Herbert Read
I wake: I am alive: there is a bell
sounding with the dream’s retreating surf
O catch the lacey hem dissolv’d in light
that creeps along the healing tendrils of a mind
still drugg’d with sleep. Why must my day
kill my dreams? Days of hate. But yes a bell
beats really on this air, a mad bell.
The peasants stir behind that screen.
Listen: they mutter now: they sing
in their old crackt voices, intone
a litany. There are no guns
only these voices of thanksgiving. Can it be?
Yes yes yes: it is peace, peace!
The world is very still, and I am alive!
Alive, alive, alive. . . .
O limbs, your white radiance
no longer to stand against bloody shot
this heart secure, to live and worship
to go God’s way, to grow in faith
to fight with and not against the will!
That day has come at last! Suspended life
renews its rhythmic beat. I live!
Now can I love and strive, as I have dreamt.
Lie still, and let this litany
of simple voices and the jubilant bell
ease rebirth. First there are the dead to bury
O God, the dead. How can God’s bell
ring out from that unholy ambush?
That tower of death! In excess of horror
war died. The nerve was broken
fray’d men fought obscenely then: there was no fair joy
no glory in the strife, no blessed wrath.
Man’s mind cannot excel
mechanic might except in savage sin.
Our broken bodies oiled the engines: mind was grit.
Shall I regret my pact? Envy that friend
who risked ignominy, insult, gaol
rather than stain his hands with human blood?
And left his fellow men. Such lonely pride
was never mine. I answered no call
there was no call to answer. I felt no hate
only the anguish of an unknown fate
a shot, a cry: then armies on the move
the sudden lull in daily life
all eyes wide with wonder, past surprise:
our felt dependence on a ruling few:
the world madness: the wild plunge:
the avalanche and I myself a twig
torn from its mother soil
and to the chaos rendered.
Listless
I felt the storm about me; its force
too strong to beat against; in its swirl
I spread my sapling arms, toss’d on its swell
I rose, I ran, I down the dark world sped
till death fell round me like a rain of steel
and hope and faith and love coiled in my inmost cell.
Often in the weariness of watching
warding weary men, pitch’d against
the unmeaning blackness of the night, the wet fog,
the enemy blanketed in mystery, often
I have questioned my life’s inconstant drift;
God not real, hate not real, the hearts of men
insentient engines pumping blood
into a spongy mass that cannot move
above the indignity of inflicted death:
the only answer this: the infinite is all
and I, a finite speck, no essence even
of the life that falls like dew
from the spirit breathed on the fine edge
of matter, perhaps only that edge
a ridge between eternal death and life eternal
a moment of time, temporal.
The universe swaying between Nothing and Being
and life faltering like a clock’s tick
between a pendulum’s coming and going.
The individual lost: seventy years
seventy minutes, have no meaning.
Let death, I cried, come from the forward guns
let death come this moment, swift and crackling
tick-tock, tick-tock — moments that pass
not reckoned in the infinite.
Then I have said: all is that must be.
There is no volition, even prayer
dies on lips compress’d in fear.
Where all must be, there is no God
for God can only be the God of prayer
an infinitely kind Father whose will
can mould the world, who can
in answer to my prayer, mould me.
But whilst I cannot pray, I can’t believe
but in this frame of machine necessity
must renounce not only God, but self.
For what is the self without God?
A moment not reckoned in the infinite.
My soul is less than nothing, lost,
unless in this life it can build
a bridge to life eternal.
In a warm room, by the flickering fire
in friendly debate, in some remote
shelter’d existence, even in the hermit’s cell
easy it is to believe in God: extend the self
to communion with the infinite, the eternal.
But haggard in the face of death
deprived of all earthly comfort, all hope of life,
the soul a distill’d essence, held
in a shaking cup, spilt
by a spit of lead, saved
by chance alone
very real
in its silky bag of skin, its bond of bone,
so little and so limited,
there’s no extenuation then.
Fate is in facts: the only hope
an unknown chance.
So I have won through. What now?
Will faith rise triumphant from the wreck
despair once more evaded in a bold
assertion of the self: self to God related
self in God attain’d, self a segment
of the eternal circle, the wheel
of Heaven, which through the dust of days
and stagnant darkness steadily revolves?
Your gentian eyes stared from the cold
impassive alp of death. You betrayed us
at the last hour of the last day
a smile your only comment
on the well-done deed. What mind
have you carried over the confines?
Your fair face was noble of its kind
some visionary purpose cut the lines
clearly on that countenance.
But you are defeated: once again
the meek inherit the kingdom of God.
No might can win against this wandering
wavering grace of humble men.
You die, in all your power and pride:
I live, in my meekness justified.
When first this fury caught us, then
I vowed devotion to the rights of men
would fight for peace once it came again
from this unwilled war pass gallantly
to wars of will and justice.
That was before I had faced death
day in day out, before hope had sunk
to a little pool of bitterness.
Now I see, either the world is mechanic force
and this the last tragic act, portending
endless hate and blind reversion
back to the tents and healthy lusts
of animal men: or we act
God’s purpose in an obscure way.
Evil can only to the Reason stand
in scheme or scope beyond the human mind.
God seeks the perfect man, plann’d
to love him as a friend: our savage fate
a fire to burn our dross
to temper us to finer stock
man emerging in some inconceived span
as something more than remnant of a dream.
To that end worship God, join the voices
heard by these waking ears. God is love:
in his will the meek heart rejoices
doubting till the final grace a dove
from Heaven descends and wakes the mind
in light above the light of human kind
in light celestial
infinite and still
eternal
bright.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is a deep reflection on the nature of life, death, faith, and the toll that war takes on both the body and the soul. It navigates through the speaker’s emotional and psychological journey, starting with a sense of renewal and peace, then descending into the grim reality of war, and ultimately grappling with existential questions. The central tension in the poem is between the speaker’s yearning for peace and the horrific experiences of war, as well as the question of faith and meaning in such a brutal context.
In the opening lines, there’s a striking shift from the dreamy, peaceful world of sleep to the harshness of waking life. The speaker is alive, but the day ahead threatens to “kill my dreams.” This first section juxtaposes peace with the violent intrusion of reality. The ringing of a bell marks this shift, signaling both a literal and figurative awakening. The “peasants stir behind that screen,” their voices singing in gratitude for the peace, and the speaker experiences a fleeting sense of joy and relief: “It is peace, peace!” For a moment, there is hope, the promise of life and faith renewed. The speaker imagines being free from the violence of war, able to worship and live fully again.
However, this optimism soon gives way to the horrors of war. The “dead to bury” become an overwhelming image of loss, and the question arises: how can there be peace when war has ravaged the land? The speaker grapples with the contradiction of this peace—how can a “bell” ring when death surrounds them? The brutality of war is described as something beyond human comprehension, something mechanical, reducing human bodies to mere tools for violence. The “broken bodies oiled the engines” of war, a chilling metaphor for the dehumanizing effect of conflict.
The speaker reflects on his own role in the war, torn between regret and pride. He expresses a sense of detachment from the conflict, neither motivated by hatred nor answering a call to arms, but rather driven by a sense of helplessness and inevitability. The passage about feeling “listless” and “torn from its mother soil” conveys a profound sense of disorientation, of being caught in a storm too powerful to resist. The speaker describes the violent, mechanical nature of war—its “rain of steel” and the resulting confusion that leaves little room for personal choice or meaning.
As the poem moves forward, the speaker continues to question faith and the existence of a higher power in the face of such despair. The speaker wonders whether life itself is just a fleeting moment, a “tick-tock” between existence and non-existence. This leads to a crisis of faith, with the speaker doubting the very possibility of prayer or the idea of a personal God. The idea that “God can only be the God of prayer” reflects the speaker’s loss of connection to a higher power, leaving only a mechanical, indifferent universe.
In the latter sections, the poem shifts to a meditation on the futility of war and the role of faith. The speaker contemplates the possibility that the world is governed by “mechanic force,” and the only hope for humanity lies in a divine plan that is beyond human understanding. The speaker contrasts the strength of power and pride with the humility of the meek, noting that the powerful ultimately fall, while the humble “inherit the kingdom of God.” This speaks to the fragility of human might and the enduring power of humility and faith.
Ultimately, the poem ends on a note of tentative faith, where the speaker seems to reconcile the horrors of war with a vision of divine purpose. The “final grace a dove from Heaven descends” suggests a moment of clarity, where the light of God’s love transcends human understanding. This resolution offers a glimpse of redemption, not just for the speaker, but for humanity as a whole, as the poem concludes with the hope that God’s will will ultimately lead to the triumph of goodness and peace.
The poem is a powerful exploration of war, faith, and the human spirit in the face of tragedy. It captures the psychological toll of conflict and the internal struggle for meaning and redemption. The stark contrast between moments of peace and the brutal reality of war reflects the deep uncertainty of the speaker’s emotional state, while the meditations on faith and existence offer a poignant commentary on the human condition. Ultimately, the poem does not provide easy answers but leaves the reader with a sense of the complexity and depth of the human experience in times of war and loss.