I pose
From Preface:
Sometimes I pose, but sometimes I pose as posing.
My eyes are girt with outer mists,
My ears sing shrill — and this I bless,
My finger-nails do bite my fists
In ecstasy of loneliness.
This I intend, and this I want, —
That, passing, you may only mark
A dumb soul and its confidante
Entombed together in the dark.
My ears sing shrill — and this I bless,
My finger-nails do bite my fists
In ecstasy of loneliness.
This I intend, and this I want, —
That, passing, you may only mark
A dumb soul and its confidante
Entombed together in the dark.
The hoarse churchbells of London ring.
The hoarser horns of London croak.
The poor brown lives of London cling
About the poor brown streets like smoke;
The deep air stands above my roof.
Like water to the floating stars;
My Friend and I — we sit aloof.
We sit and smile, and bind our scars.
The hoarser horns of London croak.
The poor brown lives of London cling
About the poor brown streets like smoke;
The deep air stands above my roof.
Like water to the floating stars;
My Friend and I — we sit aloof.
We sit and smile, and bind our scars.
For you may wound and you may kill —
It's such a little thing to die —
Your cruel God may work his will.
We do not care — ^my Friend and I, —
Though, at the gate of Paradise,
Peter the Saint withhold his keys.
My friend and I — we have no eyes
For Heaven ... or Hell ... or dreams like these
It's such a little thing to die —
Your cruel God may work his will.
We do not care — ^my Friend and I, —
Though, at the gate of Paradise,
Peter the Saint withhold his keys.
My friend and I — we have no eyes
For Heaven ... or Hell ... or dreams like these
Review by Penny
Published in 1915, the style and format of the book is innovative. At once feeling dated and modern, Stella Benson unravels a story of The Suffragette and The Gardener. Rambling with a cast of several interesting supporting characters, the novel touches on social issues.
Excerpt :
There was once a gardener. Not only was but in all probability is, for as far as I know you may meet him to this day. There are no deathbed scenes in this book. The gardener was not the sort of person to bring a novel to a graceful climax by dying finally in an atmosphere of elevated immorality. He was extremely thin, but not in the least unhealthy. He never with his own consent ran any risk of sudden death. Nobody would ever try to introduce him into a real book, for he was in no way suitable. He was not a philosopher. Not an adventurer. Not a gay dog. Not lively: but he lived, and that at least is a great merit.
In appearance, the gardener was a fairly mediocre study in black and white. He had a white and wooden face, black hair as smooth as a wet seal's back, thin arms and legs, and enormous hands and feet. He was not indispensable to anyone, but he believed that he was a pillar supporting the world. It sometimes makes one nervous to reflect on what very amateur pillars the world seems to employ.
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