawn is a dream to me
Lying here, soon to be
Clinging, awaking;
See where ’tis breaking
Mockingly, mistily!
I have come home again!

I have come home again!
Blithe is the day, and clear.
All of my youth is near.
Here with the sun above;
Here with my boyhood, love
Joy, and a tear.
I have come home again!

I have come home again!
Grand is the night to-night.
Stars shed their brightest light;
Shine all their brightest fire;

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poem by Leon Gellert
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The Attack at Dawn

‘At every cost,’ they said, ‘it must be done.’
They told us in the early afternoon.
We sit and wait the coming of the sun
We sit in groups, — grey groups that watch the moon.
We stretch our legs and murmur half in sleep
And touch the tips of bayonets and yarn.
Our hands are cold. They strangely grope and creep,
Tugging at ends of straps. We wait the dawn!
Some men come stumbling past in single file.
And scrape the trench’s side and scatter sand.
They trip and curse and go. Perhaps we smile.
We wait the dawn! … The dawn is close at hand!
A gentle rustling runs along the line.
‘At every cost,’ they said, ‘it must be done.’
A hundred eyes are staring for the sign.
It’s coming! Look! … Our God’s own laughing sun!

poem by Leon Gellert
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The True Dawn

Go, false dawn, that cometh as a child
With yellow curls!
Hast never known the wild
Unhallowed cry of night!
Go hence!
I did not wish for pearls
Of dimpled innocence
Upon this floor.
Go! They blinding light
But leaves the darkness deeper than before.

Go, false dawn, that cometh as a bride
In virgin white
And brimming eyes so wide
With trust, and void of fears!
Depart!
Thou hast not known the night!
Repose thy willing heart
At whiter stairs.
Go! Before thy tears

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poem by Leon Gellert
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The Gecko

The Gecko lying on his stone
Is always very much alone,
Nor is the reason hard to trace
By those who've seen its form and face
It's hard to realise a mite
Can be so venomous a sight,
Or in its little frame compress
Such concentrated ugliness.
Now wonder other creatures fly
Each time a Gecko ambles by.
No wonder that its chosen mate
Recoils from the connubial state.
Yet underneath its skin, we're told,
There beats a heart of purest gold.
Its children do not know neglect;
It treats its mother with respect.
It never, ever beats its wife,
And lives a most unblemished life.
Its aspect is its sole defence
Against the world's malevolence.

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poem by Leon Gellert
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Rendezvous

Long before the dawn breaks

With a bird's cry,

I'll be hustling on the wind

Out where you lie -

Hurrying to our rendezvous

Under the April sky.

I'll step from out the sea again

To the shoulder of the land,

And pass the dead boy where he lies

Prone on the tideless strand,

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poem by Leon Gellert
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