The Three Hills, and Other Poems

In Short

This collection presents a dual vision of poetic labor: the original, introspective lyrics of J.C. Squire and a selection of translations from Charles Baudelaire. Together, they explore the tension between the modern city’s industrial suffocation and the persistent, haunting beauty of the natural world. Squire’s own poems grapple with the limitations of the human mind and the desire for transcendence, while his translations of Baudelaire capture the darker, more visceral side of that same longing. The book remains a poignant relic of a pre-war sensibility, marked by a lyrical melancholy that continues to resonate with anyone feeling "out of place" in a world of brick and mortar.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book is not one of plot, but of movement—a journey from the claustrophobia of the urban environment toward an elusive, ethereal paradise. It begins in the "steamy stir" of London, where the narrator stands on a rainy railway platform, feeling the solid world dissolve into a "passing ghost." Here, the poet identifies the central conflict: the mind as a small, cramped room containing vast, turbulent territories of light and shadow. The progression continues through a series of attempts to escape this "prison-bar" existence. The poet seeks refuge in the woods, in the quiet contemplation of treetops, and in the "mother Night" that cleanses the city’s filth.

As the collection deepens, the tone shifts from wonder to a more sober, intellectual confrontation with the nature of existence. The poet engages in a dialogue with himself, asking why the world feels like a "lifelong tyranny" of fate. He rejects the idea that a "hooded band of fates" is to blame, concluding instead that "nature brings her natural fetters" and that man is inevitably meshed in his own limitations. This realization brings a sense of stoic resignation. The "Memorial" for a friend serves as a bridge, transforming personal loss into an aesthetic meditation on the "mausoleum made of rhyme."

The final movement of the book is defined by the translations from Baudelaire, which push this melancholy to its breaking point. If Squire’s own voice is one of searching, Baudelaire’s is one of confrontation. In "A Voyage to Cythera," the speaker finds only a "three-branched gallows tree" on the island of his dreams. The collection ends not with an arrival at a promised land, but with an acceptance of the "dread penalty" of being human. The epilogue offers a final, stark image: man must eventually "come to a hill," where he must take his own hand, turn it into a "sword," and fight the inevitable. It is a transition from the naive, green innocence of childhood to the "exalted anguish" of the mature soul, finally acknowledging that while he has nothing, he has the capacity to hold the infinite in his gaze before he dies.

How It Unfolds

The vision of the void The speaker stands in the rain at a train station, watching the solid world turn into a "wavering and unanchored wraith." This initial disorientation sets the stage for a rejection of material reality in favor of a "moveless and essential" self.

The call of nature The poet escapes the city to find solace in the "green delight" of the woods. Yet, he soon discovers that even nature is a "herald and a lure," a beautiful portal that inevitably leads to a higher, more demanding truth.

The struggle for mastery Staring at the stars, the poet attempts to yoke the universe to the "pride of a man." This ambition is quickly humbled as the vastness of the cosmos pours into his soul, leaving him breathless and exposed.

The urban entrapment The focus turns to the modern city, characterized as a "pit of belch and swallow." The poet attempts to find beauty even here, viewing London through a "rainbow haze" from his high window, though he remains acutely aware of the "filthy sea" of humanity below.

The descent into the abyss The Baudelaire translations introduce a harder, more jagged edge to the collection. The shift from gentle, introspective verse to the "hideous uproar" of a cracking bell signals a descent into personal and spiritual fragmentation.

The final confrontation The book concludes by reconciling the desire for paradise with the reality of the grave. The final poems suggest that the only true escape is the courage to face the "swarthy" foe of existence with a steady heart.

The People

The book is populated by figures who exist more as archetypes of the human condition than as traditional characters. The Speaker—who appears throughout both the original poems and the translations—is the primary figure, a "self-dedicated anchorite" who attempts to reconcile his physical life in London with his spiritual hunger. He is burdened by the knowledge of his own insignificance, yet finds a strange power in his ability to witness and record the "unsubstantial" nature of the world.

The Friend (F.T.) is the most tangible secondary character, an "apostolic" votary of beauty who served as the speaker’s guide. In death, he becomes a symbol of the poet’s ideal, a man who managed to "abnegate" the world’s vanities and live as one who "having nothing yet had all." His departure leaves the speaker feeling abandoned in a landscape increasingly populated by "mock mages and cacophonous charlatans."

Finally, the Figures of the Baudelairean landscape—the "dead man," the "faded beauty," and the "sturdy bell"—represent the shadow-selves the speaker tries to avoid. They are the inhabitants of the "wilderness" within the mind, the "vampires" and "slimy worms" that represent the degradation of the spirit. They are not villains, but rather the internal projections of the speaker's own cynicism, serving as a mirror to his fear that his own soul is "cracked" and incapable of producing anything but "feeble cries."

In Its Own Voice

"What is this power that comes to my sight / That I see a night without the night, / That I see them clear, yet look them through, / The silvery things and the darkly blue?"

The speaker contemplates the surreal dissolution of a mundane railway station into a vision of the eternal.

"The sea, the sea unending, comforts us! / What demon gave the hoarse old sea who sings / To her mumbling hurricanes' organ thunderous / The god-like power to cradle sorrowful things?"

This line from a translation of Baudelaire captures the central desire for an escape from the "filthy sea" of the city into the vast, indifferent comfort of the ocean.

What It's Really About

At its core, this collection examines the failure of the material world to satisfy the human spirit. It asks whether the beauty we see in nature is a final truth or merely a "flaming and ephemeral beacon" meant to guide us toward a more permanent, albeit terrifying, reality. The book argues that human existence is a state of perpetual transit; we are "doomed barks on an eternal sea," forever trying to bridge the gap between our finite, physical needs and our infinite,, often painful, desires. It is a meditation on the cost of clarity—the way that once a person begins to see the world as a "curtain flung" over something deeper, they can never again be satisfied by the surface of things.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate a meditative, slightly archaic, and deeply earnest poetic voice will find this volume rewarding. It is a book for those who enjoy the sensation of being alone in a room, watching the world shift outside the window, and feeling the weight of the stars. The language is precise and traditional, favoring rhythmic flow and elevated vocabulary that reflects the early 20th-century preoccupation with the "sublime."

However, prospective readers should be prepared for the book's intense melancholy. It does not offer easy comfort or optimistic platitudes; rather, it provides a mirror for those moments of existential fatigue that modern life often exacerbates. The Baudelaire translations, in particular, may strike some as morbid or overly ornate, reflecting a period of European literature that valued the aestheticization of suffering. The book is not for the reader seeking light, conversational verse, but for someone who wants to sit with a companionable mind—someone who is as "full of hope and melancholy" as the speaker himself. What stays with you is the haunting image of the "three hills"—a symbol of the natural world’s stubborn, silent endurance against the fleeting, destructive ambitions of man. It is a quiet, enduring work that asks you to look past the "glittering show" and reckon with the silence underneath.