The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, by
Richard Aldington and H.D. and John Gould Fletcher and F.S. Flint and D.H. Lawrence and Amy Lowell
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Some Imagist Poets
An Anthology
Author: Richard Aldington
H.D.
John Gould Fletcher
F.S. Flint
D.H. Lawrence
Amy Lowell
Release Date: October 17, 2009 [EBook #30276]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS ***
Produced by Meredith Bach, Stephanie Eason, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
In March, 1914, a volume appeared entitled "Des Imagistes." It was a collection of the work of various young poets, presented together as a school. This school has been widely discussed by those interested in new movements in the arts, and has already become a household word. Differences of taste and judgment, however, have arisen among the contributors to that book; growing tendencies are forcing them along different paths. Those of us whose work appears in this volume have therefore decided to publish our collection under a new title, and we have been joined by two or three poets who did not contribute to the first volume, our wider scope making this possible.
In this new book we have followed a slightly different arrangement to that of the former Anthology. Instead of an arbitrary selection by an editor, each poet has been permitted to represent himself by the work he considers his best, the only stipulation being that it should not yet have appeared in book form. A sort of informal committee—consisting of more than half the authors here represented—have arranged the book and decided what [Pg vi]should be printed and what omitted, but, as a general rule, the poets have been allowed absolute freedom in this direction, limitations of space only being imposed upon them. Also, to avoid any appearance of precedence, they have been put in alphabetical order.
As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface, we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we are banded together between one set of covers.
The poets in this volume do not represent a clique. Several of them are personally unknown to the others, but they are united by certain common principles, arrived at independently. These principles are not new; they have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry, indeed of all great literature, and they are simply these:—
1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.
2. To create new rhythms—as the expression of new moods—and not to copy old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon "free-verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for [Pg vii]a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art to write badly about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so uninspiring nor so old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911.
4. To present an image (hence the name: "Imagist"). We are not a school of painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence of poetry.
The subject of free-verse is too complicated to be discussed here. We may say briefly, that we attach the term to all that increasing amount of writing whose cadence is more marked, more definite, and closer knit than that of prose, but which is not so violently nor so obviously accented as the so-called "regular verse." We refer those interested in the question to[Pg viii] the Greek Melic poets, and to the many excellent French studies on the subject by such distinguished and well-equipped authors as Remy de Gourmont, Gustave Kahn, Georges Duhamel, Charles Vildrac, Henri Ghéon, Robert de Souza, André Spire, etc.
We wish it to be clearly understood that we do not represent an exclusive artistic sect; we publish our work together because of mutual artistic sympathy, and we propose to bring out our coöperative volume each year for a short term of years, until we have made a place for ourselves and our principles such as we desire.
| Richard Aldington | |
| Childhood | 3 |
| The Poplar | 10 |
| Round-Pond | 12 |
| Daisy | 13 |
| Epigrams | 15 |
| The Faun sees Snow for the First Time | 16 |
| Lemures | 17 |
| H. D. | |
| The Pool | 21 |
| The Garden | 22 |
| Sea Lily | 24 |
| Sea Iris | 25 |
| Sea Rose | 27 |
| Oread | 28 |
| Orion Dead | 29 |
| John Gould Fletcher | |
| The Blue Symphony | 33 |
| London Excursion | 39 |
| F. S. Flint | |
| Trees | 53 |
| Lunch | 55 |
| Malady | 56 |
| Accident | 58 |
| Fragment | 60 |
| Houses | 62 |
| Eau-Forte | 63 |
| D. H. Lawrence | |
| Ballad of Another Ophelia | 67 |
| Illicit | 69 |
| Fireflies in the Corn | 70 |
| A Woman and Her Dead Husband | 72 |
| The Mowers | 75 |
| Scent of Irises | 76 |
| Green | 78 |
| Amy Lowell | |
| Venus Transiens | 81 |
| The Travelling Bear | 83 |
| The Letter | 85 |
| Grotesque | 86 |
| Bullion | 87 |
| Solitaire | 88 |
| The Bombardment | 89 |
| Bibliography | 93 |
| I |
| The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood Put me out of love with God. I can't believe in God's goodness; I can believe In many avenging gods. Most of all I believe In gods of bitter dullness, Cruel local gods Who seared my childhood. |
| II |
| I've seen people put A chrysalis in a match-box, "To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come." But when it broke its shell It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison And tried to climb to the light For space to dry its wings. [Pg 4] That's how I was. Somebody found my chrysalis And shut it in a match-box. My shrivelled wings were beaten, Shed their colours in dusty scales Before the box was opened For the moth to fly. And then it was too late, Because the beauty a child has, And the beautiful things it learns before its birth, Were shed, like moth-scales, from me. |
| III |
| I hate that town; I hate the town I lived in when I was little; I hate to think of it. There were always clouds, smoke, rain In that dingy little valley. It rained; it always rained. I think I never saw the sun until I was nine— And then it was too late; Everything's too late after the first seven years. [Pg 5] That long street we lived in Was duller than a drain And nearly as dingy. There were the big College And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall. There were the sordid provincial shops— The grocer's, and the shops for women, The shop where I bought transfers, And the piano and gramaphone shop Where I used to stand Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone. How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was! On wet days—it was always wet— I used to kneel on a chair And look at it from the window. The dirty yellow trams Dragged noisily along With a clatter of wheels and bells And a humming of wires overhead. They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines And then the water ran back Full of brownish foam bubbles. [Pg 6] There was nothing else to see— It was all so dull— Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas Running along the grey shiny pavements; Sometimes there was a waggon Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound With their hoofs Through the silent rain. And there was a grey museum Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals And a few relics of the Romans—dead also. There was the sea-front, A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it, Three piers, a row of houses, And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour. I was like a moth—- Like one of those grey Emperor moths Which flutter through the vines at Capri. And that damned little town was my match-box, Against whose sides I beat and beat Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy As that damned little town. |
| [Pg 7]IV |
| At school it was just dull as that dull High Street. They taught me pothooks— I wanted to be alone, although I was so little, Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness, Away somewhere else— The town was dull; The front was dull; The High Street and the other street were dull— And there was a public park, I remember, And that was damned dull too, With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick, And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on, And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in, And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones, And the swings, which were for "Board-School children," And its gravel paths. And on Sundays they rang the bells, From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches. They had the Salvation Army. I was taken to a High Church; The parson's name was Mowbray, "Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it—" That's what I heard people say. [Pg 8] I took a little black book To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church, And I had to sit on a hard bench, Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms, And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed— And then there was nothing to do Except to play trains with the hymn-books. There was nothing to see, Nothing to do, Nothing to play with, Except that in an empty room upstairs There was a large tin box Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta, Of the Declaration of Independence And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada. There were also several packets of stamps, Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots, Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak, Indians and Men-of-war From the United States, And the green and red portraits Of King Francobollo Of Italy. |
| [Pg 9]V |
| I don't believe in God. I do believe in avenging gods Who plague us for sins we never sinned But who avenge us. That's why I'll never have a child, Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours, Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall. |
| Why do you always stand there shivering Between the white stream and the road? The people pass through the dust On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars; The waggoners go by at dawn; The lovers walk on the grass path at night. Stir from your roots, walk, poplar! You are more beautiful than they are. I know that the white wind loves you, Is always kissing you and turning up The white lining of your green petticoat. The sky darts through you like blue rain, And the grey rain drips on your flanks And loves you. And I have seen the moon Slip his silver penny into your pocket As you straightened your hair; And the white mist curling and hesitating Like a bashful lover about your knees. [Pg 11] I know you, poplar; I have watched you since I was ten. But if you had a little real love, A little strength, You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers And go walking down the white road Behind the waggoners. There are beautiful beeches down beyond the hill. Will you always stand there shivering? |
| Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breakers Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight. The shining of the sun upon the water Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals In a long wavering irregular flight. The water is cold to the eye As the wind to the cheek. In the budding chestnuts Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open The starlings make their clitter-clatter; And the blackbirds in the grass Are getting as fat as the pigeons. Too-hoo, this is brave; Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress. |
| "Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes, Nunc..." Catullus. |
| You were my playmate by the sea. We swam together. Your girl's body had no breasts. We found prawns among the rocks; We liked to feel the sun and to do nothing; In the evening we played games with the others. It made me glad to be by you. Sometimes I kissed you, And you were always glad to kiss me; But I was afraid—I was only fourteen. And I had quite forgotten you, You and your name. To-day I pass through the streets. [Pg 14]She who touches my arm and talks with me Is—who knows?—Helen of Sparta, Dryope, Laodamia.... And there are you A whore in Oxford Street. |
| a girl |
| You were that clear Sicilian fluting That pains our thought even now. You were the notes Of cold fantastic grief Some few found beautiful. |
| new love |
| She has new leaves After her dead flowers, Like the little almond-tree Which the frost hurt. |
| october |
| The beech-leaves are silver For lack of the tree's blood. At your kiss my lips Become like the autumn beech-leaves. |
| Zeus, Brazen-thunder-hurler, Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos, Send vengeance on these Oreads Who strew White frozen flecks of mist and cloud Over the brown trees and the tufted grass Of the meadows, where the stream Runs black through shining banks Of bluish white. Zeus, Are the halls of heaven broken up That you flake down upon me Feather-strips of marble? Dis and Styx! When I stamp my hoof The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft So that I reel upon two slippery points.... Fool, to stand here cursing When I might be running! |
| In Nineveh And beyond Nineveh In the dusk They were afraid. In Thebes of Egypt In the dusk They chanted of them to the dead. In my Lesbos and Achaia Where the God dwelt We knew them. Now men say "They are not": But in the dusk Ere the white sun comes— A gay child that bears a white candle— I am afraid of their rustling, Of their terrible silence, The menace of their secrecy. |
| Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea-fish. I cover you with my net. What are you—banded one? |
| I |
| You are clear, O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petal, like spilt dye from a rock. If I could break you I could break a tree. If I could stir I could break a tree, I could break you. |
| II |
| O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it sideways. Fruit can not drop [Pg 23]through this thick air: fruit can not fall into heat that presses up and blunts the points of pears and rounds the grapes. Cut the heat, plough through it, turning it on either side of your path. |
| Reed, slashed and torn, but doubly rich— such great heads as yours drift upon temple-steps, but you are shattered in the wind. Myrtle-bark is flecked from you, scales are dashed from your stem, sand cuts your petal, furrows it with hard edge, like flint on a bright stone. Yet though the whole wind slash at your bark, you are lifted up, aye—though it hiss to cover you with froth. |
| I |
| Weed, moss-weed, root tangled in sand, sea-iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken, and you print a shadow like a thin twig. Fortunate one, scented and stinging, rigid myrrh-bud, camphor-flower, sweet and salt—you are wind in our nostrils. |
| II |
| Do the murex-fishers drench you as they pass? Do your roots drag up colour from the sand? Have they slipped gold under you; rivets of gold? [Pg 26] Band of iris-flowers above the waves, You are painted blue, painted like a fresh prow stained among the salt weeds. |
| Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf. more precious than a wet rose, single on a stem— you are caught in the drift. Stunted, with small leaf, you are flung on the sands, you are lifted in the crisp sand that drives in the wind. Can the spice-rose drip such acrid fragrance hardened in a leaf? |
| Whirl up, sea— Whirl your pointed pines, Splash your great pines On our rocks, Hurl your green over us, Cover us with your pools of fir. |
| [Artemis speaks] |
| The cornel-trees uplift from the furrows, the roots at their bases strike lower through the barley-sprays. So arise and face me. I am poisoned with the rage of song. I once pierced the flesh of the wild-deer, now am I afraid to touch the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? I will tear the full flowers and the little heads of the grape-hyacinths. I will strip the life from the bulb until the ivory layers lie like narcissus petals on the black earth. Arise, lest I bend an ash-tree into a taut bow, and slay—and tear all the roots from the earth. [Pg 30] The cornel-wood blazes and strikes through the barley-sprays, but I have lost heart for this. I break a staff. I break the tough branch. I know no light in the woods. I have lost pace with the winds. |
| I |
| The darkness rolls upward. The thick darkness carries with it Rain and a ravel of cloud. The sun comes forth upon earth. Palely the dawn Leaves me facing timidly Old gardens sunken: And in the gardens is water. Sombre wreck—autumnal leaves; Shadowy roofs In the blue mist, And a willow-branch that is broken. O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees! [Pg 34] Blue and cool: Blue, tremulously, Blow faint puffs of smoke Across sombre pools. The damp green smell of rotted wood; And a heron that cries from out the water. |
| II |
| Through the upland meadows I go alone. For I dreamed of someone last night Who is waiting for me. Flower and blossom, tell me do you know of her? Have the rocks hidden her voice? They are very blue and still. Long upward road that is leading me, Light hearted I quit you, For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass Invite me to dance upon them. Quivering grass Daintily poised For her foot's tripping. [Pg 35] O blown clouds, could I only race up like you, Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep! Look, the sky! Across black valleys Rise blue-white aloft Jagged, unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death. Solitude. Silence. |
| III |
| One chuckles by the brook for me: One rages under the stone. One makes a spout of his mouth, One whispers—one is gone. One over there on the water Spreads cold ripples For me Enticingly. The vast dark trees Flow like blue veils Of tears Into the water. [Pg 36] Sour sprites, Moaning and chuckling, What have you hidden from me? "In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever Bound hand and foot." Was it the wind That rattled the reeds together? Dry reeds, A faint shiver in the grasses. |
| IV |
| On the left hand there is a temple: And a palace on the right-hand side. Foot-passengers in scarlet Pass over the glittering tide. Under the bridge The old river flows Low and monotonous Day after day. I have heard and have seen All the news that has been: Autumn's gold and Spring's green! [Pg 37] Now in my palace I see foot-passengers Crossing the river: Pilgrims of Autumn In the afternoons. Lotus pools: Petals in the water. Such are my dreams. For me silks are outspread. I take my ease, unthinking. |
| V |
| And now the lowest pine-branch Is drawn across the disk of the sun. Old friends who will forget me soon I must go on, Towards those blue death-mountains I have forgot so long. In the marsh grasses There lies forever My last treasure, With the hope of my heart. [Pg 38] The ice is glazing over, Torn lanterns flutter, On the leaves is snow. In the frosty evening Toll the old bell for me Once, in the sleepy temple. Perhaps my soul will hear. Afterglow: Before the stars peep I shall creep out into darkness. |
| Great walls of green, City that is afar. We gallop along Alert and penetrating, Roads open about us, Housetops keep at a distance. Soft-curling tendrils, Swim backwards from our image: We are a red bulk, Projecting the angular city, in shadows, at our feet. Black coarse-squared shapes, Hump and growl and assemble. It is the city that takes us to itself, Vast thunder riding down strange skies. An arch under which we slide Divides our lives for us: [Pg 40]After we have passed it We know we have left something behind We shall not see again. Passivity, Gravity, Are changed into hesitating, clanking pistons and wheels. The trams come whooping up one by one, Yellow pulse-beats spreading through darkness. Music-hall posters squall out: The passengers shrink together, I enter indelicately into all their souls. It is a glossy skating rink, On which winged spirals clasp and bend each other: And suddenly slide backwards towards the centre, After a too-brief release. A second arch is a wall To separate our souls from rotted cables Of stale greenness. A shadow cutting off the country from us, Out of it rise red walls. [Pg 41] Yet I revolt: I bend, I twist myself I curl into a million convolutions: Pink shapes without angle, Anything to be soft and woolly, Anything to escape. Sudden lurch of clamours, Two more viaducts Stretch out red yokes of steel, Crushing my rebellion. My soul Shrieking Is jolted forwards by a long hot bar— Into direct distances. It pierces the small of my back. |
| Only this morning I sang of roses; Now I see with a swift stare, The city forcing up through the air Black cubes close piled and some half-crumbling over. My roses are battered into pulp: [Pg 42]And there swells up in me Sudden desire for something changeless, Thrusts of sunless rock Unmelted by hissing wheels. |
| Here is too swift a movement, The rest is too still. It is a red sea Licking The housefronts. They quiver gently From base to summit. Ripples of impulse run through them, Flattering resistance. Soon they will fall; Already smoke yearns upward. Clouds of dust, Crash of collapsing cubes. I prefer deeper patience, Monotony of stalled beasts. [Pg 43]O angle-builders, Vainly have you prolonged your effort, For I descend amid you, Past rungs and slopes of curving slippery steel. |
| Sudden struggle for foothold on the pavement, Familiar ascension. I do not heed the city any more, It has given me a duty to perform. I pass along nonchalantly, Insinuating myself into self-baffling movements. Impalpable charm of back streets In which I find myself: Cool spaces filled with shadow. Passers-by, white hammocks in the sunlight. Bulging outcrush into old tumult; Attainment, as of a narrow harbour, Of some shop forgotten by traffic With cool-corridored walls. |
| Black shapes bending, [Pg 44]Taxicabs crush in the crowd. The tops are each a shining square Shuttles that steadily press through woolly fabric. Drooping blossom, Gas-standards over Spray out jingling tumult Of white-hot rays. Monotonous domes of bowler-hats Vibrate in the heat. Silently, easily we sway through braying traffic, Down the crowded street. The tumult crouches over us, Or suddenly drifts to one side. |
| I am blown like a leaf Hither and thither. The city about me Resolves itself into sound of many voices, Rustling and fluttering, Leaves shaken by the breeze. A million forces ignore me, I know not why, I am drunken with it all. [Pg 45]Suddenly I feel an immense will Stored up hitherto and unconscious till this instant. Projecting my body Across a street, in the face of all its traffic. I dart and dash: I do not know why I go. These people watch me, I yield them my adventure. Lazily I lounge through labyrinthine corridors, And with eyes suddenly altered, I peer into an office I do not know, And wonder at a startled face that penetrates my own. Roses—pavement— I will take all this city away with me— People—uproar—the pavement jostling and flickering— Women with incredible eyelids: Dandies in spats: Hard-faced throng discussing me—I know them all. I will take them away with me, I insistently rob them of their essence, I must have it all before night, To sing amid my green. [Pg 46] I glide out unobservant In the midst of the traffic Blown like a leaf Hither and thither, Till the city resolves itself into a clamour of voices, Crying hollowly, like the wind rustling through the forest, Against the frozen housefronts: Lost in the glitter of a million movements. |
| I can no longer find a place for myself: I go. There are too many things to detain me, But the force behind is reckless. Noise, uproar, movement Slide me outwards, Black sleet shivering Down red walls. In thick jungles of green, this gyration, My centrifugal folly, Through roaring dust and futility spattered, Will find its own repose. [Pg 47] Golden lights will gleam out sullenly into silence, Before I return. |
| We rush, a black throng, Straight upon darkness: Motes scattered By the arc's rays. Over the bridge fluttering, It is theatre-time, No one heeds. Lost amid greenness We will sleep all night; And in the morning Coming forth, we will shake wet wings Over the settled dust of to-day. The city hurls its cobbled streets after us, To drive us faster. We must attain the night Before endless processions [Pg 48]Of lamps Push us back. A clock with quivering hands Leaps to the trajectory-angle of our departure. We leave behind pale traces of achievement: Fires that we kindled but were too tired to put out, Broad gold fans brushing softly over dark walls, Stifled uproar of night. We are already cast forth: The signal of our departure Jerks down before we have learned we are to go. |
| We descend Into a wall of green. Straggling shapes: Afterwards none are seen. I find myself Alone. I look back: The city has grown. One grey wall [Pg 49]Windowed, unlit. Heavily, night Crushes the face of it. I go on. My memories freeze Like birds' cry In hollow trees. I go on. Up and outright To the hostility Of night. |
|
Elm trees and the leaf the boy in me hated long ago— rough and sandy. Poplars and their leaves, tender, smooth to the fingers, and a secret in their smell I have forgotten. Oaks and forest glades, heart aching with wonder, fear: their bitter mast. Willows and the scented beetle we put in our handkerchiefs; [Pg 54]and the roots of one that spread into a river: nakedness, water and joy. Hawthorn, white and odorous with blossom, framing the quiet fields, and swaying flowers and grasses, and the hum of bees. Oh, these are the things that are with me now, in the town; and I am grateful for this minute of my manhood. |
| Frail beauty, green, gold and incandescent whiteness, narcissi, daffodils, you have brought me Spring and longing, wistfulness, in your irradiance. Therefore, I sit here among the people, dreaming, and my heart aches with all the hawthorn blossom, the bees humming, the light wind upon the poplars, and your warmth and your love and your eyes ... they smile and know me. |
| I move; perhaps I have wakened; this is a bed; this is a room; and there is light.... Darkness! Have I performed the dozen acts or so that make me the man men see? The door opens, and on the landing— quiet! I can see nothing: the pain, the weariness! Stairs, banisters, a handrail: all indistinguishable. One step farther down or up, and why? [Pg 57]But up is harder. Down! Down to this white blur; it gives before me. Me? I extend all ways: I fit into the walls and they pull me. Light? Light! I know it is light. Stillness, and then, something moves: green, oh green, dazzling lightning! And joy! this is my room; there are my books, there the piano, there the last bar I wrote, there the last line, and oh the sunlight! A parrot screeches. |
| Dear one! you sit there in the corner of the carriage; and you do not know me; and your eyes forbid. Is it the dirt, the squalor, the wear of human bodies, and the dead faces of our neighbours? These are but symbols. You are proud; I praise you; your mouth is set; you see beyond us; and you see nothing. I have the vision of your calm, cold face, and of the black hair that waves above it; I watch you; I love you; I desire you. There is a quiet here within the thud-thud of the wheels upon the railway. [Pg 59] There is a quiet here within my heart, but tense and tender.... This is my station.... |
| ... That night I loved you in the candlelight. Your golden hair strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows and the counterpane. O the darkness of the corners, the warm air, and the stars framed in the casement of the ships' lights! The waves lapped into the harbour; the boats creaked; a man's voice sang out on the quay; and you loved me. In your love were the tall tree fuchsias, the blue of the hortensias, the scarlet nasturtiums, the trees on the hills, the roads we had covered, and the sea that had borne your body before the rocks of Hartland. You loved me with these and with the kindness of people, country folk, sailors and fishermen, [Pg 61]and the old lady who had lodged us and supped us. You loved me with yourself that was these and more, changed as the earth is changed into the bloom of flowers. |
| Evening and quiet: a bird trills in the poplar trees behind the house with the dark green door across the road. Into the sky, the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys thrust their cowls. The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain. No wind; the trees merge, green with green; a car whirs by; footsteps and voices take their pitch in the key of dusk, far-off and near, subdued. Solid and square to the world the houses stand, their windows blocked with venetian blinds. Nothing will move them. |
| On black bare trees a stale cream moon hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds. Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low, tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram. Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square; and round the bend six bullocks come. A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides their clattering feet to death and shame. |
| Oh, the green glimmer of apples in the orchard, Lamps in a wash of rain, Oh, the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard, Oh, tears on the window pane! Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples, Full of disappointment and of rain, Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples Of Autumn tell the withered tale again. All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen, Cluck, and the rain-wet wings, Cluck, my marigold bird, and again Cluck for your yellow darlings. For the grey rat found the gold thirteen Huddled away in the dark, Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen, Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark. [Pg 68]···· Once I had a lover bright like running water, Once his face was laughing like the sky; Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter On the buttercups—and buttercups was I. What then is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom, What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen? 'T is the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom— What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men? Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom, And her shift is lying white upon the floor, That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store. Oh, the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples, Oh, the golden sparkles laid extinct—! And oh, behind the cloud sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples, Did you see the wicked sun that winked? |
| In front of the sombre mountains, a faint, lost ribbon of rainbow, And between us and it, the thunder; And down below, in the green wheat, the labourers Stand like dark stumps, still in the green wheat. You are near to me, and your naked feet in their sandals, And through the scent of the balcony's naked timber I distinguish the scent of your hair; so now the limber Lightning falls from heaven. Adown the pale-green, glacier-river floats A dark boat through the gloom—and whither? The thunder roars. But still we have each other. The naked lightnings in the heaven dither And disappear. What have we but each other? The boat has gone. |
| A Woman taunts her Lover |
| Look at the little darlings in the corn! The rye is taller than you, who think yourself So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne Dark and proud in the sky, like a number of knights Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn. And always likely!—Oh, if I could ride With my head held high-serene against the sky Do you think I'd have a creature like you at my side With your gloom and your doubt that you love me? O darling rye, How I adore you for your simple pride! And those bright fireflies wafting in between And over the swaying cornstalks, just above All their dark-feathered helmets, like little green Stars come low and wandering here for love Of this dark earth, and wandering all serene—! How I adore you, you happy things, you dears Riding the air and carrying all the time [Pg 71]Your little lanterns behind you: it cheers My heart to see you settling and trying to climb The cornstalks, tipping with fire their spears. All over the corn's dim motion, against the blue Dark sky of night, the wandering glitter, the swarm Of questing brilliant things:—you joy, you true Spirit of careless joy: ah, how I warm My poor and perished soul at the joy of you! |
| The Man answers and she mocks |
| You're a fool, woman. I love you and you know I do! —Lord, take his love away, it makes him whine. And I give you everything that you want me to. —Lord, dear Lord, do you think he ever can shine? |
| Ah, stern cold man, How can you lie so relentless hard While I wash you with weeping water! Ah, face, carved hard and cold, You have been like this, on your guard Against me, since death began. You masquerader! How can you shame to act this part Of unswerving indifference to me? It is not you; why disguise yourself Against me, to break my heart, You evader? You've a warm mouth, A good warm mouth always sooner to soften Even than your sudden eyes. Ah cruel, to keep your mouth Relentless, however often I kiss it in drouth. You are not he. Who are you, lying in his place on the bed [Pg 73]And rigid and indifferent to me? His mouth, though he laughed or sulked Was always warm and red And good to me. And his eyes could see The white moon hang like a breast revealed By the slipping shawl of stars, Could see the small stars tremble As the heart beneath did wield Systole, diastole. And he showed it me So, when he made his love to me; And his brows like rocks on the sea jut out, And his eyes were deep like the sea With shadow, and he looked at me, Till I sank in him like the sea, Awfully. Oh, he was multiform— Which then was he among the manifold? The gay, the sorrowful, the seer? I have loved a rich race of men in one— —But not this, this never-warm [Pg 74]Metal-cold—! Ah, masquerader! With your steel face white-enamelled Were you he, after all, and I never Saw you or felt you in kissing? —Yet sometimes my heart was trammelled With fear, evader! You will not stir, Nor hear me, not a sound. —Then it was you— And all this time you were Like this when I lived with you. It is not true, I am frightened, I am frightened of you And of everything. O God!—God too Has deceived me in everything, In everything. |
| There's four men mowing down by the river; I can hear the sound of the scythe strokes, four Sharp breaths swishing:—yea, but I Am sorry for what's i' store. The first man out o' the four that's mowin' Is mine: I mun claim him once for all: —But I'm sorry for him, on his young feet, knowin' None o' the trouble he's led to stall. As he sees me bringin' the dinner, he lifts His head as proud as a deer that looks Shoulder-deep out o' th' corn: and wipes His scythe blade bright, unhooks His scythe stone, an' over the grass to me! —Lad, tha 's gotten a chilt in me, An' a man an' a father tha 'lt ha'e to be, My young slim lad, an' I'm sorry for thee. |
| A faint, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table A fine proud spike of purple irises Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable To see the class's lifted and bended faces Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable. I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast You with fire on your brow and your cheeks and your chin as you dipped Your face in your marigold bunch, to touch and contrast Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks Dissolved in the golden sorcery you should not outlast. You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, You sitting in the cowslips of the meadows above, —Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love— You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, You, with your face all rich, like the sheen on a dove—! [Pg 77] You are always asking, do I remember, remember The buttercup bog-end where the flowers rose up And kindled you over deep with a coat of gold? You ask again, do the healing days close up The open darkness which then drew us in, The dark that swallows all, and nought throws up. You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night Burnt like a sacrifice;—you invisible— Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! —And yes, thank God, it still is possible The healing days shall close the darkness up Wherein I breathed you like a smoke or dew. Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God, The golden fire has gone, and your face is ash Indistinguishable in the grey, chill day, The night has burnt you out, at last the good Dark fire burns on untroubled without clash Of you upon the dead leaves saying me yea. |
| The sky was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in the sun, The moon was a golden petal between. She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers undone, For the first time, now for the first time seen. |
| Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli's vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady, Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver? For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, [Pg 82]Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet. |
| Grass-blades push up between the cobblestones And catch the sun on their flat sides Shooting it back, Gold and emerald, Into the eyes of passers-by. And over the cobblestones, Square-footed and heavy, Dances the trained bear. Tho cobbles cut his feet, And he has a ring in his nose Which hurts him; But still he dances, For the keeper pricks him with a sharp stick, Under his fur. Now the crowd gapes and chuckles, And boys and young women shuffle their feet in time to the dancing bear. They see him wobbling Against a dust of emerald and gold, And they are greatly delighted. [Pg 84] The legs of the bear shake with fatigue And his back aches, And the shining grass-blades dazzle and confuse him. But still he dances, Because of the little, pointed stick. |
| Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon. |
| Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me When I pluck them; And writhe, and twist, And strangle themselves against my fingers, So that I can hardly weave the garland For your hair? Why do they shriek your name And spit at me When I would cluster them? Must I kill them To make them lie still, And send you a wreath of lolling corpses To turn putrid and soft On your forehead While you dance? |
| My thoughts Chink against my ribs And roll about like silver hail-stones. I should like to spill them out, And pour them, all shining, Over you. But my heart is shut upon them And holds them straitly. Come, You! and open my heart; That my thoughts torment me no longer, But glitter in your hair. |
| When night drifts along the streets of the city, And sifts down between the uneven roofs, My mind begins to peek and peer. It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens, And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples, Amid the broken flutings of white pillars. It dances with purple and yellow crocuses in its hair, And its feet shine as they flutter over drenched grasses. How light and laughing my mind is, When all the good folk have put out their bed-room candles, And the city is still! |
Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!
The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the étagère. Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the étagère. It lies there formless and glowing, with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it—" Boom! The[Pg 90] room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!
It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long broken spears of disheveled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom!—Boom!—Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom!
A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook." Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom![Pg 91] "Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. Boom!
Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that was his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window he can see the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, zig-zagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. Boom! The bohemian glass on the étagère is no longer there. Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom!—Boom!—Boom!
[Pg 92]The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom!
John Gould Fletcher
Fire and Wine. Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913.
Fool's Gold. Max Goschen, London, 1913.
The Dominant City. Max Goschen, London, 1913.
The Book of Nature. Constable & Co., London, 1913.
Visions of the Evening. Erskine McDonald, London, 1913.
Irradiations: Sand and Spray. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1914.
F. S. Flint
The Net of Stars. Elkin Mathews, London, 1909.
D. H. Lawrence
Love Poems and Others. Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
Prose: The White Peacock. William Heinemann, London, 1911.
The Trespasser. Duckworth & Co., London, 1912.
Sons and Lovers. Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
Drama: The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd. Mitchell Kennerley, New York, 1914.
Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1914.
Sword Blades and Poppy Seed. The Macmillan Company, New York; and Macmillan & Co., London, 1914.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, by
Richard Aldington and H.D. and John Gould Fletcher and F.S. Flint and D.H. Lawrence and Amy Lowell
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS ***
***** This file should be named 30276-h.htm or 30276-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/2/7/30276/
Produced by Meredith Bach, Stephanie Eason, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.