Twenty | Page 6

you_.
For what is love, O lovers of my tribe??And what is love, O women of my day??Love is a farthing piece, a bloody bribe?Pressed in the palm of God--and thrown away.
And what is hate, O fierce and unforgiving??And what shall hate achieve, when all is said??A silly joke that cannot reach the living,?A spitting in the faces of the dead.
And what is knowledge, O young men who tasted?The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree??Knowledge is but a painful effort wasted,?A bitter drowning in a bitter sea.
And what is prayer, O waiters for the answer??And what is prayer, O seekers of the cause??Prayer is the weary soul of Herod's dancer,?Dancing before blind kings without applause.
The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David,?Made up of fear and failure, lies and loss.?Its heart is lead, and on its face is grav��d?A crook��d cross, my son, a crook��d cross.
It has no dignity to lend it value;?No purity--alas, it bears a stain.?You shall not give it gratitude, nor shall you?Recall it all your days, except with pain.
Oh, bless your blindness, glory in your groping!?Mock at your betters with an upward chin!?And when the moment has gone by for hoping,?Sling your fifth stone, O son of mine, and win.
Grief do I give you, grief and dreadful laughter;?Sackcloth for banner, ashes in your wine.?Go forth, go forth, nor ask me what comes after;?The fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine.
GO FORTH, GO FORTH, AND SLAY THE PHILISTINE.
NEW YEAR, 1918
A song I never heard?I must rehearse,?Counting each hour a word,?Counting each day a verse.?Not of my proper choice?Raise I my voice,?While others--fierce and strong--?Raise theirs to drown my song.
Must I then sing aloud,?Faint as a bird,?And, like a bird, be proud?To sing--to sing unheard??Weary and very weak,?Shall I then seek?A hearing, idiot-wise,?From the unhearing skies?
Drowning my whispered dreams,?Great voices cry.?They sing their songs, it seems,?With better heart than I.?Hush--I can hear Death sing--?"_Here is my sting_."?And the Grave echo--"_See,?Here is my victory_"
To-night the heavens bend?A little nearer.?The singer is my friend,?And I--at last--the hearer.?No more to sing alone?A song unknown,--?Hush--very tense and thin,?The dawn-like notes begin.

Crown 8vo. 6s. net.
I POSE
BY
STELLA BENSON
Sir Henry Lucy writes: "One of the brightest, most original, and best-written books that have come my way for a long time."
"Even the dullest can hardly fail to respond to the brilliant humour of the book. As the mature work of an experienced author it would have been a remarkable achievement; being 'the first book of a new writer' it is an astonishing performance."--_Daily Graphic_.
"This book is a fantasy, an absurdity, a dream charged with purpose; it has wit and humour, and some deep feeling covered with the gossamer of irresponsibility; it is an act of rebellion, an edged complaint, a protest touched with flame.... There are epigrams and sentences that read like a sob or a stab."--_ Daily Chronicle._
"For its sheer cleverness the book is a delightful thing."--_Daily News_.
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
Crown 8vo. 6s. net.
THIS IS THE END
BY
STELLA BENSON
"Miss Benson has a delicious sense of humour, and her way of describing people and things is most refreshing. With her sympathy, her realism, her wit and ability, it would seem that Miss Benson's possibilities are limitless."--_The Bookman_.
"In her second book she not only makes good, but betrays a ripening talent."--_Daily Telegraph._
"The book shows one thing very clearly, that Miss Benson is a force to be reckoned with."--_Pall Mall Gazette_.
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"She has unusual originality, illuminating wit, deep feeling, and a gift for startling epigram."--_Daily Graphic_.
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