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The Flower Of Flame

AS round the cliff I came

The whole bay bared its blaze to me;

Loud sang the wind, the wild sun

The tumbled clouds fled scattering on,

Light shattered on wave and winking stone,

And in the glassy midst stood

Brighter than sun or cloud or sea.

She with flame-vehement hair untied,

Virginal in her fluttering dress,

Watched, deafened and all dazzle-eyed,

Each opulent breaker's crash and

And now flung arms up high and

As if, possessing all, she

Her beauty, youth and happiness.

Loud rang the waves and higher,

The surge in chains of light was flung,

The wind as in a wild

Licked round her form—she seemed a

Of sunny drift ! a fount of fire!

The hymn of some triumphant

Which sounded when the world was young!

Purified by the scalding glare,

Swept clear by the salty sea-wind's flow,

My eyes knew you for what you are—The daemon thing for which we dare,

Which breaks us, which we bid not spare.

The life, the light, the heavenly snare,

The turretted city's overthrow,

Helen,

I knew you standing there!

The long, low wavelets of

Glide in and glitter along the sand;

The fitful breezes of

Blow fragrantly from the land.

Side by side we lie

Between sunned cliffs and blown seas:

Our eyes more bright than sea ripples,

Our breaths more light than the breeze.

When a gust meets a wave that

The wave leaps, flames, falls with a

So lightly, so brightly each heart

When our dumb lips touch in a kiss.

Foamless the gradual waters

From the sheer deep, where darkness lies,

Till to the shoulder rock they

With a slow cumulance of sighs.

O, waters gather up your

From the blind caves of your unrest,

Loose your load utterly at

Over the moonlight-marbled breast.

There sleep, diffused, the long dim hours,

Nor let your love-locks be

Till round the world-horizon

The wrath and chaos of the dawn.

She picked a whorled shell from the

And laid it close beside her ear;

Then held it, frightened, at full

Toward my face that I might hear.

And while she leaned and while I

Our dumb eyes dared not meet for shame,

Our hearts within us sickly stirred,

Our limbs ran wax before the flame.

For in the despairing voice and

An echo to our hearts we

Who through love-striving vainly

To coop the infinite in bound.

All is estranged to-day.

Chastened and meek,

Side by side taking our way,

With what anguish we

To dare each to face the other or even to speak!

The sun like an opal

Through a vapourous

Or overwhelms itself in dark rifts,

On the sea's far

Sheer light falls in a single sword like a sign.

The sea, striving in its

Like a corpse that awakes,

Slowly heaves up its lustreless head,

Crowned with weeds and snakes,

To strike at the shore bareing fangs as it breaks.

Something threatening

Aims at our love;—Gone is our ignorant mirth,

Love like speech of the dove;

The Sword and the Snake have seen and proclaim

The narrow pathway winds its

Through dwarfish oaks and

Till suddenly beyond the

We glimpse the copse of stunted firs,

That tops the headland, round whose

The cold tide flings a drowned man's

All day against the cliff's sheer face,

All night prolongs his lasting groans.

The Drowned—who in the copse once

Waiting the Dead: to end both vows—Heard, as we hear, the split of

And shrieking of the writhen

Grow shrill and shriller.

Pass the spot,

The strained boughs arch toward collapse.

A whistle

CK! there's the shot!

Or is it but a bough which snaps?

Ever, when we have left the

And through the copse each hastening hies,

We, lovers on the self-same course,

Dare not look in each other's eyes.

Before I woke I knew her

Though nothing nigh had stirred,

Now by the curtain inward

She stood not seen but

Where the faint moonlight dimmed or shone . . .

And neither spoke a word.

One hand against her mouth she pressed,

But could not staunch its cry,

The other knocked upon her

Impotently . . . while

Glared rigid, labouring,

And dared not ask her why.

Noon : and now rocks the summer

All idleness, one gust

Skates afar off and

Is gone from me as you are gone.

No hull creeps on th' horizon's

No pond of smoke wreathes the far sky,

Only the dazzling sinuous

Of the fierce tide-maze scalds the eye.

Alone, aloft, unendinglyA peering gull on moveless

Floats silent by and again

In search for some indefinite thing.

Each wave-line glittering through its

Gives, in its plash where still pools

Upstaring at the downstaring sun,

A single harsh and sudden sigh.

And Oh, more lonely blows the breeze,

More empty shines the perfect sky,

More solitary sound the

Where two watched, where now watch but I!

XI love a flower which has no

The yellow sea-poppy is its name;

Spined leaves its glaucous green stem

Its flower is a yellow fitful flame.

Stung by the spray which leaps the shingle,

Torn by the winds that scour the beach,

Its roots with the salt sea-wrack

Its leaves upon the bleached stones bleach.

Its desperate growth but few remember,

None misses it when it has died—Scorched by the sun to a scant

Or wholly ravaged by the tide.

Yet I elect this weed to

Nor any other would

Than this which must so shortly

Tortured by sea-foam or sky-fire.

Above this flower we too once bended,

Drawn to it by a subtle spell,

On whom the fire of heaven

Over whom the wave arose from hell.

Frantic, she snatched the ragged blossom,

Kissed it then with a wild, fierce kiss,

Pressed spine and flame into her bosom,

Crying, "The flower! our love is this!"The grey waves crash.

The wind whirls over.

The flower is withered from the beach,

Whose waves divide the loved and lover,

Whose wind blows louder than their speech.

The moon behind high tranquil

Hides her sad head;

The dwindled water tinkles and

In the stream's black

And where now, where are you sleeping?

The shadowy nightjar, hawking gnats,

Flickers or floats;

High in still air the flurrying

Repeat their wee notes,

And where now, where are you sleeping?

Silent lightning flutters in heaven,

Where quiet

By the toil of an upper whirlwind

Dark legions of cloud;

In whose arms now are you sleeping?

The cloud makes, lidding the sky's wan hole,

The world a tomb;

Far out at sea long thunders

From gloom to dim gloom;

In whose arms now are you sleeping?

Rent clouds, like boughs, in darkness

Close overhead;

The foreland's bell-buoy begins to

As if for the dead:

Awake they, where you are sleeping?

The chasms crack; the heavens revolt;

With tearing

Bright bolt volleys on flaring bolt,

Wave and cloud clash; through deep, through

Huge thunders rebound!

But they wake not where you are sleeping.

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Robert Nichols

Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols (6 September 1893 – 17 December 1944) was an English writer, known as a war poet of the First World War, and a play…
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