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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:21 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:21 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1020-0.txt b/1020-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2a0b15 --- /dev/null +++ b/1020-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4821 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1020 *** + +SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + +by Amy Lowell + +[American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] + + +[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and +continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose +poem.] + + + + +SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + + + _"Face invisible! je t'ai gravée en médailles + D'argent doux comme l'aube pâle, + D'or ardent comme le soleil, + D'airain sombre comme la nuit; + Il y en a de tout métal, + Qui tintent clair comme la joie, + Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, + Comme l'amour, comme la mort; + Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile + Sèche et fragile. + + "Une à une, vous les comptiez en souriant, + Et vous disiez: Il est habile; + Et vous passiez en souriant. + + "Aucun de vous n'a donc vu + Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, + Que tout le grand songe terrestre + Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux + Que je gravais aux métaux pieux, + Mes Dieux."_ + + Henri de Régnier, "Les Médailles d'Argile". + + + + + +Preface + + + +No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but +there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that +his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter +of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the +same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with +high thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his +reader by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a +poet. A workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments +to explain and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty +which cannot stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built +thing. + +In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should +not try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created +beauty, even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not +ask the trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army +feels it necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are +ridiculous, but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral +all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only +ridiculous, but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half +understand, and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we +are from "admitting the Universe"! The Universe, which flings down its +continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much a +function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of +Gravitation; and we insist upon considering it merely a little +scroll-work, of no great importance unless it be studded with nails +from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung! + +For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the +French, and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, +although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong +to it. High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to +produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. +Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an +inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has +a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These +clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. +Before the works of Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and José-Maria de +Heredia, or those of Henri de Régnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, +Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand +rebuked. Indeed--"They order this matter better in France." + +It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a +thing, that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a +vigorous tree has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with +originality and power is always seeking to give his readers the same +poignant feeling which he has himself. To do this he must constantly +find new and striking images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the +word "daybreak", for instance. What a remarkable picture it must once +have conjured up! The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty +egg, BREAKING through cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said +"daybreak" so often that we do not see the picture any more, it has +become only another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking +new pictures to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought. + +Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call +"Vers Libre", a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French +versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in "unrhymed +cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They +are built upon "organic rhythm", or the rhythm of the speaking voice +with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical +system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, +and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of +any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, +are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely +chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is +constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In +the preface to his "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in +which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do +in rhyme." The desire to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion +until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern +temper, and certainly "unrhymed cadence" is unique in its power of +expressing this. + +Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has +never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, +and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and +satisfactory. Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to +English. But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems +could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now +verse, and permitting a great variety of treatment. + +But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more +classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit +certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an +author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine +themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. + +In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many +questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these +poems in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling +criticism, nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the +beginning, solely with the question of technique. For the more +important part of the book, the poems must speak for themselves. + + Amy Lowell. +May 19, 1914. + + + + + +Contents + + + + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + + + Sword Blades + + The Captured Goddess + The Precinct. Rochester + The Cyclists + Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + Astigmatism + The Coal Picker + Storm-Racked + Convalescence + Patience + Apology + A Petition + A Blockhead + Stupidity + Irony + Happiness + The Last Quarter of the Moon + A Tale of Starvation + The Foreigner + Absence + A Gift + The Bungler + Fool's Money Bags + Miscast I + Miscast II + Anticipation + Vintage + The Tree of Scarlet Berries + Obligation + The Taxi + The Giver of Stars + The Temple + Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + In Answer to a Request + + + Poppy Seed + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok + Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + The Basket + In a Castle + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + The Exeter Road + The Shadow + The Forsaken + Late September + The Pike + The Blue Scarf + White and Green + Aubade + Music + A Lady + In a Garden + A Tulip Garden + + + + + +Sword Blades And Poppy Seed + + + A drifting, April, twilight sky, + A wind which blew the puddles dry, + And slapped the river into waves + That ran and hid among the staves + Of an old wharf. A watery light + Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white + Without the slightest tinge of gold, + The city shivered in the cold. + All day my thoughts had lain as dead, + Unborn and bursting in my head. + From time to time I wrote a word + Which lines and circles overscored. + My table seemed a graveyard, full + Of coffins waiting burial. + I seized these vile abortions, tore + Them into jagged bits, and swore + To be the dupe of hope no more. + Into the evening straight I went, + Starved of a day's accomplishment. + Unnoticing, I wandered where + The city gave a space for air, + And on the bridge's parapet + I leant, while pallidly there set + A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. + Behind me, where the tramways run, + Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, + When someone plucked me by the sleeve. + "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be + Most grateful could you lend to me + A carfare, I have lost my purse." + The voice was clear, concise, and terse. + I turned and met the quiet gaze + Of strange eyes flashing through the haze. + + The man was old and slightly bent, + Under his cloak some instrument + Disarranged its stately line, + He rested on his cane a fine + And nervous hand, an almandine + Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine + It burned in twisted gold, upon + His finger. Like some Spanish don, + Conferring favours even when + Asking an alms, he bowed again + And waited. But my pockets proved + Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, + No hidden penny lurking there + Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare + I have no money, pray forgive, + But let me take you where you live." + And so we plodded through the mire + Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. + I took no note of where we went, + His talk became the element + Wherein my being swam, content. + It flashed like rapiers in the night + Lit by uncertain candle-light, + When on some moon-forsaken sward + A quarrel dies upon a sword. + It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, + And the noise in the air the broad words made + Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane + On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. + Then it would run like a steady stream + Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, + Or lap the air like the lapping tide + Where a marble staircase lifts its wide + Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, + And a waning moon is sinking straight + Down to a black and ominous sea, + While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. + + I walked as though some opiate + Had stung and dulled my brain, a state + Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. + We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. + The old man scratched a match, the spark + Lit up the keyhole of a door, + We entered straight upon a floor + White with finest powdered sand + Carefully sifted, one might stand + Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace + Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. + From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, + And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. + My host threw pine-cones on the fire + And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre + Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. + The chamber opened like an eye, + As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky + The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy + It peered at the stranger warily. + A little shop with its various ware + Spread on shelves with nicest care. + Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, + Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots + Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, + Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. + Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, + Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. + In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned + Against the wall, like ships careened. + There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, + The carved, white figures fluttering there + Like leaves adrift upon the air. + Classic in touch, but emasculate, + The Greek soul grown effeminate. + The factory of Sevres had lent + Elegant boxes with ornament + Culled from gardens where fountains splashed + And golden carp in the shadows flashed, + Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, + Which ladies threw as the last of fads. + Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, + Hand on heart, and daintily spelt + Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, + Artificial and fragile, which told aright + The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. + The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs + Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs + Endlessly drank the foaming ale, + Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. + The glancing light of the burning wood + Played over a group of jars which stood + On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky + Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry + To paint these porcelains with unknown hues + Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, + Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen + Their colours are felt, but never seen. + Strange winged dragons writhe about + These vases, poisoned venoms spout, + Impregnate with old Chinese charms; + Sealed urns containing mortal harms, + They fill the mind with thoughts impure, + Pestilent drippings from the ure + Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," + Said I, "you deal in pottery." + The old man turned and looked at me. + Shook his head gently. "No," said he. + + Then from under his cloak he took the thing + Which I had wondered to see him bring + Guarded so carefully from sight. + As he laid it down it flashed in the light, + A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, + Damascened with arabesques of gilt, + Or rather gold, and tempered so + It could cut a floating thread at a blow. + The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, + 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath + My cloak, for a jostle to my arm + Would have resulted in serious harm. + But it was so fine, I could not wait, + So I brought it with me despite its state." + "An amateur of arms," I thought, + "Bringing home a prize which he has bought." + "You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" + "Not in the way which you infer. + I need them in business, that is all." + And he pointed his finger at the wall. + Then I saw what I had not noticed before. + The walls were hung with at least five score + Of swords and daggers of every size + Which nations of militant men could devise. + Poisoned spears from tropic seas, + That natives, under banana trees, + Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. + Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make + And tip with feathers, orange and green, + A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. + High up, a fan of glancing steel + Was formed of claymores in a wheel. + Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees + Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these + Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, + Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. + There were Samurai swords from old Japan, + And scimitars from Hindoostan, + While the blade of a Turkish yataghan + Made a waving streak of vitreous white + Upon the wall, in the firelight. + Foils with buttons broken or lost + Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed + The boarding-pike of a privateer. + Against the chimney leaned a queer + Two-handed weapon, with edges dull + As though from hacking on a skull. + The rusted blood corroded it still. + My host took up a paper spill + From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, + And lighted it at a burning coal. + At either end of the table, tall + Wax candles were placed, each in a small, + And slim, and burnished candlestick + Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, + And the room leapt more obviously + Upon my mind, and I could see + What the flickering fire had hid from me. + Above the chimney's yawning throat, + Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, + Was a mantelshelf of polished oak + Blackened with the pungent smoke + Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock + Of tarnished brass stood like a rock + In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea + Of every sort of cutlery. + There lay knives sharpened to any use, + The keenest lancet, and the obtuse + And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades + Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades + Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, + And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl + Of points and edges, and underneath + Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. + My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear + A battle-cry from somewhere near, + The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, + And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. + A smoky cloud had veiled the room, + Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom + Pounded with shouts and dying groans, + With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. + Sabres and lances in streaks of light + Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right + A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, + Glittered an instant, while it stung. + Streams, and points, and lines of fire! + The livid steel, which man's desire + Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. + Every blade which man could mould, + Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, + Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, + Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, + Or slice, or hack, they all were there. + Nerveless and shaking, round and round, + I stared at the walls and at the ground, + Till the room spun like a whipping top, + And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! + I sell no tools for murderers here. + Of what are you thinking! Please clear + Your mind of such imaginings. + Sit down. I will tell you of these things." + + He pushed me into a great chair + Of russet leather, poked a flare + Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, + Up the chimney; but said no word. + Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, + And brought back a crock of finest delf. + He rested a moment a blue-veined hand + Upon the cover, then cut a band + Of paper, pasted neatly round, + Opened and poured. A sliding sound + Came from beneath his old white hands, + And I saw a little heap of sands, + Black and smooth. What could they be: + "Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. + "What you see is poppy seed. + Lethean dreams for those in need." + He took up the grains with a gentle hand + And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. + On his old white finger the almandine + Shot out its rays, incarnadine. + "Visions for those too tired to sleep. + These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. + No single soul in the world could dwell, + Without these poppy-seeds I sell." + For a moment he played with the shining stuff, + Passing it through his fingers. Enough + At last, he poured it back into + The china jar of Holland blue, + Which he carefully carried to its place. + Then, with a smile on his aged face, + He drew up a chair to the open space + 'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, + Young man, I will say that what you see + Is not the puzzle you take it to be." + "But surely, Sir, there is something strange + In a shop with goods at so wide a range + Each from the other, as swords and seeds. + Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." + "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, + "Live everywhere from here to Pekin. + But you are wrong, my sort of goods + Is but one thing in all its moods." + He took a shagreen letter case + From his pocket, and with charming grace + Offered me a printed card. + I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. + Dealer in Words." And that was all. + I stared at the letters, whimsical + Indeed, or was it merely a jest. + He answered my unasked request: + "All books are either dreams or swords, + You can cut, or you can drug, with words. + My firm is a very ancient house, + The entries on my books would rouse + Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. + I inherited from an ancestry + Stretching remotely back and far, + This business, and my clients are + As were those of my grandfather's days, + Writers of books, and poems, and plays. + My swords are tempered for every speech, + For fencing wit, or to carve a breach + Through old abuses the world condones. + In another room are my grindstones and hones, + For whetting razors and putting a point + On daggers, sometimes I even anoint + The blades with a subtle poison, so + A twofold result may follow the blow. + These are purchased by men who feel + The need of stabbing society's heel, + Which egotism has brought them to think + Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink + An adversary to quaint reply, + And I have customers who buy + Scalpels with which to dissect the brains + And hearts of men. Ultramundanes + Even demand some finer kinds + To open their own souls and minds. + But the other half of my business deals + With visions and fancies. Under seals, + Sorted, and placed in vessels here, + I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. + Each jar contains a different kind + Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind + Come the purple flowers, opium filled, + From which the weirdest myths are distilled; + My orient porcelains contain them all. + Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall + Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; + And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat + On that lowest shelf beside the door, + Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". + Every castle of the air + Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there + Are seeds for every romance, or light + Whiff of a dream for a summer night. + I supply to every want and taste." + 'Twas slowly said, in no great haste + He seemed to push his wares, but I + Dumfounded listened. By and by + A log on the fire broke in two. + He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" + I groped for something I should say; + Amazement held me numb. "To-day + You sweated at a fruitless task." + He spoke for me, "What do you ask? + How can I serve you?" "My kind host, + My penniless state was not a boast; + I have no money with me." He smiled. + "Not for that money I beguiled + You here; you paid me in advance." + Again I felt as though a trance + Had dimmed my faculties. Again + He spoke, and this time to explain. + "The money I demand is Life, + Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" + What infamous proposal now + Was made me with so calm a brow? + Bursting through my lethargy, + Indignantly I hurled the cry: + "Is this a nightmare, or am I + Drunk with some infernal wine? + I am no Faust, and what is mine + Is what I call my soul! Old Man! + Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan + Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," + And the old tones were very mild, + "I have no wish to barter souls; + My traffic does not ask such tolls. + I am no devil; is there one? + Surely the age of fear is gone. + We live within a daylight world + Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled + Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, + And then blow back the sun again. + I sell my fancies, or my swords, + To those who care far more for words, + Ideas, of which they are the sign, + Than any other life-design. + Who buy of me must simply pay + Their whole existence quite away: + Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, + Their hours from morning till the time + When evening comes on tiptoe feet, + And losing life, think it complete; + Must miss what other men count being, + To gain the gift of deeper seeing; + Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, + All which could hold or bind; must prove + The farthest boundaries of thought, + And shun no end which these have brought; + Then die in satisfaction, knowing + That what was sown was worth the sowing. + I claim for all the goods I sell + That they will serve their purpose well, + And though you perish, they will live. + Full measure for your pay I give. + To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. + What since has happened is the train + Your toiling brought. I spoke to you + For my share of the bargain, due." + "My life! And is that all you crave + In pay? What even childhood gave! + I have been dedicate from youth. + Before my God I speak the truth!" + Fatigue, excitement of the past + Few hours broke me down at last. + All day I had forgot to eat, + My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. + I bowed my head and felt the storm + Plough shattering through my prostrate form. + The tearless sobs tore at my heart. + My host withdrew himself apart; + Busied among his crockery, + He paid no farther heed to me. + Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, + Within the arms of the old carved chair. + + A long half-hour dragged away, + And then I heard a kind voice say, + "The day will soon be dawning, when + You must begin to work again. + Here are the things which you require." + By the fading light of the dying fire, + And by the guttering candle's flare, + I saw the old man standing there. + He handed me a packet, tied + With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside + Are seeds of many differing flowers, + To occupy your utmost powers + Of storied vision, and these swords + Are the finest which my shop affords. + Go home and use them; do not spare + Yourself; let that be all your care. + Whatever you have means to buy + Be very sure I can supply." + He slowly walked to the window, flung + It open, and in the grey air rung + The sound of distant matin bells. + I took my parcels. Then, as tells + An ancient mumbling monk his beads, + I tried to thank for his courteous deeds + My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," + He urged me, "you have a long walk + Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" + And gently sped upon my way + I stumbled out in the morning hush, + As down the empty street a flush + Ran level from the rising sun. + Another day was just begun. + + + + + +SWORD BLADES + + + + +The Captured Goddess + + + + Over the housetops, + Above the rotating chimney-pots, + I have seen a shiver of amethyst, + And blue and cinnamon have flickered + A moment, + At the far end of a dusty street. + + Through sheeted rain + Has come a lustre of crimson, + And I have watched moonbeams + Hushed by a film of palest green. + + It was her wings, + Goddess! + Who stepped over the clouds, + And laid her rainbow feathers + Aslant on the currents of the air. + + I followed her for long, + With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. + I cared not where she led me, + My eyes were full of colours: + Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, + And the indigo-blue of quartz; + Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, + Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, + The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, + The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. + I followed, + And watched for the flashing of her wings. + + In the city I found her, + The narrow-streeted city. + In the market-place I came upon her, + Bound and trembling. + Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, + She was naked and cold, + For that day the wind blew + Without sunshine. + + Men chaffered for her, + They bargained in silver and gold, + In copper, in wheat, + And called their bids across the market-place. + + The Goddess wept. + + Hiding my face I fled, + And the grey wind hissed behind me, + Along the narrow streets. + + + + +The Precinct. Rochester + + + + The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, + Still and straight, + With their round blossoms spread open, + In the quiet sunshine. + And still is the old Roman wall, + Rough with jagged bits of flint, + And jutting stones, + Old and cragged, + Quite still in its antiquity. + The pear-trees press their branches against it, + And feeling it warm and kindly, + The little pears ripen to yellow and red. + They hang heavy, bursting with juice, + Against the wall. + So old, so still! + + The sky is still. + The clouds make no sound + As they slide away + Beyond the Cathedral Tower, + To the river, + And the sea. + It is very quiet, + Very sunny. + The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, + But make no sound. + The roses push their little tendrils up, + And climb higher and higher. + In spots they have climbed over the wall. + But they are very still, + They do not seem to move. + And the old wall carries them + Without effort, and quietly + Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms. + + A bird in a plane-tree + Sings a few notes, + Cadenced and perfect + They weave into the silence. + The Cathedral bell knocks, + One, two, three, and again, + And then again. + It is a quiet sound, + Calling to prayer, + Hardly scattering the stillness, + Only making it close in more densely. + The gardener picks ripe gooseberries + For the Dean's supper to-night. + It is very quiet, + Very regulated and mellow. + But the wall is old, + It has known many days. + It is a Roman wall, + Left-over and forgotten. + + Beyond the Cathedral Close + Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, + Not well-regulated. + People who care more for bread than for beauty, + Who would break the tombs of saints, + And give the painted windows of churches + To their children for toys. + People who say: + "They are dead, we live! + The world is for the living." + + Fools! It is always the dead who breed. + Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, + Yet its seeds shall fructify, + And trees rise where your huts were standing. + But the little people are ignorant, + They chaffer, and swarm. + They gnaw like rats, + And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. + + The Dean is in the Chapter House; + He is reading the architect's bill + For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. + He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, + And then he will walk up and down the path + By the wall, + And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, + Thinking how quiet and peaceful + The garden is. + The old wall will watch him, + Very quietly and patiently it will watch. + For the wall is old, + It is a Roman wall. + + + + +The Cyclists + + + + Spread on the roadway, + With open-blown jackets, + Like black, soaring pinions, + They swoop down the hillside, + The Cyclists. + + Seeming dark-plumaged + Birds, after carrion, + Careening and circling, + Over the dying + Of England. + + She lies with her bosom + Beneath them, no longer + The Dominant Mother, + The Virile--but rotting + Before time. + + The smell of her, tainted, + Has bitten their nostrils. + Exultant they hover, + And shadow the sun with + Foreboding. + + + + +Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + + + + What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, + Of outworn, childish mysteries, + Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! + And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream + Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. + + Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, + The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese + Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky + Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly + And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. + + Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk + From over-handling, by some anxious monk. + Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven + With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, + And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. + + They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung + By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung + In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, + Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen + Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. + + + + +A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + + + + They have watered the street, + It shines in the glare of lamps, + Cold, white lamps, + And lies + Like a slow-moving river, + Barred with silver and black. + Cabs go down it, + One, + And then another. + Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. + Tramps doze on the window-ledges, + Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. + The city is squalid and sinister, + With the silver-barred street in the midst, + Slow-moving, + A river leading nowhere. + + Opposite my window, + The moon cuts, + Clear and round, + Through the plum-coloured night. + She cannot light the city; + It is too bright. + It has white lamps, + And glitters coldly. + + I stand in the window and watch the moon. + She is thin and lustreless, + But I love her. + I know the moon, + And this is an alien city. + + + + +Astigmatism + + To Ezra Pound + + With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion + + + + The Poet took his walking-stick + Of fine and polished ebony. + Set in the close-grained wood + Were quaint devices; + Patterns in ambers, + And in the clouded green of jades. + The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, + And a tassel of tarnished gold + Hung by a faded cord from a hole + Pierced in the hard wood, + Circled with silver. + For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. + His wealth had gone to enrich it, + His experiences to pattern it, + His labour to fashion and burnish it. + To him it was perfect, + A work of art and a weapon, + A delight and a defence. + The Poet took his walking-stick + And walked abroad. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + + + The Poet came to a meadow. + Sifted through the grass were daisies, + Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. + The Poet struck them with his cane. + The little heads flew off, and they lay + Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, + On the hard ground. + "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. + + + The Poet came to a stream. + Purple and blue flags waded in the water; + In among them hopped the speckled frogs; + The wind slid through them, rustling. + The Poet lifted his cane, + And the iris heads fell into the water. + They floated away, torn and drowning. + "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, + "They are not roses." + + Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. + + + The Poet came to a garden. + Dahlias ripened against a wall, + Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, + And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour + With the red and gold of its blossoms. + Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. + The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, + And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. + Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. + Red and gold they lay scattered, + Red and gold, as on a battle field; + Red and gold, prone and dying. + "They were not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + But behind you is destruction, and waste places. + + + The Poet came home at evening, + And in the candle-light + He wiped and polished his cane. + The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, + And made the jades undulate like green pools. + It played along the bright ebony, + And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. + But these things were dead, + Only the candle-light made them seem to move. + "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. + + + + +The Coal Picker + + + + He perches in the slime, inert, + Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. + The oil upon the puddles dries + To colours like a peacock's eyes, + And half-submerged tomato-cans + Shine scaly, as leviathans + Oozily crawling through the mud. + The ground is here and there bestud + With lumps of only part-burned coal. + His duty is to glean the whole, + To pick them from the filth, each one, + To hoard them for the hidden sun + Which glows within each fiery core + And waits to be made free once more. + Their sharp and glistening edges cut + His stiffened fingers. Through the smut + Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. + Wet through and shivering he kneels + And digs the slippery coals; like eels + They slide about. His force all spent, + He counts his small accomplishment. + A half-a-dozen clinker-coals + Which still have fire in their souls. + Fire! And in his thought there burns + The topaz fire of votive urns. + He sees it fling from hill to hill, + And still consumed, is burning still. + Higher and higher leaps the flame, + The smoke an ever-shifting frame. + He sees a Spanish Castle old, + With silver steps and paths of gold. + From myrtle bowers comes the plash + Of fountains, and the emerald flash + Of parrots in the orange trees, + Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. + He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke + Bears visions, that his master-stroke + Is out of dirt and misery + To light the fire of poesy. + He sees the glory, yet he knows + That others cannot see his shows. + To them his smoke is sightless, black, + His votive vessels but a pack + Of old discarded shards, his fire + A peddler's; still to him the pyre + Is incensed, an enduring goal! + He sighs and grubs another coal. + + + + +Storm-Racked + + + + How should I sing when buffeting salt waves + And stung with bitter surges, in whose might + I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night + Marshals its undefeated dark and raves + In brutal madness, reeling over graves + Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, + Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite + Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. + No parting cloud reveals a watery star, + My cries are washed away upon the wind, + My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, + My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. + But painted on the sky great visions burn, + My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! + + + + +Convalescence + + + + From out the dragging vastness of the sea, + Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, + He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands + One moment, white and dripping, silently, + Cut like a cameo in lazuli, + Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands + Prone in the jeering water, and his hands + Clutch for support where no support can be. + So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, + He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow + And sandflies dance their little lives away. + The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch + The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, + And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. + + + + +Patience + + + + Be patient with you? + When the stooping sky + Leans down upon the hills + And tenderly, as one who soothing stills + An anguish, gathers earth to lie + Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When the snow-girt earth + Cracks to let through a spurt + Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt + A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth + To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When pain's iron bars + Their rivets tighten, stern + To bend and break their victims; as they turn, + Hopeless, there stand the purple jars + Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + You! My sun and moon! + My basketful of flowers! + My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, + Windless and still, of afternoon! + You are my world and I your citizen. + What meaning can have patience then? + + + + +Apology + + + + Be not angry with me that I bear + Your colours everywhere, + All through each crowded street, + And meet + The wonder-light in every eye, + As I go by. + + Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, + Blinded by rainbow haze, + The stuff of happiness, + No less, + Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds + Of peacock golds. + + Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way + Flushes beneath its gray. + My steps fall ringed with light, + So bright, + It seems a myriad suns are strown + About the town. + + Around me is the sound of steepled bells, + And rich perfumed smells + Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, + And shroud + Me from close contact with the world. + I dwell impearled. + + You blazon me with jewelled insignia. + A flaming nebula + Rims in my life. And yet + You set + The word upon me, unconfessed + To go unguessed. + + + + +A Petition + + + + I pray to be the tool which to your hand + Long use has shaped and moulded till it be + Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, + You take it for its service. I demand + To be forgotten in the woven strand + Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry + Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie + A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. + I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, + The railing to the stairway of the clouds, + To guard your steps securely up, where streams + A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby + You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. + + + + +A Blockhead + + + + Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, + Unseparated atoms, and I must + Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust + Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, + There are none, ever. As a monk who prays + The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust + Each tasteless particle aside, and just + Begin again the task which never stays. + And I have known a glory of great suns, + When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! + Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, + And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! + Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand + Threw down the cup, and did not understand. + + + + +Stupidity + + + + Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch + I broke and bruised your rose. + I hardly could suppose + It were a thing so fragile that my clutch + Could kill it, thus. + + It stood so proudly up upon its stem, + I knew no thought of fear, + And coming very near + Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, + Tearing it down. + + Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, + The crimson petals, all + Outspread about my fall. + They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone + Of memory. + + And with my words I carve a little jar + To keep their scented dust, + Which, opening, you must + Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far + More grieved than you. + + + + +Irony + + + + An arid daylight shines along the beach + Dried to a grey monotony of tone, + And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon + The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach + Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach + The skeletons of fishes, every bone + Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, + The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. + And they are dead while waiting for the sea, + The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. + Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. + Only the shells and stones can wait to be + Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, + May not endure till time can bring them ease. + + + + +Happiness + + + + Happiness, to some, elation; + Is, to others, mere stagnation. + Days of passive somnolence, + At its wildest, indolence. + Hours of empty quietness, + No delight, and no distress. + + Happiness to me is wine, + Effervescent, superfine. + Full of tang and fiery pleasure, + Far too hot to leave me leisure + For a single thought beyond it. + Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it + Means to give one's soul to gain + Life's quintessence. Even pain + Pricks to livelier living, then + Wakes the nerves to laugh again, + Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. + Although we must die to-morrow, + Losing every thought but this; + Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. + + Happiness: We rarely feel it. + I would buy it, beg it, steal it, + Pay in coins of dripping blood + For this one transcendent good. + + + + +The Last Quarter of the Moon + + + + How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, + A spatter of rust on its polished steel! + The seasons reel + Like a goaded wheel. + Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. + + The night is sliding towards the dawn, + And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. + A torn moon flees + Through the hemlock trees, + The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. + + Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing + A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. + Like dogs unleashed + After a beast, + They stream on the sky, an outflung string. + + A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, + Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, + And the fierce unrests + I keep as guests + Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. + + Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt + My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. + I have not quailed, + I was all unmailed + And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. + + The moon drops into the silver day + As waking out of her swoon she comes. + I hear the drums + Of millenniums + Beating the mornings I still must stay. + + The years I must watch go in and out, + While I build with water, and dig in air, + And the trumpets blare + Hollow despair, + The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. + + An atom tossed in a chaos made + Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. + Whence have I come? + What would be home? + I hear no answer. I am afraid! + + I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. + Pushed into nothingness by a breath, + And quench in a wreath + Of engulfing death + This fight for a God, or this devil's game. + + + + +A Tale of Starvation + + + + There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, + And a disagreeable man was he. + He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, + And he cursed eternally. + + He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, + And he blasted the winds in the sky. + He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, + And he raved at the birds as they fly. + + His oaths were many, and his range was wide, + He swore in fancy ways; + But his meaning was plain: that no created thing + Was other than a hurt to his gaze. + + He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, + And windows toward the hill there were none, + And on the other side they were white-washed thick, + To keep out every spark of the sun. + + When he went to market he walked all the way + Blaspheming at the path he trod. + He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, + By all the names he knew of God. + + For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, + And his hopes had curdled in his breast. + His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over + For the chinking money-bags she liked best. + + The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, + The deer had trampled on his corn, + His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, + And his sheep had died unshorn. + + His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, + And his old horse perished of a colic. + In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes + By little, glutton mice on a frolic. + + So he slowly lost all he ever had, + And the blood in his body dried. + Shrunken and mean he still lived on, + And cursed that future which had lied. + + One day he was digging, a spade or two, + As his aching back could lift, + When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, + And to get it out he made great shift. + + So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, + And the veins in his forehead stood taut. + At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, + He gathered up what he had sought. + + A dim old vase of crusted glass, + Prismed while it lay buried deep. + Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, + At the touch of the sun began to leap. + + It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; + Flashing like an opal-stone, + Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, + Where at first there had seemed to be none. + + It had handles on each side to bear it up, + And a belly for the gurgling wine. + Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, + And its lip was curled and fine. + + The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare + And the colours started up through the crust, + And he who had cursed at the yellow sun + Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. + + And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, + Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; + And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, + And the sun shone without his sneer. + + Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, + But it was only grey in the gloom. + So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, + And he went outside with a broom. + + And he washed his windows just to let the sun + Lie upon his new-found vase; + And when evening came, he moved it down + And put it on a table near the place + + Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. + The old man forgot to swear, + Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, + Dancing in the kitchen there. + + He forgot to revile the sun next morning + When he found his vase afire in its light. + And he carried it out of the house that day, + And kept it close beside him until night. + + And so it happened from day to day. + The old man fed his life + On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. + And his soul forgot its former strife. + + And the village-folk came and begged to see + The flagon which was dug from the ground. + And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy + At showing what he had found. + + One day the master of the village school + Passed him as he stooped at toil, + Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side + Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. + + "My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, + "That's a valuable thing you have there, + But it might get broken out of doors, + It should meet with the utmost care. + + What are you doing with it out here?" + "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, + "I like to have it about, do you see? + To be with it all I can." + + "You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, + "Mark my words and see!" + And he walked away, while the old man looked + At his treasure despondingly. + + Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! + He had toiled for it, and now he cared. + Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, + Which his own hard work had bared. + + He would carry it round with him everywhere, + As it gave him joy to do. + A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! + Who would dare to say so? Who? + + Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, + And he bent to his hoe again.... + A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, + And he lurched with a cry of pain. + + For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, + And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. + The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. + He did not curse, he had no words. + + He gathered the fragments, one by one, + And his fingers were cut and torn. + Then he made a hole in the very place + Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. + + He covered the hole, and he patted it down, + Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. + He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows + That no beam of light should cross the floor. + + He sat down in front of the empty hearth, + And he neither ate nor drank. + In three days they found him, dead and cold, + And they said: "What a queer old crank!" + + + + +The Foreigner + + + + Have at you, you Devils! + My back's to this tree, + For you're nothing so nice + That the hind-side of me + Would escape your assault. + Come on now, all three! + + Here's a dandified gentleman, + Rapier at point, + And a wrist which whirls round + Like a circular joint. + A spatter of blood, man! + That's just to anoint + + And make supple your limbs. + 'Tis a pity the silk + Of your waistcoat is stained. + Why! Your heart's full of milk, + And so full, it spills over! + I'm not of your ilk. + + You said so, and laughed + At my old-fashioned hose, + At the cut of my hair, + At the length of my nose. + To carve it to pattern + I think you propose. + + Your pardon, young Sir, + But my nose and my sword + Are proving themselves + In quite perfect accord. + I grieve to have spotted + Your shirt. On my word! + + And hullo! You Bully! + That blade's not a stick + To slash right and left, + And my skull is too thick + To be cleft with such cuffs + Of a sword. Now a lick + + Down the side of your face. + What a pretty, red line! + Tell the taverns that scar + Was an honour. Don't whine + That a stranger has marked you. + * * * * * + The tree's there, You Swine! + + Did you think to get in + At the back, while your friends + Made a little diversion + In front? So it ends, + With your sword clattering down + On the ground. 'Tis amends + + I make for your courteous + Reception of me, + A foreigner, landed + From over the sea. + Your welcome was fervent + I think you'll agree. + + My shoes are not buckled + With gold, nor my hair + Oiled and scented, my jacket's + Not satin, I wear + Corded breeches, wide hats, + And I make people stare! + + So I do, but my heart + Is the heart of a man, + And my thoughts cannot twirl + In the limited span + 'Twixt my head and my heels, + As some other men's can. + + I have business more strange + Than the shape of my boots, + And my interests range + From the sky, to the roots + Of this dung-hill you live in, + You half-rotted shoots + + Of a mouldering tree! + Here's at you, once more. + You Apes! You Jack-fools! + You can show me the door, + And jeer at my ways, + But you're pinked to the core. + + And before I have done, + I will prick my name in + With the front of my steel, + And your lily-white skin + Shall be printed with me. + For I've come here to win! + + + + +Absence + + + + My cup is empty to-night, + Cold and dry are its sides, + Chilled by the wind from the open window. + Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. + The room is filled with the strange scent + Of wistaria blossoms. + They sway in the moon's radiance + And tap against the wall. + But the cup of my heart is still, + And cold, and empty. + + When you come, it brims + Red and trembling with blood, + Heart's blood for your drinking; + To fill your mouth with love + And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. + + + + +A Gift + + + + See! I give myself to you, Beloved! + My words are little jars + For you to take and put upon a shelf. + Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, + And they have many pleasant colours and lustres + To recommend them. + Also the scent from them fills the room + With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. + + When I shall have given you the last one, + You will have the whole of me, + But I shall be dead. + + + + +The Bungler + + + + You glow in my heart + Like the flames of uncounted candles. + But when I go to warm my hands, + My clumsiness overturns the light, + And then I stumble + Against the tables and chairs. + + + + +Fool's Money Bags + + + + Outside the long window, + With his head on the stone sill, + The dog is lying, + Gazing at his Beloved. + His eyes are wet and urgent, + And his body is taut and shaking. + It is cold on the terrace; + A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, + But the dog gazes through the glass + And is content. + + The Beloved is writing a letter. + Occasionally she speaks to the dog, + But she is thinking of her writing. + Does she, too, give her devotion to one + Not worthy? + + + + +Miscast I + + + + I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, + So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, + So sharp that the air would turn its edge + Were it to be twisted in flight. + Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, + And the mark of them lies, in and out, + Worm-like, + With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. + My brain is curved like a scimitar, + And sighs at its cutting + Like a sickle mowing grass. + + But of what use is all this to me! + I, who am set to crack stones + In a country lane! + + + + +Miscast II + + + + My heart is like a cleft pomegranate + Bleeding crimson seeds + And dripping them on the ground. + My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, + And its seeds are bursting from it. + + But how is this other than a torment to me! + I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, + In a dark closet! + + + + +Anticipation + + + + I have been temperate always, + But I am like to be very drunk + With your coming. + There have been times + I feared to walk down the street + Lest I should reel with the wine of you, + And jerk against my neighbours + As they go by. + I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, + But my brain is noisy + With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. + + + + +Vintage + + + + I will mix me a drink of stars,-- + Large stars with polychrome needles, + Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, + Cool, quiet, green stars. + I will tear them out of the sky, + And squeeze them over an old silver cup, + And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, + So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. + + It will lap and scratch + As I swallow it down; + And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, + Coiling and twisting in my belly. + His snortings will rise to my head, + And I shall be hot, and laugh, + Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. + + + + +The Tree of Scarlet Berries + + + + The rain gullies the garden paths + And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. + A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. + Even so, I can see that it has red berries, + A scarlet fruit, + Filmed over with moisture. + It seems as though the rain, + Dripping from it, + Should be tinged with colour. + I desire the berries, + But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. + Probably, too, they are bitter. + + + + +Obligation + + + + Hold your apron wide + That I may pour my gifts into it, + So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them + From falling to the ground. + + I would pour them upon you + And cover you, + For greatly do I feel this need + Of giving you something, + Even these poor things. + + Dearest of my Heart! + + + + +The Taxi + + + + When I go away from you + The world beats dead + Like a slackened drum. + I call out for you against the jutted stars + And shout into the ridges of the wind. + Streets coming fast, + One after the other, + Wedge you away from me, + And the lamps of the city prick my eyes + So that I can no longer see your face. + Why should I leave you, + To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? + + + + +The Giver of Stars + + + + Hold your soul open for my welcoming. + Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me + With its clear and rippled coolness, + That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, + Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. + + Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, + That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, + The life and joy of tongues of flame, + And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, + I may rouse the blear-eyed world, + And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. + + + + +The Temple + + + + Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. + Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue + Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew + And vanished in the sunshine. How it came + We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. + From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew + Together into fire. But we knew + The winds would slap and quench it in their game. + And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks + To treasure it, and placed them round about. + With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, + And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks + Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, + The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole. + + + + +Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + + + + Beneath this sod lie the remains + Of one who died of growing pains. + + + + +In Answer to a Request + + + + You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, + Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? + Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June + And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? + For your sake, I would go and seek the year, + Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, + Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon + Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer + Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! + My shadow stretches forward, and the ground + Is dark in front because the light's behind. + It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, + In watching it and walking I have found + More than enough to occupy my mind. + + I cannot turn, the light would make me blind. + + + + +POPPY SEED + + + + +The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + + + + 1 + + A yellow band of light upon the street + Pours from an open door, and makes a wide + Pathway of bright gold across a sheet + Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside + Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch + Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, + The clip of tankards on a table top, + And stir of booted heels. Against the patch + Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth + Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. + + + 2 + + This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, + Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. + Within his cellar men can have to drink + The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed + To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art + Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. + Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, + Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart + A cap as ever in his wantonness + Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. + + + 3 + + Tall candles stand upon the table, where + Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, + Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were + Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. + The centre of the board is piled with pipes, + Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay + Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault + Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way + Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes + And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. + + + 4 + + "For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" + Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. + "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, + From that small barrel in the very roots + Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! + Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. + We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke + His best tobacco for a grand climax. + Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, + We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!" + + + 5 + + Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. + "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." + The host set down a jar; then to a vat + Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. + Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem + Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew + The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. + It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew + Into the silver night. At once there flung + Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: + + + 6 + + "Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, + Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? + My master sent me to inquire where + Such men do mostly be, but every door + Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. + I pray you tell me where I may now find + One versed in law, the matter will not wait." + "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind + Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. + I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. + + + 7 + + Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, + Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy + Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout + Within the tavern jeered at his employ. + Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, + Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, + Flooded the open spaces, and took flight + Before tall, serried houses in platoon, + Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House + They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. + + + 8 + + Before a door which fronted a canal + The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. + The water lapped the stones in musical + And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot + Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. + The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame + Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, + And through the open door Max went toward + Another door, whence sound of voices came. + He entered a large room where candelabra burned. + + + 9 + + An aged man in quilted dressing gown + Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent + Your messenger to seek throughout the town + A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, + But I am at your service, and my name + Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." + "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged + Am I, and count myself much privileged. + I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame + Is better known on distant oceans than on land. + + + 10 + + My ship has tasted water in strange seas, + And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. + She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, + And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." + "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, + "Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." + The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, + "My good friend, Grootver,--" he at once began. + "No introductions, let us have some wine, + And business, now that you at last have made your choice." + + + 11 + + A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, + This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. + Kurler explained, his old hands nervously + Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought + From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay + The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind + Had so delayed him that his cargo brought + But half its proper price, the very day + He came to port he stepped ashore to find + The market glutted and his counted profits naught. + + + 12 + + Little by little Max made out the way + That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. + His money he must have, too long delay + Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. + "But let me take my ship, with many bales + Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, + Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste + Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails + Open for home, such stores will I bring you + That all your former ventures will be counted waste. + + + 13 + + Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, + And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, + Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam + Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, + Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. + Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard + The deed to which the sailor gave his word. + He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed + The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, + He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. + + + 14 + + For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, + Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. + But on one black and most unfriendly day + Grootver had caught her as she passed between + The kitchen and the garden. She had run + In fear of him, his evil leering eye, + And when he came she, bolted in her room, + Refused to show, though gave no reason why. + The spinning of her future had begun, + On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. + + + 15 + + Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, + Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. + He felt his hands were building up the pyre + To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo + He staggered to his chair. Before him lay + White paper still unspotted by a crime. + "Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. + "`If in two years my vessel should yet stay + From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime + A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear." + + + 16 + + And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, + And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. + Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. + Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" + He shuffled from the room, and left the house. + His footsteps wore to silence down the street. + At last the aged man began to rouse. + With help he once more gained his trembling feet. + "My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. + Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow." + + + 17 + + Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, + "Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, + So to protect your daughter from all harm + As one man may." Thus sorrowful, forlorn, + The situation to Max Breuck appeared, + He gave his promise almost without thought, + Nor looked to see a difficulty. "Bred + Gently to watch a mother left alone; + Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared + The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; + + + 18 + + Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. + Last Winter she died also, and my days + Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, + And undo habits used to earn her praise. + My leisure I will gladly give to see + Your household and your daughter prosperous." + The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. + He could not brook that his humility, + So little wonted, and so tremulous, + Should first before a stranger make such great display. + + + 19 + + "Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, + I sail at the full sea, my daughter then + I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon + If after I have bid good-by, and when + Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, + You bring her home again. She lives with one + Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. + But that is no friend for so free a heart. + No head to match her questions. It is done. + And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. + + + 20 + + My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam + As home, so not a letter can you send. + I shall be back, before to where I am + Another ship could reach. Now your stipend--" + Quickly Breuck interposed. "When you once more + Tread on the stones which pave our streets.--Good night! + To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, + At the great wharf." Then hurrying, in spite + Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon + Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. + + + 21 + + 'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, + And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. + The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here + The sun sank deep into the waters cold. + And every clock and belfry in the town + Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, + To shake the sunny morning into life, + And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, + Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, + Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. + + + 22 + + The "Horn of Fortune" sails away to-day. + At highest tide she lets her anchor go, + And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! + Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, + And beckons to her boats to let her start. + Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. + The shining waves are quick to take her part. + They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, + Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize + And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. + + + 23 + + At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, + And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. + Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, + Bowing before them both. The brigantine + Bounces impatient at the long delay, + Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. + A heavy galliot unloads on the walls + Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls + Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more + Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. + + + 24 + + Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, + Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. + Max moved aside and let her be alone, + For grief exacts each penny of its toll. + The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. + A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, + Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again + Upon the other side. Now on the lee + It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight + Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. + + + 25 + + Then up above the eager brigantine, + Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, + Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine + Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight + Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, + Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. + They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, + The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw + She glided imperceptibly away, + Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. + + + 26 + + Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, + Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. + Before the iron gateway, clasped between + Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, + Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? + My father told me of your courtesy. + Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me + To show such hospitality as maiden may, + Without disdaining rules must not be broke. + Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today." + + + 27 + + She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. + Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones + Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, + It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones + Are budded with much peering at the rows, + And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. + Max started at the beauty, at the glare + Of tints. At either end was set a wide + Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows + Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! + + + 28 + + From side to side, midway each path, there ran + A longer one which cut the space in two. + And, like a tunnel some magician + Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, + Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers + Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came + The plump and heavy apples crowding stood + And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame + Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers + They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. + + + 29 + + Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, + Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun + From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes + Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one + Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. + Bordered along the wall, in beds between, + Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, + The pride of all the garden, there were more + Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. + They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. + + + 30 + + "Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring + Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best + Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring + Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest + To please her guest she flew. A moment more + She came again, with her old nurse behind. + Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, + She talked as someone with a noble store + Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, + Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. + + + 31 + + The little apple leaves above their heads + Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, + In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds + Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule + And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes + Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues + Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed + To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes + Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. + Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. + + + 32 + + Of every pattern and in every shade. + Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. + Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made + An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. + Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. + Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. + They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, + Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. + The shade within the arbour made a port + To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. + + + 33 + + Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, + This child matured to woman unaware, + The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked + Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. + Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, + And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich + And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died + Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, + She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch + At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. + + + 34 + + Two years was long! She loved her father well, + But fears she had not. He had always been + Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell + On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen + Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. + Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! + Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. + Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, + The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall. + When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. + + + 35 + + The next day, and the next, Max went to ask + The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: + Another tulip blown, or the great task + Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; + The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles + Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. + Such things were Christine's world, and his was she + Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. + Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, + Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. + + + 36 + + Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself + The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. + As one in charge of guineas on a shelf + Loose in a china teapot, may confess + His need, but may not borrow till his friend + Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said + No word of love or marriage; but the days + He clipped off on his almanac. The end + Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, + Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. + + + 37 + + Two years had made Christine a woman grown, + With dignity and gently certain pride. + But all her childhood fancies had not flown, + Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. + Max was her trusted friend, did she confess + A closer happiness? Max could not tell. + Two years were over and his life he found + Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness + He waited for the "Horn of Fortune". Well + Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. + + + 38 + + Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass + Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came + Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass + Was justified, for he had won the game. + Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, + And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship + Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank + To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent + For Max. "Come quickly," said her note, "I skip + The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank." + + + 39 + + Through the long sunshine of late afternoon + Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost + In bitter reverie, he found her soon. + And sitting down beside her, at the cost + Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing + So suddenly has happened?" Then, in tears, + She told that Grootver, on the following morn, + Would come to marry her, and shuddering: + "I will die rather, death has lesser fears." + Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. + + + 40 + + "My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! + I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. + In strictest honour I have played my part; + But all this misery has overthrown + My scruples. If you love me, marry me + Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. + You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, + Can eat his anger. My care it shall be + To pay your father's debt, by such degrees + As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. + + + 41 + + This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known + My love, and silence forced upon my lips. + I worship you with all the strength I've shown + In keeping faith." With pleading finger tips + He touched her arm. "Christine! Beloved! Think. + Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, + I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? + They've been in leash so long upon the brink." + She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. + Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. + + + 42 + + And they were married ere the westering sun + Had disappeared behind the garden trees. + The evening poured on them its benison, + And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, + Rose up around them from the beamy ground, + Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. + Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, + In such enraptured sweetness as they found + Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon + To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. + + + 43 + + At last Max spoke, "Dear Heart, this night is ours, + To watch it pale, together, into dawn, + Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers + Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, + Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, + Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. + For that desired thing I leave you now. + To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, + By telling Grootver that a bootless quest + Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow." + + + 44 + + But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, + Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. + And wound her arms about his knees and thighs + As he stood over her. With dread, begot + Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, + She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint + Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, + Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint + Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright + With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. + + + 45 + + But at the gate once more she held him close + And quenched her heart again upon his lips. + "My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose + But to be gone one hour! Evening slips + Away, this errand must be done." "Max! Max! + First goes my father, if I lose you now!" + She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. + Softly he laughed, "One hour through the town + By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. + Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. + + + 46 + + One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. + We front another day as man and wife. + I shall be back almost before I'm gone, + And midnight shall anoint and crown our life." + Then through the gate he passed. Along the street + She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. + He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. + Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. + Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, + Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. + + + 47 + + Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. + His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot + He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall + Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. + He dreaded no man, since he could protect + Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. + His starved life had not fitted him for joy. + It strained him to the utmost to reject + Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. + "Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!" + + + 48 + + He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol + To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. + In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. + And he would be returned, lifting the latch + Of his own gate, eager to take Christine + And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? + He broke into a run. In front, a line + Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. + Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day + Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. + + + 49 + + "Why, Max! Stop, Max!" And out they came pell-mell, + His old companions. "Max, where have you been? + Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! + How many months is it since we have seen + You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! + Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, + Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. + Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; + Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. + Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!" + + + 50 + + They forced him to a seat, and held him there, + Despite his anger, while the hideous joke + Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care + A brimming glass of whiskey. "Here, we've broke + Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! + Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? + Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! + Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think." + Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, + Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. + + + 51 + + Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried + To quell the uproar, told them what he dared + Of his own life and circumstance. Implied + Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. + In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, + And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more + Goaded and bursting;--"Cowards! Is no one loth + To mock at duty--" Here they called for ale, + And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath + He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. + + + 52 + + Sobered a little by his violence, + And by the host who begged them to be still, + Nor injure his good name, "Max, no offence," + They blurted, "you may leave now if you will." + "One moment, Max," said Franz. "We've gone too far. + I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. + It started in a wager ere you came. + The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar + I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, + Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. + + + 53 + + Its properties are to induce a sleep + Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time + Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep + Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime + Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream + Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock + Are but so many seconds. We agreed + That the next man who came should prove the scheme; + And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. + Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed." + + + 54 + + "It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!" + Max Breuck was maddened now. "Another jest + Of your befuddled wits. I know not why + I am to be your butt. At my request + You'll choose among you one who'll answer for + Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night + And good-by,--gentlemen. You'll hear from me." + But Franz had caught him at the very door, + "It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight + I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. + + + 55 + + You have no business, that is why we laughed, + Since you had none a few minutes ago. + As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, + Knowing the length of time it takes to do + A simple thing like that in this slow world. + Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. + I'll burn the drug if you prefer." But Breuck + Muttered and stared,--"A lie." And then he hurled, + Distraught, this word at Franz: "Prove it. And when + It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. + + + 56 + + I'll give you just one week to make your case. + On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, + I shall require your proof." With wondering face + Franz cried, "A week to August, and fourteen + The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. + April, and eighteen-twelve." Max staggered, caught + A chair,--"April two years ago! Indeed, + Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how + Either could blunder so." Hilverdink brought + "The Amsterdam Gazette", and Max was forced to read. + + + 57 + + "Eighteen hundred and twelve," in largest print; + And next to it, "April the twenty-first." + The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint + Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, + He read it, and into his pounding brain + Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea + Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: + "This is two years ago! What of Christine?" + He fled the cellar, in his agony + Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. + + + 58 + + The darkened buildings echoed to his feet + Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. + Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet + And terror-winged steps. His heart began + To labour at the speed. And still no sign, + No flutter of a leaf against the sky. + And this should be the garden wall, and round + The corner, the old gate. No even line + Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry + Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. + + + 59 + + Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, + They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones + To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine + Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones + Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, + Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, + The twisted iron of the garden gate, + Was there. The houses touched and left no space + Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves + Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. + + + 60 + + Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. + His slobbering lips could only cry, "Christine! + My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? + What future is our past? What saturnine, + Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live + Two years together in a puff of smoke? + It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, + Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give + Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke + Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are." + + + 61 + + His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. + The moon had long been set. And still he cried: + "Christine! My Love! Christine!" A sudden spark + Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied + With his uncertain vision, so within + Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, + A latticed window where a crimson gleam + Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, + An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth + Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. + + + 62 + + Softly he knocked against the casement, wide + It flew, and a cracked voice his business there + Demanded. The door opened, and inside + Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air + Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. + "Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve + You?" "Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? + I want a pistol." Quick the old man grew + Livid. "Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve + You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms--" + + + 63 + + "Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose + My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been + Blest above others. You have many rows + Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen + Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts + Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' + Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! + 'Twill serve my turn though--" Hastily he counts + The florins down upon the table. "Well, + Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast." + + + 64 + + Into the night again he hurried, now + Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town + He set his goal. And then he wondered how + Poor C. D. L. had come to die. "It's grown + Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, + And will work punctually." His sorrow fell + Upon his senses, shutting out all else. + Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought + The heavy miles away. "Christine. I'm well. + I'm coming. My Own Wife!" He lurched with failing pulse. + + + 65 + + Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, + And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. + The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts + Long stealthy fingers up some way to find + And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here + The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. + No lights were burning in the distant thorps. + Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, + Babbled "Christine!" A shot split through the breeze. + The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. + + + + +Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + + + + Dear Virgin Mary, far away, + Look down from Heaven while I pray. + Open your golden casement high, + And lean way out beyond the sky. + I am so little, it may be + A task for you to harken me. + + O Lady Mary, I have bought + A candle, as the good priest taught. + I only had one penny, so + Old Goody Jenkins let it go. + It is a little bent, you see. + But Oh, be merciful to me! + + I have not anything to give, + Yet I so long for him to live. + A year ago he sailed away + And not a word unto today. + I've strained my eyes from the sea-wall + But never does he come at all. + + Other ships have entered port + Their voyages finished, long or short, + And other sailors have received + Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved. + My heart is bursting for his hail, + O Virgin, let me spy his sail. + + _Hull down on the edge of a sun-soaked sea + Sparkle the bellying sails for me. + Taut to the push of a rousing wind + Shaking the sea till it foams behind, + The tightened rigging is shrill with the song: + "We are back again who were gone so long."_ + + One afternoon I bumped my head. + I sat on a post and wished I were dead + Like father and mother, for no one cared + Whither I went or how I fared. + A man's voice said, "My little lad, + Here's a bit of a toy to make you glad." + + Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, + With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain + Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail + Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail + Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, + Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen. + + He held out his hand and gave to me + The most marvellous top which could ever be. + It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, + And a red stone carved into little wings, + All joined by a twisted golden line, + And set in the brown wood, even and fine. + + Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought + My treasure to you as I ought, + But he said to keep it for his sake + And comfort myself with it, and take + Joy in its spinning, and so I do. + It couldn't mean quite the same to you. + + Every day I met him there, + Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. + He told me stories of courts and kings, + Of storms at sea, of lots of things. + The top he said was a sort of sign + That something in the big world was mine. + + _Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. + Against the horizon a glint in motion. + Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, + Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, + Singing and shouting to port she races, + A flying harp, with her sheets and braces._ + + O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, + I am in very utmost need. + He loved me, he was all I had, + And when he came it made the sad + Thoughts disappear. This very day + Send his ship home to me I pray. + + I'll be a priest, if you want it so, + I'll work till I have enough to go + And study Latin to say the prayers + On the rosary our old priest wears. + I wished to be a sailor too, + But I will give myself to you. + + I'll never even spin my top, + But put it away in a box. I'll stop + Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. + I'll save my pennies till I have bought + A silver heart in the market square, + I've seen some beautiful, white ones there. + + I'll give up all I want to do + And do whatever you tell me to. + Heavenly Lady, take away + All the games I like to play, + Take my life to fill the score, + Only bring him back once more! + + _The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, + And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. + The gray dust whirls in the market square, + And the silver hearts are covered with care + By thick tarpaulins. Once again + The bay is black under heavy rain._ + + The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. + A little boy weeps and prays no more. + + + + +After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók + + + + But why did I kill him? Why? Why? + In the small, gilded room, near the stair? + My ears rack and throb with his cry, + And his eyes goggle under his hair, + As my fingers sink into the fair + White skin of his throat. It was I! + + I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? + I shook him until his red tongue + Hung flapping out through the black, queer, + Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung + With my nails drawing blood, while I flung + The loose, heavy body in fear. + + Fear lest he should still not be dead. + I was drunk with the lust of his life. + The blood-drops oozed slow from his head + And dabbled a chair. And our strife + Lasted one reeling second, his knife + Lay and winked in the lights overhead. + + And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, + When I called him a low, sneaking cur. + And the wail of the violins stirred + My brute anger with visions of her. + As I throttled his windpipe, the purr + Of his breath with the waltz became blurred. + + I have ridden ten miles through the dark, + With that music, an infernal din, + Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! + One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in + To his flesh when the violins, thin + And straining with passion, grow stark. + + One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! + While she danced I was crushing his throat. + He had tasted the joy of her, wound + Round her body, and I heard him gloat + On the favour. That instant I smote. + One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round! + + He is here in the room, in my arm, + His limp body hangs on the spin + Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm + Of blood-drops is hemming us in! + Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin + Is red like his tongue lolling warm. + + One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. + He is heavy, his feet beat the floor + As I drag him about in the swell + Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, + The trumpets crash in through the door. + One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell. + + One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space + Rolls the earth to the hideous glee + Of death! And so cramped is this place, + I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! + Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! + He has covered my mouth with his face! + + And his blood has dripped into my heart! + And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! + Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part + Of my body in tentacles. Through + My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue + His dead body holds me athwart. + + One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! + One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! + One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, + Beats me into a jelly! The chime, + One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. + Air! Give me air! Air! My God! + + + + +Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + + + + The fountain bent and straightened itself + In the night wind, + Blowing like a flower. + It gleamed and glittered, + A tall white lily, + Under the eye of the golden moon. + From a stone seat, + Beneath a blossoming lime, + The man watched it. + And the spray pattered + On the dim grass at his feet. + + The fountain tossed its water, + Up and up, like silver marbles. + Is that an arm he sees? + And for one moment + Does he catch the moving curve + Of a thigh? + The fountain gurgled and splashed, + And the man's face was wet. + + Is it singing that he hears? + A song of playing at ball? + The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, + And through it he sees a woman, + Tossing the water-balls. + Her breasts point outwards, + And the nipples are like buds of peonies. + Her flanks ripple as she plays, + And the water is not more undulating + Than the lines of her body. + + "Come," she sings, "Poet! + Am I not more worth than your day ladies, + Covered with awkward stuffs, + Unreal, unbeautiful? + What do you fear in taking me? + Is not the night for poets? + I am your dream, + Recurrent as water, + Gemmed with the moon!" + + She steps to the edge of the pool + And the water runs, rustling, down her sides. + She stretches out her arms, + And the fountain streams behind her + Like an opened veil. + + * * * * * + + In the morning the gardeners came to their work. + "There is something in the fountain," said one. + They shuddered as they laid their dead master + On the grass. + "I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, + "It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun." + + + + +The Basket + + + + I + + The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, + in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into + the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air + is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + + See how the roof glitters, like ice! + + Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand + two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. + + + See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. + She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, + between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper + as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", + what a title for a book! + + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. + + + He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating + his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits + on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. + And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, + and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. + + "It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. + How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters + like ice. + + + II + + Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter + to pay his morning's work with a holiday. + + "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" + + Peter jumps through the window. + + "Dear, are you alone?" + + "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread + is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have + seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" + + The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, + at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, + and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with + so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds + new-opened on their stems. + + + Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. + + "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. + My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little + pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. + The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes + are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do + any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down + and amuse me while I rest." + + The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb + the opposite wall. + + + Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, + and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, + where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. + + The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. + + + He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. + His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room + is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands + the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour + on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs + his name. + + "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." + + And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. + + There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. + + + III + + "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." + + "How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, + I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write + `No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, + that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage + strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied + the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, + you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. + Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot + feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." + + "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will + crush your heart and squeeze the love out." + + He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." + + "Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must + have sight! I _must_!" + + The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, + the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman + by a silver thread. + + + They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there + are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased + in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket + is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. + They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce + over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting + on the window-sill, eating human eyes. + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines + like ice. + + + IV + + How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, + and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, + and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them + burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". + + The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? + Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" + + The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, + bounces over and disappears. + + The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. + + + V + + The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow + the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. + + A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, + and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. + + + Annette! + + + + +In a Castle + + + + I + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- + fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, + and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops. + + + The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim, + in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinks + the rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes + the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewise + out from the wall, and then falls back again. + + + It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly. + He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling. + The fire flutters and drops. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops. + He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor. + Outside, the wind goes wailing. + + + The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above, + in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shivers + in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame. + She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her. + + How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips! + + + It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet, + and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms, + and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms + her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself + beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble. + + Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, + terribly abhorred? + + + He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinks + on the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pure + and whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him, + for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes her + by the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord, + and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn, + shriven by her great love. + + Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. + The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall. + + + The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters. + Will the lady lose courage and not come? + + The rain claps on a loosened rafter. + + Is that laughter? + + + The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters. + One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rain + which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries + which chatters? + + The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall + the arras is blown! + + + Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds. + By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and + clasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form + and flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire, + which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noise + never stops. + + Drip--hiss--the rain drops. + + + He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door. + + + II + + The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. + For the storm never stops. + + On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, + grey air. Drip--hiss--fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. + The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. + A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along + the rush mat. + + A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. + It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life + for the high favour." + + Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, + "Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded + necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, + she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, + you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, + they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, + I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck + to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." + The end was a splashed flourish of ink. + + Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. + The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering + in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair. + + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- + fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops. + + The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. + Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. + Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold. + + + III + + In the castle church you may see them stand, + Two sumptuous tombs on either hand + Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand + In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, + A crusader, come from the Holy Land, + Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. + The page's name became a brand + For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, + After having been burnt by royal command. + + + + +The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + + + + The Bell in the convent tower swung. + High overhead the great sun hung, + A navel for the curving sky. + The air was a blue clarity. + Swallows flew, + And a cock crew. + + The iron clanging sank through the light air, + Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare + Of spotted green, and a snake had gone + Into the bed where the snowdrops shone + In green new-started, + Their white bells parted. + + Two by two, in a long brown line, + The nuns were walking to breathe the fine + Bright April air. They must go in soon + And work at their tasks all the afternoon. + But this time is theirs! + They walk in pairs. + + First comes the Abbess, preoccupied + And slow, as a woman often tried, + With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. + Then younger and younger, until the last one + Has a laugh on her lips, + And fairly skips. + + They wind about the gravel walks + And all the long line buzzes and talks. + They step in time to the ringing bell, + With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well + In the core of a sky + Domed silverly. + + Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." + Sister Angelique said she must get her spud + And free the earth round the jasmine roots. + Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! + There's a crocus up, + With a purple cup." + + But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, + She looked up and down the old grey wall + To see if a lizard were basking there. + She looked across the garden to where + A sycamore + Flanked the garden door. + + She was restless, although her little feet danced, + And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced + Her morning's work had hung in her mind + And would not take form. She could not find + The beautifulness + For the Virgin's dress. + + Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? + Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? + Should it be banded with yellow and white + Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? + Or a crimson sheen + Over some sort of green? + + But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new + In all the garden, no single hue + So lovely or so marvellous + That its use would not seem impious. + So on she walked, + And the others talked. + + Sister Elisabeth edged away + From what her companion had to say, + For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, + She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. + She did plain stitching + And worked in the kitchen. + + "Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, + I told her so this Friday past. + I must speak to her before Compline." + Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. + The other nun sighed, + With her pleasure quite dried. + + Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: + "The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. + The little white cups bent over the ground, + And in among the light stems wound + A crested snake, + With his eyes awake. + + His body was green with a metal brightness + Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, + And all down his curling length were disks, + Evil vermilion asterisks, + They paled and flooded + As wounds fresh-blooded. + + His crest was amber glittered with blue, + And opaque so the sun came shining through. + It seemed a crown with fiery points. + When he quivered all down his scaly joints, + From every slot + The sparkles shot. + + The nuns huddled tightly together, fear + Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer + More closely at the beautiful snake, + She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make + Colours so rare, + The dress were there. + + The Abbess shook off her lethargy. + "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. + Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, + The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. + Only Clotilde + Was the last to yield. + + When the recreation hour was done + Each went in to her task. Alone + In the library, with its great north light, + Clotilde wrought at an exquisite + Wreath of flowers + For her Book of Hours. + + She twined the little crocus blooms + With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms + Of laurel leaves were interwoven + With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven + Fritillaries, + Whose colour varies. + + They framed the picture she had made, + Half-delighted and half-afraid. + In a courtyard with a lozenged floor + The Virgin watched, and through the arched door + The angel came + Like a springing flame. + + His wings were dipped in violet fire, + His limbs were strung to holy desire. + He lowered his head and passed under the arch, + And the air seemed beating a solemn march. + The Virgin waited + With eyes dilated. + + Her face was quiet and innocent, + And beautiful with her strange assent. + A silver thread about her head + Her halo was poised. But in the stead + Of her gown, there remained + The vellum, unstained. + + Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, + Lingering over each tint and dye. + She could spend great pains, now she had seen + That curious, unimagined green. + A colour so strange + It had seemed to change. + + She thought it had altered while she gazed. + At first it had been simple green; then glazed + All over with twisting flames, each spot + A molten colour, trembling and hot, + And every eye + Seemed to liquefy. + + She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. + After all, she had only glanced + At that wonderful snake, and she must know + Just what hues made the creature throw + Those splashes and sprays + Of prismed rays. + + When evening prayers were sung and said, + The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. + And soon in the convent there was no light, + For the moon did not rise until late that night, + Only the shine + Of the lamp at the shrine. + + Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. + Her heart shook her body with its beats. + She could not see till the moon should rise, + So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes + On the window-square + Till light should be there. + + The faintest shadow of a branch + Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch + With solemn purpose, softly rose + And fluttered down between the rows + Of sleeping nuns. + She almost runs. + + She must go out through the little side door + Lest the nuns who were always praying before + The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. + She pushed the bolts, and over the grass + The red moon's brim + Mounted its rim. + + Her shadow crept up the convent wall + As she swiftly left it, over all + The garden lay the level glow + Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. + The gravel glistened. + She stopped and listened. + + It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. + She laughed a little, but she felt queerer + Than ever before. The snowdrop bed + Was reached and she bent down her head. + On the striped ground + The snake was wound. + + For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, + Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. + She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. + She darted her hand out, and seized the thick + Wriggling slime, + Only just in time. + + The old gardener came muttering down the path, + And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, + And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. + He bit her, but what difference did that make! + The Virgin should dress + In his loveliness. + + The gardener was covering his new-set plants + For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts + Your lover of growing things. He spied + Something to do and turned aside, + And the moonlight streamed + On Clotilde, and gleamed. + + His business finished the gardener rose. + He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows + A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she + Grasping him, laughing, while quietly + Her eyes are weeping. + Is he sleeping? + + He thinks it is some holy vision, + Brushes that aside and with decision + Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, + Crushes his spine, and then with quick, + Urgent command + Takes her hand. + + The gardener sucks the poison and spits, + Cursing and praying as befits + A poor old man half out of his wits. + "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's + Hatched of a devil + And very evil. + + It's one of them horrid basilisks + You read about. They say a man risks + His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it + Out by now. Lucky I chucked it + Away from you. + I guess you'll do." + + "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast + Was sent to me, to me the least + Worthy in all our convent, so I + Could finish my picture of the Most High + And Holy Queen, + In her dress of green. + + He is dead now, but his colours won't fade + At once, and by noon I shall have made + The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see + How kindly the moon shines down on me! + I can't die yet, + For the task was set." + + "You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," + Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. + If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,--" + "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." + So Clotilde vented + Her creed. He repented. + + "He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. + "Paint as much as you like." And gingerly + He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde + Thanked him, and begged that he would shield + Her secret, though itching + To talk in the kitchen. + + The gardener promised, not very pleased, + And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, + Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon + Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon + In her bed she lay + And waited for day. + + At dawn's first saffron-spired warning + Clotilde was up. And all that morning, + Except when she went to the chapel to pray, + She painted, and when the April day + Was hot with sun, + Clotilde had done. + + Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud + At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed + To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. + A lady, in excellence arrayed, + And wonder-souled. + Christ's Blessed Mould! + + From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, + But her eyes were starred like those of a saint + Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. + A sudden clamour hurled its rude + Force to break + Her vision awake. + + The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed + By the multitude of nuns. They hushed + When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, + Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. + And all the hive + Buzzed "She's alive!" + + Old Francois had told. He had found the strain + Of silence too great, and preferred the pain + Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, + And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. + For Francois, to spite them, + Had not seen fit to right them. + + The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, + Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, + Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, + To spare you while you imaged her face? + How could we have guessed + Our convent so blessed! + + A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! + To have you die! And I, who am + A hollow, living shell, the grave + Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave + To be taken, Dear Mother, + Instead of this other." + + She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, + With anguished hands and tears delayed + To a painful slowness. The minutes drew + To fractions. Then the west wind blew + The sound of a bell, + On a gusty swell. + + It came skipping over the slates of the roof, + And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof + To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. + The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. + And the sun lit the flowers + In Clotilde's Book of Hours. + + It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress + And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, + Pulse and start; and the violet wings + Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. + The book seemed a choir + Of rainbow fire. + + The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun + Did the same, then one by one, + They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers + Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. + Clotilde, the Inspired! + + She only felt tired. + + * * * * * + + The old chronicles say she did not die + Until heavy with years. And that is why + There hangs in the convent church a basket + Of osiered silver, a holy casket, + And treasured therein + A dried snake-skin. + + + + +The Exeter Road + + + + Panels of claret and blue which shine + Under the moon like lees of wine. + A coronet done in a golden scroll, + And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll + Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. + They daren't look back! + + They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! + What brutes men are when they think they're scored. + Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, + In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see + That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, + Hop about and slue. + + They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. + For my lord has a casket full of rolls + Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. + I laugh to think how he'll show his scars + In London to-morrow. He whines with rage + In his varnished cage. + + My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. + 'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. + But I shall relieve her of them yet, + When I see she limps in the minuet + I must beg to celebrate this night, + And the green moonlight. + + There's nothing to hurry about, the plain + Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. + My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, + In half an hour I'll bag the coins. + 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. + The chase is the thing! + + How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon + Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune + Is beating out of the curses and screams, + And the cracking all through the painted seams. + Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. + 'Tis a rare fine night! + + There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, + And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. + It seems a shame to break the air + In two with this pistol, but I've my share + Of drudgery like other men. + His hat? Amen! + + Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! + Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, + Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. + 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. + A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! + They'll get me, of course. + + The cursed coach will reach the town + And they'll all come out, every loafer grown + A lion to handcuff a man that's down. + What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! + I'll give it a head to fit it pat. + Thank you! No cravat. + + + _They handcuffed the body just for style, + And they hung him in chains for the volatile + Wind to scour him flesh from bones. + Way out on the moor you can hear the groans + His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. + 'Tis a common tale._ + + + + +The Shadow + + + + Paul Jannes was working very late, + For this watch must be done by eight + To-morrow or the Cardinal + Would certainly be vexed. Of all + His customers the old prelate + Was the most important, for his state + Descended to his watches and rings, + And he gave his mistresses many things + To make them forget his age and smile + When he paid visits, and they could while + The time away with a diamond locket + Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, + And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. + This watch was made to buy him blisses + From an Austrian countess on her way + Home, and she meant to start next day. + + + Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame + Of a tallow candle, and became + So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince + Striking the hour a moment since. + Its echo, only half apprehended, + Lingered about the room. He ended + Screwing the little rubies in, + Setting the wheels to lock and spin, + Curling the infinitesimal springs, + Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings + Of precious stones lay strewn about. + The table before him was a rout + Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. + There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite + A heap of emeralds, and steel. + Here was a gem, there was a wheel. + And glasses lay like limpid lakes + Shining and still, and there were flakes + Of silver, and shavings of pearl, + And little wires all awhirl + With the light of the candle. He took the watch + And wound its hands about to match + The time, then glanced up to take the hour + From the hanging clock. + Good, Merciful Power! + How came that shadow on the wall, + No woman was in the room! His tall + Chiffonier stood gaunt behind + His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, + Hung from a peg. The door was closed. + Just for a moment he must have dozed. + He looked again, and saw it plain. + The silhouette made a blue-black stain + On the opposite wall, and it never wavered + Even when the candle quavered + Under his panting breath. What made + That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade + Of something so lovely, so exquisite, + Cast from a substance which the sight + Had not been tutored to perceive? + Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve. + + Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall + Gleamed black, and never moved at all. + + + Paul's watches were like amulets, + Wrought into patterns and rosettes; + The cases were all set with stones, + And wreathing lines, and shining zones. + He knew the beauty in a curve, + And the Shadow tortured every nerve + With its perfect rhythm of outline + Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine + Was the neck he knew he could have spanned + It about with the fingers of one hand. + The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, + But could not see, the lips were pressed + Loosely together, the edges close, + And the proud and delicate line of the nose + Melted into a brow, and there + Broke into undulant waves of hair. + The lady was edged with the stamp of race. + A singular vision in such a place. + + + He moved the candle to the tall + Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. + He threw his cloak upon a chair, + And still the lady's face was there. + From every corner of the room + He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom + That was the lady. Her violet bloom + Was almost brighter than that which came + From his candle's tulip-flame. + He set the filigree hands; he laid + The watch in the case which he had made; + He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed + His candle out. The room seemed stuffed + With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, + And let himself out through the door. + + + The sun was flashing from every pin + And wheel, when Paul let himself in. + The whitewashed walls were hot with light. + The room was the core of a chrysolite, + Burning and shimmering with fiery might. + The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall + From the furniture upon the wall. + Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space + Where a glare usurped the lady's place. + He settled himself to his work, but his mind + Wandered, and he would wake to find + His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, + And nothing advanced beyond the rim + Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay + For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. + But Paul could hardly touch the gold, + It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. + With the first twilight he struck a match + And watched the little blue stars hatch + Into an egg of perfect flame. + He lit his candle, and almost in shame + At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. + The Shadow was there, and its precise + Outline etched the cold, white wall. + The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, + There's something the matter with your brain. + Go home now and sleep off the strain." + + + The next day was a storm, the rain + Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. + A grey and shadowless morning filled + The little shop. The watches, chilled, + Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. + The gems lay on the table like shoals + Of stranded shells, their colours faded, + Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. + Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed + No orders, for his fancy strayed. + His work became a simple round + Of watches repaired and watches wound. + The slanting ribbons of the rain + Broke themselves on the window-pane, + But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. + Only when the candle was lit + And on the wall just opposite + He watched again the coming of _it_, + Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul + And over his hands regain control. + + + Paul lingered late in his shop that night + And the designs which his delight + Sketched on paper seemed to be + A tribute offered wistfully + To the beautiful shadow of her who came + And hovered over his candle flame. + In the morning he selected all + His perfect jacinths. One large opal + Hung like a milky, rainbow moon + In the centre, and blown in loose festoon + The red stones quivered on silver threads + To the outer edge, where a single, fine + Band of mother-of-pearl the line + Completed. On the other side, + The creamy porcelain of the face + Bore diamond hours, and no lace + Of cotton or silk could ever be + Tossed into being more airily + Than the filmy golden hands; the time + Seemed to tick away in rhyme. + When, at dusk, the Shadow grew + Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. + Holding the watch, he spoke to her: + "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir + Into one brief sign of being. + Turn your eyes this way, and seeing + This watch, made from those sweet curves + Where your hair from your forehead swerves, + Accept the gift which I have wrought + With your fairness in my thought. + Grant me this, and I shall be + Honoured overwhelmingly." + + The Shadow rested black and still, + And the wind sighed over the window-sill. + + + Paul put the despised watch away + And laid out before him his array + Of stones and metals, and when the morning + Struck the stones to their best adorning, + He chose the brightest, and this new watch + Was so light and thin it seemed to catch + The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. + Topazes ran in a foamy stream + Over the cover, the hands were studded + With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. + The face was of crystal, and engraved + Upon it the figures flashed and waved + With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. + It took a week to make, and his trysts + At night with the Shadow were his alone. + Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. + The night that the jewel was worthy to give. + Paul watched the long hours of daylight live + To the faintest streak; then lit his light, + And sharp against the wall's pure white + The outline of the Shadow started + Into form. His burning-hearted + Words so long imprisoned swelled + To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, + He told the lady all his love, + And holding out the watch above + His head, he knelt, imploring some + Littlest sign. + The Shadow was dumb. + + + Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, + And everything he made he placed + Before his lady. The Shadow kept + Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. + He wooed her with the work of his hands, + He waited for those dear commands + She never gave. No word, no motion, + Eased the ache of his devotion. + His days passed in a strain of toil, + His nights burnt up in a seething coil. + Seasons shot by, uncognisant + He worked. The Shadow came to haunt + Even his days. Sometimes quite plain + He saw on the wall the blackberry stain + Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright + Enough to dazzle that from his sight. + + + There were moments when he groaned to see + His life spilled out so uselessly, + Begging for boons the Shade refused, + His finest workmanship abused, + The iridescent bubbles he blew + Into lovely existence, poor and few + In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse + Himself and her! The Universe! + And more, the beauty he could not make, + And give her, for her comfort's sake! + He would beat his weary, empty hands + Upon the table, would hold up strands + Of silver and gold, and ask her why + She scorned the best which he could buy. + He would pray as to some high-niched saint, + That she would cure him of the taint + Of failure. He would clutch the wall + With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall + He could catch, and hold her, and make her live! + With sobs he would ask her to forgive + All he had done. And broken, spent, + He would call himself impertinent; + Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven + To madness by the sight of Heaven. + At other times he would take the things + He had made, and winding them on strings, + Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes, + Chanting strangely, while the fumes + Wreathed and blotted the shadow face, + As with a cloudy, nacreous lace. + There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed + In tenderness, spoke to his bride, + Urged her to patience, said his skill + Should break the spell. A man's sworn will + Could compass life, even that, he knew. + By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true! + + The edge of the Shadow never blurred. + The lips of the Shadow never stirred. + + + He would climb on chairs to reach her lips, + And pat her hair with his finger-tips. + But instead of young, warm flesh returning + His warmth, the wall was cold and burning + Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled, + Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed + At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick, + He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick + Phantasmagoria crowded his brain, + And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain. + The crisis passed, he would wake and smile + With a vacant joy, half-imbecile + And quite confused, not being certain + Why he was suffering; a curtain + Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled + His sorrow. Like a little child + He would play with his watches and gems, with glee + Calling the Shadow to look and see + How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily + When he flashed his stones. "Mother, the green + Has slid so cunningly in between + The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!" + Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown, + He would get up slowly from his play + And walk round the room, feeling his way + From table to chair, from chair to door, + Stepping over the cracks in the floor, + Till reaching the table again, her face + Would bring recollection, and no solace + Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness + Stifled him and his great distress. + + + One morning he threw the street door wide + On coming in, and his vigorous stride + Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. + In his hands he carried a new-burst clump + Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks + Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks + To the wife he left an hour ago, + Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know + To-day the calendar calls it Spring, + And I woke this morning gathering + Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. + So I rushed out to see what flowers blew + Their pink-and-purple-scented souls + Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, + And made the approach to the Market Square + A garden with smells and sunny air. + I feel so well and happy to-day, + I think I shall take a Holiday. + And to-night we will have a little treat. + I am going to bring you something to eat!" + He looked at the Shadow anxiously. + It was quite grave and silent. He + Shut the outer door and came + And leant against the window-frame. + "Dearest," he said, "we live apart + Although I bear you in my heart. + We look out each from a different world. + At any moment we may be hurled + Asunder. They follow their orbits, we + Obey their laws entirely. + Now you must come, or I go there, + Unless we are willing to live the flare + Of a lighted instant and have it gone." + + A bee in the laurels began to drone. + A loosened petal fluttered prone. + + "Man grows by eating, if you eat + You will be filled with our life, sweet + Will be our planet in your mouth. + If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth + Until I gain to where you are, + And give you myself in whatever star + May happen. O You Beloved of Me! + Is it not ordered cleverly?" + + The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, + Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. + + + Paul slipped away as the dusk began + To dim the little shop. He ran + To the nearest inn, and chose with care + As much as his thin purse could bear. + As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking + Of the sacred wafer, and through the making + Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers + That God will bless this labour of theirs; + So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, + Purchased the best which he could buy. + Returning, he brushed his tools aside, + And laid across the table a wide + Napkin. He put a glass and plate + On either side, in duplicate. + Over the lady's, excellent + With loveliness, the laurels bent. + In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, + And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood + Was the wine which should bring the lustihood + Of human life to his lady's veins. + When all was ready, all which pertains + To a simple meal was there, with eyes + Lit by the joy of his great emprise, + He reverently bade her come, + And forsake for him her distant home. + He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, + And waited what should come to pass. + + The Shadow lay quietly on the wall. + From the street outside came a watchman's call + "A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall." + + And still he waited. The clock's slow tick + Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick. + + He filled his own glass full of wine; + From his pocket he took a paper. The twine + Was knotted, and he searched a knife + From his jumbled tools. The cord of life + Snapped as he cut the little string. + He knew that he must do the thing + He feared. He shook powder into the wine, + And holding it up so the candle's shine + Sparked a ruby through its heart, + He drank it. "Dear, never apart + Again! You have said it was mine to do. + It is done, and I am come to you!" + + + Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall, + And held out his arms. The insentient wall + Stared down at him with its cold, white glare + Unstained! The Shadow was not there! + Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat. + He felt the veins in his body bloat, + And the hot blood run like fire and stones + Along the sides of his cracking bones. + But he laughed as he staggered towards the door, + And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor. + + + + The Coroner took the body away, + And the watches were sold that Saturday. + The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy + Such watches, and the prices were high. + + + + +The Forsaken + + + + Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come + from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such + far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused. + I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause! + + + Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear + be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped + it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame, + just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, + and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die? + + + That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not + be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry. + Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child + alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face + the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled + for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did. + Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me! + + + I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "whore", + and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have + the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman, + he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, + what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, + Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman + must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing. + I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign. + What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never + feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have. + Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! + + + He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good + a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school + in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, + so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, + out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, + I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, + I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, + take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came. + No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months. + To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother. + She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born + for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away! + Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! + + + And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl. + Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known + my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, + and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, + and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, + I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another. + I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! + + + So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart + where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be + quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me. + What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues + when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby, + when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, + his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, + and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels + to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings? + I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem + just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother. + He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, + but give me strength to bring him up to be a man. + + + + +Late September + + + + Tang of fruitage in the air; + Red boughs bursting everywhere; + Shimmering of seeded grass; + Hooded gentians all a'mass. + + Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind + Tearing off the husky rind, + Blowing feathered seeds to fall + By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. + + Beech trees in a golden haze; + Hardy sumachs all ablaze, + Glowing through the silver birches. + How that pine tree shouts and lurches! + + From the sunny door-jamb high, + Swings the shell of a butterfly. + Scrape of insect violins + Through the stubble shrilly dins. + + Every blade's a minaret + Where a small muezzin's set, + Loudly calling us to pray + At the miracle of day. + + Then the purple-lidded night + Westering comes, her footsteps light + Guided by the radiant boon + Of a sickle-shaped new moon. + + + + +The Pike + + + + In the brown water, + Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, + Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, + A pike dozed. + Lost among the shadows of stems + He lay unnoticed. + Suddenly he flicked his tail, + And a green-and-copper brightness + Ran under the water. + + Out from under the reeds + Came the olive-green light, + And orange flashed up + Through the sun-thickened water. + So the fish passed across the pool, + Green and copper, + A darkness and a gleam, + And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank + Received it. + + + + +The Blue Scarf + + + + Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded + In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, + it lies there, + Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. + Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! + A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down + on my face, + And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim + in cool-tinted heavens. + Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. + Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. + A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied + Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, + Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf + On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. + She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath + her slight stirring. + Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel + Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to + a handful of cinders, + And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. + + How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone! + + + + +White and Green + + + + Hey! My daffodil-crowned, + Slim and without sandals! + As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness + So my eyeballs are startled with you, + Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, + Light runner through tasselled orchards. + You are an almond flower unsheathed + Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. + + + + +Aubade + + + + As I would free the white almond from the green husk + So would I strip your trappings off, + Beloved. + And fingering the smooth and polished kernel + I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. + + + + +Music + + + + The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute. + From my bed I can hear him, + And the round notes flutter and tap about the room, + And hit against each other, + Blurring to unexpected chords. + It is very beautiful, + With the little flute-notes all about me, + In the darkness. + + In the daytime, + The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand + And copies music with the other. + He is fat and has a bald head, + So I do not look at him, + But run quickly past his window. + There is always the sky to look at, + Or the water in the well! + + But when night comes and he plays his flute, + I think of him as a young man, + With gold seals hanging from his watch, + And a blue coat with silver buttons. + As I lie in my bed + The flute-notes push against my ears and lips, + And I go to sleep, dreaming. + + + + +A Lady + + + + You are beautiful and faded + Like an old opera tune + Played upon a harpsichord; + Or like the sun-flooded silks + Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. + In your eyes + Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, + And the perfume of your soul + Is vague and suffusing, + With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. + Your half-tones delight me, + And I grow mad with gazing + At your blent colours. + + My vigour is a new-minted penny, + Which I cast at your feet. + Gather it up from the dust, + That its sparkle may amuse you. + + + + +In a Garden + + + + Gushing from the mouths of stone men + To spread at ease under the sky + In granite-lipped basins, + Where iris dabble their feet + And rustle to a passing wind, + The water fills the garden with its rushing, + In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. + + Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, + Where trickle and plash the fountains, + Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. + + Splashing down moss-tarnished steps + It falls, the water; + And the air is throbbing with it. + With its gurgling and running. + With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. + + And I wished for night and you. + I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, + White and shining in the silver-flecked water. + While the moon rode over the garden, + High in the arch of night, + And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. + + Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! + + + + +A Tulip Garden + + + + Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, + Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, + The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry + Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace + Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! + Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, + With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye + Of purple batteries, every gun in place. + Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, + With torches burning, stepping out in time + To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, + We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime + Parades that army. With our utmost powers + We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +Notes: + + + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + Originally: After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók: + + A Blockhead: + "There are non, ever. As a monk who prays" + changed to: + "There are none, ever. As a monk who prays" + + A Tale of Starvation: + "And he neither eat nor drank." + changed to: + "And he neither ate nor drank." + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck: + Stanza headings were originally Roman Numerals. + + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde: + The following names are presented in this etext sans accents: + Marguérite, Angélique, Véronique, Franc,ois. + +The following unconnected lines in the etext are presented sans accents: + + The factory of Sèvres had lent + Strange wingéd dragons writhe about + And rich perfuméd smells + A faëry moonshine washing pale the crowds + Our eyes will close to undisturbéd rest. + And terror-wingéd steps. His heart began + On the stripéd ground + + +Some books by Amy Lowell: + + + Poetry: + A Critical Fable + * A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912) + * Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) + * Men, Women and Ghosts (1916) + Can Grande's Castle (1918) + Pictures of the Floating World (1919) + Legends (1921) + What's O'Clock (1925) + East Wind + Ballads For Sale + + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese (1921) + + + Prose: + John Keats + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature (1915) + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917) + +* Now available online from Project Gutenberg. + + + + +About the author: + +From the notes to "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), +edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. + + +Lowell, Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874. Educated at +private schools. Author of "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass", 1912; +"Sword Blades and Poppy Seed", 1914; "Men, Women and Ghosts", 1916; "Can +Grande's Castle", 1918; "Pictures of the Floating World", 1919. Editor +of the three successive collections of "Some Imagist Poets", 1915, '16, +and '17, containing the early work of the "Imagist School" of which Miss +Lowell became the leader. This movement,... originated in England, +the idea have been first conceived by a young poet named T. E. Hulme, +but developed and put forth by Ezra Pound in an article called "Don'ts +by an Imagist", which appeared in `Poetry; A Magazine of Verse'. ... +A small group of poets gathered about Mr. Pound, experimenting along the +technical lines suggested, and a cult of "Imagism" was formed, whose +first group-expression was in the little volume, "Des Imagistes", +published in New York in April, 1914. Miss Lowell did not come actively +into the movement until after that time, but once she had entered it, +she became its leader, and it was chiefly through her effort in America +that the movement attained so much prominence and so influenced the +trend of poetry for the years immediately succeeding. Miss Lowell many +times, in admirable articles, stated the principles upon which Imagism +is based, notably in the Preface to "Some Imagist Poets" and in the +Preface to the second series, in 1916. She also elaborated it much more +fully in her volume, "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry", 1917, in +the articles pertaining to the work of "H.D." and John Gould Fletcher. +In her own creative work, however, Miss Lowell did most to establish the +possibilities of the Imagistic idea and of its modes of presentation, +and opened up many interesting avenues of poetic form. Her volume, "Can +Grande's Castle", is devoted to work in the medium which she styled +"Polyphonic Prose" and contains some of her finest work, particularly +"The Bronze Horses". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1020 *** diff --git a/1020-h/1020-h.htm b/1020-h/1020-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..75ac388 --- /dev/null +++ b/1020-h/1020-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5258 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by Amy Lowell + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1020 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Amy Lowell + </h2> + <h3> + [American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + [Transcriber's note: Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and + continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose + poem.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + <i>"Face invisible! je t'ai gravée en médailles + D'argent doux comme l'aube pâle, + D'or ardent comme le soleil, + D'airain sombre comme la nuit; + Il y en a de tout métal, + Qui tintent clair comme la joie, + Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, + Comme l'amour, comme la mort; + Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile + Sèche et fragile. + + "Une à une, vous les comptiez en souriant, + Et vous disiez: Il est habile; + Et vous passiez en souriant. + + "Aucun de vous n'a donc vu + Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, + Que tout le grand songe terrestre + Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux + Que je gravais aux métaux pieux, + Mes Dieux."</i> + + Henri de Régnier, "Les Médailles d'Argile". +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> + <p> + No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but there + is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that his + verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter of + fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the same + painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with high + thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his reader + by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a poet. A + workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments to explain + and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot + stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not + try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty, + even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not ask the + trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army feels it + necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are ridiculous, + but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral all over a + work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only ridiculous, but timid + and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half understand, and rush in with + our impertinent suggestions. How far we are from "admitting the Universe"! + The Universe, which flings down its continents and seas, and leaves them + without comment. Art is as much a function of the Universe as an + Equinoctial gale, or the Law of Gravitation; and we insist upon + considering it merely a little scroll-work, of no great importance unless + it be studded with nails from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be + hung! + </p> + <p> + For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the French, + and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, although some + of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong to it. + High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to produce a + poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. Poetry so full of + beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an inspiration and a + despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has a tendency to think + that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These clear-eyed Frenchmen + are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. Before the works of + Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and José-Maria de Heredia, or those of + Henri de Régnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, Remy de Gourmont, and + Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand rebuked. Indeed—"They + order this matter better in France." + </p> + <p> + It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a thing, + that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a vigorous tree + has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with originality and + power is always seeking to give his readers the same poignant feeling + which he has himself. To do this he must constantly find new and striking + images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the word "daybreak", for + instance. What a remarkable picture it must once have conjured up! The + great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty egg, BREAKING through + cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said "daybreak" so often that + we do not see the picture any more, it has become only another word for + dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking new pictures to make his readers + feel the vitality of his thought. + </p> + <p> + Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call "Vers + Libre", a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French + versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in "unrhymed + cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They are + built upon "organic rhythm", or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its + necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They + differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, and containing + more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular + metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more + subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping prose + lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is constructed upon + mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface to his + "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to + quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme." The desire + to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion until it burns white-hot, + seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly "unrhymed + cadence" is unique in its power of expressing this. + </p> + <p> + Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has + never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, and + the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and satisfactory. + Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to English. But I + found it the only medium in which these particular poems could be written. + It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now verse, and permitting a + great variety of treatment. + </p> + <p> + But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more + classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit + certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an + author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine + themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. + </p> + <p> + In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many + questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these poems + in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling criticism, + nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the beginning, solely with + the question of technique. For the more important part of the book, the + poems must speak for themselves.<br /> <br /> Amy Lowell.<br /> <br /> May 19, + 1914. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Sword Blades And Poppy Seed </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>SWORD BLADES</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Captured Goddess </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Precinct. Rochester </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Cyclists </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Astigmatism </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> The Coal Picker </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Storm-Racked </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Convalescence </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Patience </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Apology </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> A Petition </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A Blockhead </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Stupidity </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Irony </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Happiness </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> The Last Quarter of the Moon </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> A Tale of Starvation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> The Foreigner </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Absence </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> A Gift </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> The Bungler </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Fool's Money Bags </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Miscast I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Miscast II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Anticipation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Vintage </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Tree of Scarlet Berries </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Obligation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> The Taxi </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> The Giver of Stars </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Temple </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having + Achieved Success </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> In Answer to a Request </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> <b>POPPY SEED</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Great Adventure of Max Breuck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Clear, with Light, Variable Winds </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> The Basket </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> In a Castle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> The Exeter Road </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> The Shadow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> The Forsaken </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> Late September </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> The Pike </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> The Blue Scarf </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> White and Green </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> Aubade </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> Music </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> A Lady </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> In a Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> A Tulip Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> Notes: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> About the author </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Sword Blades And Poppy Seed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + A drifting, April, twilight sky, + A wind which blew the puddles dry, + And slapped the river into waves + That ran and hid among the staves + Of an old wharf. A watery light + Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white + Without the slightest tinge of gold, + The city shivered in the cold. + All day my thoughts had lain as dead, + Unborn and bursting in my head. + From time to time I wrote a word + Which lines and circles overscored. + My table seemed a graveyard, full + Of coffins waiting burial. + I seized these vile abortions, tore + Them into jagged bits, and swore + To be the dupe of hope no more. + Into the evening straight I went, + Starved of a day's accomplishment. + Unnoticing, I wandered where + The city gave a space for air, + And on the bridge's parapet + I leant, while pallidly there set + A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. + Behind me, where the tramways run, + Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, + When someone plucked me by the sleeve. + "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be + Most grateful could you lend to me + A carfare, I have lost my purse." + The voice was clear, concise, and terse. + I turned and met the quiet gaze + Of strange eyes flashing through the haze. + + The man was old and slightly bent, + Under his cloak some instrument + Disarranged its stately line, + He rested on his cane a fine + And nervous hand, an almandine + Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine + It burned in twisted gold, upon + His finger. Like some Spanish don, + Conferring favours even when + Asking an alms, he bowed again + And waited. But my pockets proved + Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, + No hidden penny lurking there + Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare + I have no money, pray forgive, + But let me take you where you live." + And so we plodded through the mire + Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. + I took no note of where we went, + His talk became the element + Wherein my being swam, content. + It flashed like rapiers in the night + Lit by uncertain candle-light, + When on some moon-forsaken sward + A quarrel dies upon a sword. + It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, + And the noise in the air the broad words made + Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane + On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. + Then it would run like a steady stream + Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, + Or lap the air like the lapping tide + Where a marble staircase lifts its wide + Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, + And a waning moon is sinking straight + Down to a black and ominous sea, + While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. + + I walked as though some opiate + Had stung and dulled my brain, a state + Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. + We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. + The old man scratched a match, the spark + Lit up the keyhole of a door, + We entered straight upon a floor + White with finest powdered sand + Carefully sifted, one might stand + Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace + Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. + From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, + And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. + My host threw pine-cones on the fire + And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre + Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. + The chamber opened like an eye, + As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky + The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy + It peered at the stranger warily. + A little shop with its various ware + Spread on shelves with nicest care. + Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, + Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots + Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, + Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. + Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, + Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. + In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned + Against the wall, like ships careened. + There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, + The carved, white figures fluttering there + Like leaves adrift upon the air. + Classic in touch, but emasculate, + The Greek soul grown effeminate. + The factory of Sevres had lent + Elegant boxes with ornament + Culled from gardens where fountains splashed + And golden carp in the shadows flashed, + Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, + Which ladies threw as the last of fads. + Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, + Hand on heart, and daintily spelt + Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, + Artificial and fragile, which told aright + The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. + The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs + Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs + Endlessly drank the foaming ale, + Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. + The glancing light of the burning wood + Played over a group of jars which stood + On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky + Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry + To paint these porcelains with unknown hues + Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, + Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen + Their colours are felt, but never seen. + Strange winged dragons writhe about + These vases, poisoned venoms spout, + Impregnate with old Chinese charms; + Sealed urns containing mortal harms, + They fill the mind with thoughts impure, + Pestilent drippings from the ure + Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," + Said I, "you deal in pottery." + The old man turned and looked at me. + Shook his head gently. "No," said he. + + Then from under his cloak he took the thing + Which I had wondered to see him bring + Guarded so carefully from sight. + As he laid it down it flashed in the light, + A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, + Damascened with arabesques of gilt, + Or rather gold, and tempered so + It could cut a floating thread at a blow. + The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, + 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath + My cloak, for a jostle to my arm + Would have resulted in serious harm. + But it was so fine, I could not wait, + So I brought it with me despite its state." + "An amateur of arms," I thought, + "Bringing home a prize which he has bought." + "You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" + "Not in the way which you infer. + I need them in business, that is all." + And he pointed his finger at the wall. + Then I saw what I had not noticed before. + The walls were hung with at least five score + Of swords and daggers of every size + Which nations of militant men could devise. + Poisoned spears from tropic seas, + That natives, under banana trees, + Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. + Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make + And tip with feathers, orange and green, + A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. + High up, a fan of glancing steel + Was formed of claymores in a wheel. + Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees + Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these + Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, + Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. + There were Samurai swords from old Japan, + And scimitars from Hindoostan, + While the blade of a Turkish yataghan + Made a waving streak of vitreous white + Upon the wall, in the firelight. + Foils with buttons broken or lost + Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed + The boarding-pike of a privateer. + Against the chimney leaned a queer + Two-handed weapon, with edges dull + As though from hacking on a skull. + The rusted blood corroded it still. + My host took up a paper spill + From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, + And lighted it at a burning coal. + At either end of the table, tall + Wax candles were placed, each in a small, + And slim, and burnished candlestick + Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, + And the room leapt more obviously + Upon my mind, and I could see + What the flickering fire had hid from me. + Above the chimney's yawning throat, + Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, + Was a mantelshelf of polished oak + Blackened with the pungent smoke + Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock + Of tarnished brass stood like a rock + In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea + Of every sort of cutlery. + There lay knives sharpened to any use, + The keenest lancet, and the obtuse + And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades + Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades + Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, + And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl + Of points and edges, and underneath + Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. + My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear + A battle-cry from somewhere near, + The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, + And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. + A smoky cloud had veiled the room, + Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom + Pounded with shouts and dying groans, + With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. + Sabres and lances in streaks of light + Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right + A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, + Glittered an instant, while it stung. + Streams, and points, and lines of fire! + The livid steel, which man's desire + Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. + Every blade which man could mould, + Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, + Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, + Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, + Or slice, or hack, they all were there. + Nerveless and shaking, round and round, + I stared at the walls and at the ground, + Till the room spun like a whipping top, + And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! + I sell no tools for murderers here. + Of what are you thinking! Please clear + Your mind of such imaginings. + Sit down. I will tell you of these things." + + He pushed me into a great chair + Of russet leather, poked a flare + Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, + Up the chimney; but said no word. + Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, + And brought back a crock of finest delf. + He rested a moment a blue-veined hand + Upon the cover, then cut a band + Of paper, pasted neatly round, + Opened and poured. A sliding sound + Came from beneath his old white hands, + And I saw a little heap of sands, + Black and smooth. What could they be: + "Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. + "What you see is poppy seed. + Lethean dreams for those in need." + He took up the grains with a gentle hand + And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. + On his old white finger the almandine + Shot out its rays, incarnadine. + "Visions for those too tired to sleep. + These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. + No single soul in the world could dwell, + Without these poppy-seeds I sell." + For a moment he played with the shining stuff, + Passing it through his fingers. Enough + At last, he poured it back into + The china jar of Holland blue, + Which he carefully carried to its place. + Then, with a smile on his aged face, + He drew up a chair to the open space + 'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, + Young man, I will say that what you see + Is not the puzzle you take it to be." + "But surely, Sir, there is something strange + In a shop with goods at so wide a range + Each from the other, as swords and seeds. + Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." + "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, + "Live everywhere from here to Pekin. + But you are wrong, my sort of goods + Is but one thing in all its moods." + He took a shagreen letter case + From his pocket, and with charming grace + Offered me a printed card. + I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. + Dealer in Words." And that was all. + I stared at the letters, whimsical + Indeed, or was it merely a jest. + He answered my unasked request: + "All books are either dreams or swords, + You can cut, or you can drug, with words. + My firm is a very ancient house, + The entries on my books would rouse + Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. + I inherited from an ancestry + Stretching remotely back and far, + This business, and my clients are + As were those of my grandfather's days, + Writers of books, and poems, and plays. + My swords are tempered for every speech, + For fencing wit, or to carve a breach + Through old abuses the world condones. + In another room are my grindstones and hones, + For whetting razors and putting a point + On daggers, sometimes I even anoint + The blades with a subtle poison, so + A twofold result may follow the blow. + These are purchased by men who feel + The need of stabbing society's heel, + Which egotism has brought them to think + Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink + An adversary to quaint reply, + And I have customers who buy + Scalpels with which to dissect the brains + And hearts of men. Ultramundanes + Even demand some finer kinds + To open their own souls and minds. + But the other half of my business deals + With visions and fancies. Under seals, + Sorted, and placed in vessels here, + I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. + Each jar contains a different kind + Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind + Come the purple flowers, opium filled, + From which the weirdest myths are distilled; + My orient porcelains contain them all. + Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall + Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; + And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat + On that lowest shelf beside the door, + Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". + Every castle of the air + Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there + Are seeds for every romance, or light + Whiff of a dream for a summer night. + I supply to every want and taste." + 'Twas slowly said, in no great haste + He seemed to push his wares, but I + Dumfounded listened. By and by + A log on the fire broke in two. + He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" + I groped for something I should say; + Amazement held me numb. "To-day + You sweated at a fruitless task." + He spoke for me, "What do you ask? + How can I serve you?" "My kind host, + My penniless state was not a boast; + I have no money with me." He smiled. + "Not for that money I beguiled + You here; you paid me in advance." + Again I felt as though a trance + Had dimmed my faculties. Again + He spoke, and this time to explain. + "The money I demand is Life, + Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" + What infamous proposal now + Was made me with so calm a brow? + Bursting through my lethargy, + Indignantly I hurled the cry: + "Is this a nightmare, or am I + Drunk with some infernal wine? + I am no Faust, and what is mine + Is what I call my soul! Old Man! + Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan + Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," + And the old tones were very mild, + "I have no wish to barter souls; + My traffic does not ask such tolls. + I am no devil; is there one? + Surely the age of fear is gone. + We live within a daylight world + Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled + Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, + And then blow back the sun again. + I sell my fancies, or my swords, + To those who care far more for words, + Ideas, of which they are the sign, + Than any other life-design. + Who buy of me must simply pay + Their whole existence quite away: + Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, + Their hours from morning till the time + When evening comes on tiptoe feet, + And losing life, think it complete; + Must miss what other men count being, + To gain the gift of deeper seeing; + Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, + All which could hold or bind; must prove + The farthest boundaries of thought, + And shun no end which these have brought; + Then die in satisfaction, knowing + That what was sown was worth the sowing. + I claim for all the goods I sell + That they will serve their purpose well, + And though you perish, they will live. + Full measure for your pay I give. + To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. + What since has happened is the train + Your toiling brought. I spoke to you + For my share of the bargain, due." + "My life! And is that all you crave + In pay? What even childhood gave! + I have been dedicate from youth. + Before my God I speak the truth!" + Fatigue, excitement of the past + Few hours broke me down at last. + All day I had forgot to eat, + My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. + I bowed my head and felt the storm + Plough shattering through my prostrate form. + The tearless sobs tore at my heart. + My host withdrew himself apart; + Busied among his crockery, + He paid no farther heed to me. + Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, + Within the arms of the old carved chair. + + A long half-hour dragged away, + And then I heard a kind voice say, + "The day will soon be dawning, when + You must begin to work again. + Here are the things which you require." + By the fading light of the dying fire, + And by the guttering candle's flare, + I saw the old man standing there. + He handed me a packet, tied + With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside + Are seeds of many differing flowers, + To occupy your utmost powers + Of storied vision, and these swords + Are the finest which my shop affords. + Go home and use them; do not spare + Yourself; let that be all your care. + Whatever you have means to buy + Be very sure I can supply." + He slowly walked to the window, flung + It open, and in the grey air rung + The sound of distant matin bells. + I took my parcels. Then, as tells + An ancient mumbling monk his beads, + I tried to thank for his courteous deeds + My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," + He urged me, "you have a long walk + Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" + And gently sped upon my way + I stumbled out in the morning hush, + As down the empty street a flush + Ran level from the rising sun. + Another day was just begun. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWORD BLADES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Captured Goddess + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + Over the housetops, + Above the rotating chimney-pots, + I have seen a shiver of amethyst, + And blue and cinnamon have flickered + A moment, + At the far end of a dusty street. + + Through sheeted rain + Has come a lustre of crimson, + And I have watched moonbeams + Hushed by a film of palest green. + + It was her wings, + Goddess! + Who stepped over the clouds, + And laid her rainbow feathers + Aslant on the currents of the air. + + I followed her for long, + With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. + I cared not where she led me, + My eyes were full of colours: + Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, + And the indigo-blue of quartz; + Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, + Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, + The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, + The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. + I followed, + And watched for the flashing of her wings. + + In the city I found her, + The narrow-streeted city. + In the market-place I came upon her, + Bound and trembling. + Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, + She was naked and cold, + For that day the wind blew + Without sunshine. + + Men chaffered for her, + They bargained in silver and gold, + In copper, in wheat, + And called their bids across the market-place. + + The Goddess wept. + + Hiding my face I fled, + And the grey wind hissed behind me, + Along the narrow streets. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Precinct. Rochester + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, + Still and straight, + With their round blossoms spread open, + In the quiet sunshine. + And still is the old Roman wall, + Rough with jagged bits of flint, + And jutting stones, + Old and cragged, + Quite still in its antiquity. + The pear-trees press their branches against it, + And feeling it warm and kindly, + The little pears ripen to yellow and red. + They hang heavy, bursting with juice, + Against the wall. + So old, so still! + + The sky is still. + The clouds make no sound + As they slide away + Beyond the Cathedral Tower, + To the river, + And the sea. + It is very quiet, + Very sunny. + The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, + But make no sound. + The roses push their little tendrils up, + And climb higher and higher. + In spots they have climbed over the wall. + But they are very still, + They do not seem to move. + And the old wall carries them + Without effort, and quietly + Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms. + + A bird in a plane-tree + Sings a few notes, + Cadenced and perfect + They weave into the silence. + The Cathedral bell knocks, + One, two, three, and again, + And then again. + It is a quiet sound, + Calling to prayer, + Hardly scattering the stillness, + Only making it close in more densely. + The gardener picks ripe gooseberries + For the Dean's supper to-night. + It is very quiet, + Very regulated and mellow. + But the wall is old, + It has known many days. + It is a Roman wall, + Left-over and forgotten. + + Beyond the Cathedral Close + Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, + Not well-regulated. + People who care more for bread than for beauty, + Who would break the tombs of saints, + And give the painted windows of churches + To their children for toys. + People who say: + "They are dead, we live! + The world is for the living." + + Fools! It is always the dead who breed. + Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, + Yet its seeds shall fructify, + And trees rise where your huts were standing. + But the little people are ignorant, + They chaffer, and swarm. + They gnaw like rats, + And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. + + The Dean is in the Chapter House; + He is reading the architect's bill + For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. + He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, + And then he will walk up and down the path + By the wall, + And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, + Thinking how quiet and peaceful + The garden is. + The old wall will watch him, + Very quietly and patiently it will watch. + For the wall is old, + It is a Roman wall. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cyclists + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Spread on the roadway, + With open-blown jackets, + Like black, soaring pinions, + They swoop down the hillside, + The Cyclists. + + Seeming dark-plumaged + Birds, after carrion, + Careening and circling, + Over the dying + Of England. + + She lies with her bosom + Beneath them, no longer + The Dominant Mother, + The Virile—but rotting + Before time. + + The smell of her, tainted, + Has bitten their nostrils. + Exultant they hover, + And shadow the sun with + Foreboding. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, + Of outworn, childish mysteries, + Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! + And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream + Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. + + Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, + The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese + Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky + Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly + And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. + + Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk + From over-handling, by some anxious monk. + Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven + With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, + And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. + + They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung + By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung + In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, + Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen + Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They have watered the street, + It shines in the glare of lamps, + Cold, white lamps, + And lies + Like a slow-moving river, + Barred with silver and black. + Cabs go down it, + One, + And then another. + Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. + Tramps doze on the window-ledges, + Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. + The city is squalid and sinister, + With the silver-barred street in the midst, + Slow-moving, + A river leading nowhere. + + Opposite my window, + The moon cuts, + Clear and round, + Through the plum-coloured night. + She cannot light the city; + It is too bright. + It has white lamps, + And glitters coldly. + + I stand in the window and watch the moon. + She is thin and lustreless, + But I love her. + I know the moon, + And this is an alien city. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Astigmatism + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To Ezra Pound + + With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet took his walking-stick + Of fine and polished ebony. + Set in the close-grained wood + Were quaint devices; + Patterns in ambers, + And in the clouded green of jades. + The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, + And a tassel of tarnished gold + Hung by a faded cord from a hole + Pierced in the hard wood, + Circled with silver. + For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. + His wealth had gone to enrich it, + His experiences to pattern it, + His labour to fashion and burnish it. + To him it was perfect, + A work of art and a weapon, + A delight and a defence. + The Poet took his walking-stick + And walked abroad. + + Peace be with you, Brother. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came to a meadow. + Sifted through the grass were daisies, + Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. + The Poet struck them with his cane. + The little heads flew off, and they lay + Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, + On the hard ground. + "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came to a stream. + Purple and blue flags waded in the water; + In among them hopped the speckled frogs; + The wind slid through them, rustling. + The Poet lifted his cane, + And the iris heads fell into the water. + They floated away, torn and drowning. + "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, + "They are not roses." + + Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came to a garden. + Dahlias ripened against a wall, + Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, + And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour + With the red and gold of its blossoms. + Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. + The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, + And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. + Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. + Red and gold they lay scattered, + Red and gold, as on a battle field; + Red and gold, prone and dying. + "They were not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + But behind you is destruction, and waste places. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came home at evening, + And in the candle-light + He wiped and polished his cane. + The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, + And made the jades undulate like green pools. + It played along the bright ebony, + And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. + But these things were dead, + Only the candle-light made them seem to move. + "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Coal Picker + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He perches in the slime, inert, + Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. + The oil upon the puddles dries + To colours like a peacock's eyes, + And half-submerged tomato-cans + Shine scaly, as leviathans + Oozily crawling through the mud. + The ground is here and there bestud + With lumps of only part-burned coal. + His duty is to glean the whole, + To pick them from the filth, each one, + To hoard them for the hidden sun + Which glows within each fiery core + And waits to be made free once more. + Their sharp and glistening edges cut + His stiffened fingers. Through the smut + Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. + Wet through and shivering he kneels + And digs the slippery coals; like eels + They slide about. His force all spent, + He counts his small accomplishment. + A half-a-dozen clinker-coals + Which still have fire in their souls. + Fire! And in his thought there burns + The topaz fire of votive urns. + He sees it fling from hill to hill, + And still consumed, is burning still. + Higher and higher leaps the flame, + The smoke an ever-shifting frame. + He sees a Spanish Castle old, + With silver steps and paths of gold. + From myrtle bowers comes the plash + Of fountains, and the emerald flash + Of parrots in the orange trees, + Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. + He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke + Bears visions, that his master-stroke + Is out of dirt and misery + To light the fire of poesy. + He sees the glory, yet he knows + That others cannot see his shows. + To them his smoke is sightless, black, + His votive vessels but a pack + Of old discarded shards, his fire + A peddler's; still to him the pyre + Is incensed, an enduring goal! + He sighs and grubs another coal. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Storm-Racked + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How should I sing when buffeting salt waves + And stung with bitter surges, in whose might + I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night + Marshals its undefeated dark and raves + In brutal madness, reeling over graves + Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, + Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite + Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. + No parting cloud reveals a watery star, + My cries are washed away upon the wind, + My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, + My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. + But painted on the sky great visions burn, + My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Convalescence + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From out the dragging vastness of the sea, + Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, + He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands + One moment, white and dripping, silently, + Cut like a cameo in lazuli, + Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands + Prone in the jeering water, and his hands + Clutch for support where no support can be. + So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, + He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow + And sandflies dance their little lives away. + The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch + The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, + And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Patience + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be patient with you? + When the stooping sky + Leans down upon the hills + And tenderly, as one who soothing stills + An anguish, gathers earth to lie + Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When the snow-girt earth + Cracks to let through a spurt + Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt + A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth + To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When pain's iron bars + Their rivets tighten, stern + To bend and break their victims; as they turn, + Hopeless, there stand the purple jars + Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + You! My sun and moon! + My basketful of flowers! + My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, + Windless and still, of afternoon! + You are my world and I your citizen. + What meaning can have patience then? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Apology + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be not angry with me that I bear + Your colours everywhere, + All through each crowded street, + And meet + The wonder-light in every eye, + As I go by. + + Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, + Blinded by rainbow haze, + The stuff of happiness, + No less, + Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds + Of peacock golds. + + Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way + Flushes beneath its gray. + My steps fall ringed with light, + So bright, + It seems a myriad suns are strown + About the town. + + Around me is the sound of steepled bells, + And rich perfumed smells + Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, + And shroud + Me from close contact with the world. + I dwell impearled. + + You blazon me with jewelled insignia. + A flaming nebula + Rims in my life. And yet + You set + The word upon me, unconfessed + To go unguessed. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Petition + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I pray to be the tool which to your hand + Long use has shaped and moulded till it be + Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, + You take it for its service. I demand + To be forgotten in the woven strand + Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry + Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie + A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. + I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, + The railing to the stairway of the clouds, + To guard your steps securely up, where streams + A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby + You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Blockhead + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, + Unseparated atoms, and I must + Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust + Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, + There are none, ever. As a monk who prays + The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust + Each tasteless particle aside, and just + Begin again the task which never stays. + And I have known a glory of great suns, + When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! + Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, + And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! + Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand + Threw down the cup, and did not understand. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Stupidity + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch + I broke and bruised your rose. + I hardly could suppose + It were a thing so fragile that my clutch + Could kill it, thus. + + It stood so proudly up upon its stem, + I knew no thought of fear, + And coming very near + Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, + Tearing it down. + + Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, + The crimson petals, all + Outspread about my fall. + They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone + Of memory. + + And with my words I carve a little jar + To keep their scented dust, + Which, opening, you must + Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far + More grieved than you. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Irony + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An arid daylight shines along the beach + Dried to a grey monotony of tone, + And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon + The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach + Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach + The skeletons of fishes, every bone + Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, + The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. + And they are dead while waiting for the sea, + The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. + Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. + Only the shells and stones can wait to be + Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, + May not endure till time can bring them ease. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Happiness + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Happiness, to some, elation; + Is, to others, mere stagnation. + Days of passive somnolence, + At its wildest, indolence. + Hours of empty quietness, + No delight, and no distress. + + Happiness to me is wine, + Effervescent, superfine. + Full of tang and fiery pleasure, + Far too hot to leave me leisure + For a single thought beyond it. + Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it + Means to give one's soul to gain + Life's quintessence. Even pain + Pricks to livelier living, then + Wakes the nerves to laugh again, + Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. + Although we must die to-morrow, + Losing every thought but this; + Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. + + Happiness: We rarely feel it. + I would buy it, beg it, steal it, + Pay in coins of dripping blood + For this one transcendent good. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Last Quarter of the Moon + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, + A spatter of rust on its polished steel! + The seasons reel + Like a goaded wheel. + Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. + + The night is sliding towards the dawn, + And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. + A torn moon flees + Through the hemlock trees, + The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. + + Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing + A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. + Like dogs unleashed + After a beast, + They stream on the sky, an outflung string. + + A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, + Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, + And the fierce unrests + I keep as guests + Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. + + Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt + My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. + I have not quailed, + I was all unmailed + And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. + + The moon drops into the silver day + As waking out of her swoon she comes. + I hear the drums + Of millenniums + Beating the mornings I still must stay. + + The years I must watch go in and out, + While I build with water, and dig in air, + And the trumpets blare + Hollow despair, + The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. + + An atom tossed in a chaos made + Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. + Whence have I come? + What would be home? + I hear no answer. I am afraid! + + I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. + Pushed into nothingness by a breath, + And quench in a wreath + Of engulfing death + This fight for a God, or this devil's game. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Tale of Starvation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, + And a disagreeable man was he. + He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, + And he cursed eternally. + + He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, + And he blasted the winds in the sky. + He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, + And he raved at the birds as they fly. + + His oaths were many, and his range was wide, + He swore in fancy ways; + But his meaning was plain: that no created thing + Was other than a hurt to his gaze. + + He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, + And windows toward the hill there were none, + And on the other side they were white-washed thick, + To keep out every spark of the sun. + + When he went to market he walked all the way + Blaspheming at the path he trod. + He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, + By all the names he knew of God. + + For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, + And his hopes had curdled in his breast. + His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over + For the chinking money-bags she liked best. + + The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, + The deer had trampled on his corn, + His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, + And his sheep had died unshorn. + + His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, + And his old horse perished of a colic. + In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes + By little, glutton mice on a frolic. + + So he slowly lost all he ever had, + And the blood in his body dried. + Shrunken and mean he still lived on, + And cursed that future which had lied. + + One day he was digging, a spade or two, + As his aching back could lift, + When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, + And to get it out he made great shift. + + So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, + And the veins in his forehead stood taut. + At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, + He gathered up what he had sought. + + A dim old vase of crusted glass, + Prismed while it lay buried deep. + Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, + At the touch of the sun began to leap. + + It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; + Flashing like an opal-stone, + Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, + Where at first there had seemed to be none. + + It had handles on each side to bear it up, + And a belly for the gurgling wine. + Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, + And its lip was curled and fine. + + The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare + And the colours started up through the crust, + And he who had cursed at the yellow sun + Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. + + And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, + Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; + And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, + And the sun shone without his sneer. + + Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, + But it was only grey in the gloom. + So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, + And he went outside with a broom. + + And he washed his windows just to let the sun + Lie upon his new-found vase; + And when evening came, he moved it down + And put it on a table near the place + + Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. + The old man forgot to swear, + Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, + Dancing in the kitchen there. + + He forgot to revile the sun next morning + When he found his vase afire in its light. + And he carried it out of the house that day, + And kept it close beside him until night. + + And so it happened from day to day. + The old man fed his life + On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. + And his soul forgot its former strife. + + And the village-folk came and begged to see + The flagon which was dug from the ground. + And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy + At showing what he had found. + + One day the master of the village school + Passed him as he stooped at toil, + Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side + Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. + + "My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, + "That's a valuable thing you have there, + But it might get broken out of doors, + It should meet with the utmost care. + + What are you doing with it out here?" + "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, + "I like to have it about, do you see? + To be with it all I can." + + "You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, + "Mark my words and see!" + And he walked away, while the old man looked + At his treasure despondingly. + + Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! + He had toiled for it, and now he cared. + Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, + Which his own hard work had bared. + + He would carry it round with him everywhere, + As it gave him joy to do. + A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! + Who would dare to say so? Who? + + Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, + And he bent to his hoe again.... + A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, + And he lurched with a cry of pain. + + For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, + And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. + The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. + He did not curse, he had no words. + + He gathered the fragments, one by one, + And his fingers were cut and torn. + Then he made a hole in the very place + Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. + + He covered the hole, and he patted it down, + Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. + He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows + That no beam of light should cross the floor. + + He sat down in front of the empty hearth, + And he neither ate nor drank. + In three days they found him, dead and cold, + And they said: "What a queer old crank!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Foreigner + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Have at you, you Devils! + My back's to this tree, + For you're nothing so nice + That the hind-side of me + Would escape your assault. + Come on now, all three! + + Here's a dandified gentleman, + Rapier at point, + And a wrist which whirls round + Like a circular joint. + A spatter of blood, man! + That's just to anoint + + And make supple your limbs. + 'Tis a pity the silk + Of your waistcoat is stained. + Why! Your heart's full of milk, + And so full, it spills over! + I'm not of your ilk. + + You said so, and laughed + At my old-fashioned hose, + At the cut of my hair, + At the length of my nose. + To carve it to pattern + I think you propose. + + Your pardon, young Sir, + But my nose and my sword + Are proving themselves + In quite perfect accord. + I grieve to have spotted + Your shirt. On my word! + + And hullo! You Bully! + That blade's not a stick + To slash right and left, + And my skull is too thick + To be cleft with such cuffs + Of a sword. Now a lick + + Down the side of your face. + What a pretty, red line! + Tell the taverns that scar + Was an honour. Don't whine + That a stranger has marked you. + +</pre> + <p> + . . . . . + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + The tree's there, You Swine! + + Did you think to get in + At the back, while your friends + Made a little diversion + In front? So it ends, + With your sword clattering down + On the ground. 'Tis amends + + I make for your courteous + Reception of me, + A foreigner, landed + From over the sea. + Your welcome was fervent + I think you'll agree. + + My shoes are not buckled + With gold, nor my hair + Oiled and scented, my jacket's + Not satin, I wear + Corded breeches, wide hats, + And I make people stare! + + So I do, but my heart + Is the heart of a man, + And my thoughts cannot twirl + In the limited span + 'Twixt my head and my heels, + As some other men's can. + + I have business more strange + Than the shape of my boots, + And my interests range + From the sky, to the roots + Of this dung-hill you live in, + You half-rotted shoots + + Of a mouldering tree! + Here's at you, once more. + You Apes! You Jack-fools! + You can show me the door, + And jeer at my ways, + But you're pinked to the core. + + And before I have done, + I will prick my name in + With the front of my steel, + And your lily-white skin + Shall be printed with me. + For I've come here to win! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Absence + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My cup is empty to-night, + Cold and dry are its sides, + Chilled by the wind from the open window. + Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. + The room is filled with the strange scent + Of wistaria blossoms. + They sway in the moon's radiance + And tap against the wall. + But the cup of my heart is still, + And cold, and empty. + + When you come, it brims + Red and trembling with blood, + Heart's blood for your drinking; + To fill your mouth with love + And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Gift + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See! I give myself to you, Beloved! + My words are little jars + For you to take and put upon a shelf. + Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, + And they have many pleasant colours and lustres + To recommend them. + Also the scent from them fills the room + With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. + + When I shall have given you the last one, + You will have the whole of me, + But I shall be dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bungler + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You glow in my heart + Like the flames of uncounted candles. + But when I go to warm my hands, + My clumsiness overturns the light, + And then I stumble + Against the tables and chairs. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fool's Money Bags + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Outside the long window, + With his head on the stone sill, + The dog is lying, + Gazing at his Beloved. + His eyes are wet and urgent, + And his body is taut and shaking. + It is cold on the terrace; + A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, + But the dog gazes through the glass + And is content. + + The Beloved is writing a letter. + Occasionally she speaks to the dog, + But she is thinking of her writing. + Does she, too, give her devotion to one + Not worthy? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Miscast I + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, + So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, + So sharp that the air would turn its edge + Were it to be twisted in flight. + Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, + And the mark of them lies, in and out, + Worm-like, + With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. + My brain is curved like a scimitar, + And sighs at its cutting + Like a sickle mowing grass. + + But of what use is all this to me! + I, who am set to crack stones + In a country lane! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Miscast II + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My heart is like a cleft pomegranate + Bleeding crimson seeds + And dripping them on the ground. + My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, + And its seeds are bursting from it. + + But how is this other than a torment to me! + I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, + In a dark closet! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Anticipation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have been temperate always, + But I am like to be very drunk + With your coming. + There have been times + I feared to walk down the street + Lest I should reel with the wine of you, + And jerk against my neighbours + As they go by. + I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, + But my brain is noisy + With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Vintage + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I will mix me a drink of stars,— + Large stars with polychrome needles, + Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, + Cool, quiet, green stars. + I will tear them out of the sky, + And squeeze them over an old silver cup, + And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, + So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. + + It will lap and scratch + As I swallow it down; + And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, + Coiling and twisting in my belly. + His snortings will rise to my head, + And I shall be hot, and laugh, + Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Tree of Scarlet Berries + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The rain gullies the garden paths + And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. + A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. + Even so, I can see that it has red berries, + A scarlet fruit, + Filmed over with moisture. + It seems as though the rain, + Dripping from it, + Should be tinged with colour. + I desire the berries, + But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. + Probably, too, they are bitter. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Obligation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hold your apron wide + That I may pour my gifts into it, + So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them + From falling to the ground. + + I would pour them upon you + And cover you, + For greatly do I feel this need + Of giving you something, + Even these poor things. + + Dearest of my Heart! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Taxi + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I go away from you + The world beats dead + Like a slackened drum. + I call out for you against the jutted stars + And shout into the ridges of the wind. + Streets coming fast, + One after the other, + Wedge you away from me, + And the lamps of the city prick my eyes + So that I can no longer see your face. + Why should I leave you, + To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Giver of Stars + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hold your soul open for my welcoming. + Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me + With its clear and rippled coolness, + That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, + Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. + + Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, + That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, + The life and joy of tongues of flame, + And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, + I may rouse the blear-eyed world, + And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Temple + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. + Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue + Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew + And vanished in the sunshine. How it came + We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. + From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew + Together into fire. But we knew + The winds would slap and quench it in their game. + And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks + To treasure it, and placed them round about. + With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, + And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks + Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, + The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath this sod lie the remains + Of one who died of growing pains. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Answer to a Request + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, + Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? + Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June + And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? + For your sake, I would go and seek the year, + Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, + Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon + Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer + Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! + My shadow stretches forward, and the ground + Is dark in front because the light's behind. + It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, + In watching it and walking I have found + More than enough to occupy my mind. + + I cannot turn, the light would make me blind. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POPPY SEED + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 + + A yellow band of light upon the street + Pours from an open door, and makes a wide + Pathway of bright gold across a sheet + Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside + Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch + Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, + The clip of tankards on a table top, + And stir of booted heels. Against the patch + Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth + Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, + Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. + Within his cellar men can have to drink + The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed + To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art + Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. + Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, + Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart + A cap as ever in his wantonness + Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 3 + + Tall candles stand upon the table, where + Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, + Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were + Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. + The centre of the board is piled with pipes, + Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay + Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault + Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way + Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes + And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 4 + + "For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" + Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. + "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, + From that small barrel in the very roots + Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! + Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. + We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke + His best tobacco for a grand climax. + Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, + We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 5 + + Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. + "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." + The host set down a jar; then to a vat + Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. + Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem + Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew + The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. + It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew + Into the silver night. At once there flung + Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 6 + + "Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, + Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? + My master sent me to inquire where + Such men do mostly be, but every door + Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. + I pray you tell me where I may now find + One versed in law, the matter will not wait." + "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind + Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. + I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 7 + + Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, + Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy + Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout + Within the tavern jeered at his employ. + Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, + Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, + Flooded the open spaces, and took flight + Before tall, serried houses in platoon, + Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House + They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 8 + + Before a door which fronted a canal + The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. + The water lapped the stones in musical + And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot + Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. + The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame + Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, + And through the open door Max went toward + Another door, whence sound of voices came. + He entered a large room where candelabra burned. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 9 + + An aged man in quilted dressing gown + Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent + Your messenger to seek throughout the town + A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, + But I am at your service, and my name + Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." + "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged + Am I, and count myself much privileged. + I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame + Is better known on distant oceans than on land. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 10 + + My ship has tasted water in strange seas, + And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. + She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, + And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." + "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, + "Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." + The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, + "My good friend, Grootver,—" he at once began. + "No introductions, let us have some wine, + And business, now that you at last have made your choice." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 11 + + A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, + This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. + Kurler explained, his old hands nervously + Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought + From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay + The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind + Had so delayed him that his cargo brought + But half its proper price, the very day + He came to port he stepped ashore to find + The market glutted and his counted profits naught. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 12 + + Little by little Max made out the way + That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. + His money he must have, too long delay + Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. + "But let me take my ship, with many bales + Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, + Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste + Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails + Open for home, such stores will I bring you + That all your former ventures will be counted waste. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 13 + + Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, + And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, + Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam + Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, + Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. + Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard + The deed to which the sailor gave his word. + He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed + The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, + He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 14 + + For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, + Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. + But on one black and most unfriendly day + Grootver had caught her as she passed between + The kitchen and the garden. She had run + In fear of him, his evil leering eye, + And when he came she, bolted in her room, + Refused to show, though gave no reason why. + The spinning of her future had begun, + On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 15 + + Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, + Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. + He felt his hands were building up the pyre + To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo + He staggered to his chair. Before him lay + White paper still unspotted by a crime. + "Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. + "`If in two years my vessel should yet stay + From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime + A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 16 + + And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, + And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. + Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. + Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" + He shuffled from the room, and left the house. + His footsteps wore to silence down the street. + At last the aged man began to rouse. + With help he once more gained his trembling feet. + "My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. + Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 17 + + Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, + "Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, + So to protect your daughter from all harm + As one man may." Thus sorrowful, forlorn, + The situation to Max Breuck appeared, + He gave his promise almost without thought, + Nor looked to see a difficulty. "Bred + Gently to watch a mother left alone; + Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared + The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 18 + + Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. + Last Winter she died also, and my days + Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, + And undo habits used to earn her praise. + My leisure I will gladly give to see + Your household and your daughter prosperous." + The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. + He could not brook that his humility, + So little wonted, and so tremulous, + Should first before a stranger make such great display. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 19 + + "Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, + I sail at the full sea, my daughter then + I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon + If after I have bid good-by, and when + Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, + You bring her home again. She lives with one + Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. + But that is no friend for so free a heart. + No head to match her questions. It is done. + And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 20 + + My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam + As home, so not a letter can you send. + I shall be back, before to where I am + Another ship could reach. Now your stipend—" + Quickly Breuck interposed. "When you once more + Tread on the stones which pave our streets.—Good night! + To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, + At the great wharf." Then hurrying, in spite + Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon + Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 + + 'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, + And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. + The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here + The sun sank deep into the waters cold. + And every clock and belfry in the town + Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, + To shake the sunny morning into life, + And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, + Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, + Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 22 + + The "Horn of Fortune" sails away to-day. + At highest tide she lets her anchor go, + And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! + Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, + And beckons to her boats to let her start. + Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. + The shining waves are quick to take her part. + They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, + Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize + And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 23 + + At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, + And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. + Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, + Bowing before them both. The brigantine + Bounces impatient at the long delay, + Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. + A heavy galliot unloads on the walls + Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls + Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more + Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 24 + + Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, + Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. + Max moved aside and let her be alone, + For grief exacts each penny of its toll. + The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. + A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, + Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again + Upon the other side. Now on the lee + It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight + Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 25 + + Then up above the eager brigantine, + Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, + Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine + Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight + Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, + Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. + They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, + The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw + She glided imperceptibly away, + Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 26 + + Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, + Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. + Before the iron gateway, clasped between + Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, + Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? + My father told me of your courtesy. + Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me + To show such hospitality as maiden may, + Without disdaining rules must not be broke. + Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 27 + + She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. + Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones + Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, + It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones + Are budded with much peering at the rows, + And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. + Max started at the beauty, at the glare + Of tints. At either end was set a wide + Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows + Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 28 + + From side to side, midway each path, there ran + A longer one which cut the space in two. + And, like a tunnel some magician + Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, + Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers + Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came + The plump and heavy apples crowding stood + And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame + Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers + They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 29 + + Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, + Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun + From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes + Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one + Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. + Bordered along the wall, in beds between, + Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, + The pride of all the garden, there were more + Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. + They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 30 + + "Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring + Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best + Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring + Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest + To please her guest she flew. A moment more + She came again, with her old nurse behind. + Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, + She talked as someone with a noble store + Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, + Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 31 + + The little apple leaves above their heads + Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, + In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds + Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule + And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes + Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues + Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed + To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes + Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. + Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 32 + + Of every pattern and in every shade. + Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. + Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made + An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. + Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. + Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. + They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, + Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. + The shade within the arbour made a port + To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 33 + + Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, + This child matured to woman unaware, + The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked + Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. + Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, + And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich + And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died + Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, + She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch + At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 34 + + Two years was long! She loved her father well, + But fears she had not. He had always been + Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell + On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen + Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. + Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! + Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. + Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, + The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall. + When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 35 + + The next day, and the next, Max went to ask + The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: + Another tulip blown, or the great task + Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; + The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles + Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. + Such things were Christine's world, and his was she + Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. + Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, + Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 36 + + Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself + The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. + As one in charge of guineas on a shelf + Loose in a china teapot, may confess + His need, but may not borrow till his friend + Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said + No word of love or marriage; but the days + He clipped off on his almanac. The end + Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, + Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 37 + + Two years had made Christine a woman grown, + With dignity and gently certain pride. + But all her childhood fancies had not flown, + Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. + Max was her trusted friend, did she confess + A closer happiness? Max could not tell. + Two years were over and his life he found + Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness + He waited for the "Horn of Fortune". Well + Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 38 + + Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass + Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came + Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass + Was justified, for he had won the game. + Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, + And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship + Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank + To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent + For Max. "Come quickly," said her note, "I skip + The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 39 + + Through the long sunshine of late afternoon + Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost + In bitter reverie, he found her soon. + And sitting down beside her, at the cost + Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing + So suddenly has happened?" Then, in tears, + She told that Grootver, on the following morn, + Would come to marry her, and shuddering: + "I will die rather, death has lesser fears." + Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 40 + + "My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! + I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. + In strictest honour I have played my part; + But all this misery has overthrown + My scruples. If you love me, marry me + Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. + You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, + Can eat his anger. My care it shall be + To pay your father's debt, by such degrees + As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 41 + + This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known + My love, and silence forced upon my lips. + I worship you with all the strength I've shown + In keeping faith." With pleading finger tips + He touched her arm. "Christine! Beloved! Think. + Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, + I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? + They've been in leash so long upon the brink." + She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. + Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 42 + + And they were married ere the westering sun + Had disappeared behind the garden trees. + The evening poured on them its benison, + And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, + Rose up around them from the beamy ground, + Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. + Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, + In such enraptured sweetness as they found + Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon + To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 43 + + At last Max spoke, "Dear Heart, this night is ours, + To watch it pale, together, into dawn, + Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers + Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, + Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, + Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. + For that desired thing I leave you now. + To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, + By telling Grootver that a bootless quest + Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 44 + + But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, + Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. + And wound her arms about his knees and thighs + As he stood over her. With dread, begot + Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, + She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint + Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, + Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint + Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright + With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 45 + + But at the gate once more she held him close + And quenched her heart again upon his lips. + "My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose + But to be gone one hour! Evening slips + Away, this errand must be done." "Max! Max! + First goes my father, if I lose you now!" + She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. + Softly he laughed, "One hour through the town + By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. + Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 46 + + One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. + We front another day as man and wife. + I shall be back almost before I'm gone, + And midnight shall anoint and crown our life." + Then through the gate he passed. Along the street + She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. + He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. + Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. + Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, + Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 47 + + Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. + His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot + He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall + Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. + He dreaded no man, since he could protect + Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. + His starved life had not fitted him for joy. + It strained him to the utmost to reject + Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. + "Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 48 + + He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol + To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. + In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. + And he would be returned, lifting the latch + Of his own gate, eager to take Christine + And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? + He broke into a run. In front, a line + Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. + Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day + Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 49 + + "Why, Max! Stop, Max!" And out they came pell-mell, + His old companions. "Max, where have you been? + Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! + How many months is it since we have seen + You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! + Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, + Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. + Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; + Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. + Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 50 + + They forced him to a seat, and held him there, + Despite his anger, while the hideous joke + Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care + A brimming glass of whiskey. "Here, we've broke + Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! + Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? + Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! + Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think." + Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, + Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 51 + + Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried + To quell the uproar, told them what he dared + Of his own life and circumstance. Implied + Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. + In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, + And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more + Goaded and bursting;—"Cowards! Is no one loth + To mock at duty—" Here they called for ale, + And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath + He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 52 + + Sobered a little by his violence, + And by the host who begged them to be still, + Nor injure his good name, "Max, no offence," + They blurted, "you may leave now if you will." + "One moment, Max," said Franz. "We've gone too far. + I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. + It started in a wager ere you came. + The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar + I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, + Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 53 + + Its properties are to induce a sleep + Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time + Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep + Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime + Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream + Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock + Are but so many seconds. We agreed + That the next man who came should prove the scheme; + And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. + Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 54 + + "It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!" + Max Breuck was maddened now. "Another jest + Of your befuddled wits. I know not why + I am to be your butt. At my request + You'll choose among you one who'll answer for + Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night + And good-by,—gentlemen. You'll hear from me." + But Franz had caught him at the very door, + "It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight + I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 55 + + You have no business, that is why we laughed, + Since you had none a few minutes ago. + As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, + Knowing the length of time it takes to do + A simple thing like that in this slow world. + Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. + I'll burn the drug if you prefer." But Breuck + Muttered and stared,—"A lie." And then he hurled, + Distraught, this word at Franz: "Prove it. And when + It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 56 + + I'll give you just one week to make your case. + On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, + I shall require your proof." With wondering face + Franz cried, "A week to August, and fourteen + The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. + April, and eighteen-twelve." Max staggered, caught + A chair,—"April two years ago! Indeed, + Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how + Either could blunder so." Hilverdink brought + "The Amsterdam Gazette", and Max was forced to read. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 57 + + "Eighteen hundred and twelve," in largest print; + And next to it, "April the twenty-first." + The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint + Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, + He read it, and into his pounding brain + Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea + Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: + "This is two years ago! What of Christine?" + He fled the cellar, in his agony + Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 58 + + The darkened buildings echoed to his feet + Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. + Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet + And terror-winged steps. His heart began + To labour at the speed. And still no sign, + No flutter of a leaf against the sky. + And this should be the garden wall, and round + The corner, the old gate. No even line + Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry + Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 59 + + Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, + They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones + To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine + Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones + Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, + Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, + The twisted iron of the garden gate, + Was there. The houses touched and left no space + Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves + Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 60 + + Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. + His slobbering lips could only cry, "Christine! + My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? + What future is our past? What saturnine, + Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live + Two years together in a puff of smoke? + It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, + Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give + Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke + Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 61 + + His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. + The moon had long been set. And still he cried: + "Christine! My Love! Christine!" A sudden spark + Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied + With his uncertain vision, so within + Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, + A latticed window where a crimson gleam + Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, + An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth + Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 62 + + Softly he knocked against the casement, wide + It flew, and a cracked voice his business there + Demanded. The door opened, and inside + Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air + Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. + "Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve + You?" "Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? + I want a pistol." Quick the old man grew + Livid. "Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve + You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms—" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 63 + + "Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose + My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been + Blest above others. You have many rows + Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen + Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts + Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' + Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! + 'Twill serve my turn though—" Hastily he counts + The florins down upon the table. "Well, + Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 64 + + Into the night again he hurried, now + Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town + He set his goal. And then he wondered how + Poor C. D. L. had come to die. "It's grown + Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, + And will work punctually." His sorrow fell + Upon his senses, shutting out all else. + Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought + The heavy miles away. "Christine. I'm well. + I'm coming. My Own Wife!" He lurched with failing pulse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 65 + + Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, + And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. + The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts + Long stealthy fingers up some way to find + And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here + The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. + No lights were burning in the distant thorps. + Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, + Babbled "Christine!" A shot split through the breeze. + The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Virgin Mary, far away, + Look down from Heaven while I pray. + Open your golden casement high, + And lean way out beyond the sky. + I am so little, it may be + A task for you to harken me. + + O Lady Mary, I have bought + A candle, as the good priest taught. + I only had one penny, so + Old Goody Jenkins let it go. + It is a little bent, you see. + But Oh, be merciful to me! + + I have not anything to give, + Yet I so long for him to live. + A year ago he sailed away + And not a word unto today. + I've strained my eyes from the sea-wall + But never does he come at all. + + Other ships have entered port + Their voyages finished, long or short, + And other sailors have received + Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved. + My heart is bursting for his hail, + O Virgin, let me spy his sail. + + <i>Hull down on the edge of a sun-soaked sea + Sparkle the bellying sails for me. + Taut to the push of a rousing wind + Shaking the sea till it foams behind, + The tightened rigging is shrill with the song: + "We are back again who were gone so long."</i> + + One afternoon I bumped my head. + I sat on a post and wished I were dead + Like father and mother, for no one cared + Whither I went or how I fared. + A man's voice said, "My little lad, + Here's a bit of a toy to make you glad." + + Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, + With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain + Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail + Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail + Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, + Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen. + + He held out his hand and gave to me + The most marvellous top which could ever be. + It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, + And a red stone carved into little wings, + All joined by a twisted golden line, + And set in the brown wood, even and fine. + + Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought + My treasure to you as I ought, + But he said to keep it for his sake + And comfort myself with it, and take + Joy in its spinning, and so I do. + It couldn't mean quite the same to you. + + Every day I met him there, + Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. + He told me stories of courts and kings, + Of storms at sea, of lots of things. + The top he said was a sort of sign + That something in the big world was mine. + + <i>Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. + Against the horizon a glint in motion. + Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, + Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, + Singing and shouting to port she races, + A flying harp, with her sheets and braces.</i> + + O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, + I am in very utmost need. + He loved me, he was all I had, + And when he came it made the sad + Thoughts disappear. This very day + Send his ship home to me I pray. + + I'll be a priest, if you want it so, + I'll work till I have enough to go + And study Latin to say the prayers + On the rosary our old priest wears. + I wished to be a sailor too, + But I will give myself to you. + + I'll never even spin my top, + But put it away in a box. I'll stop + Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. + I'll save my pennies till I have bought + A silver heart in the market square, + I've seen some beautiful, white ones there. + + I'll give up all I want to do + And do whatever you tell me to. + Heavenly Lady, take away + All the games I like to play, + Take my life to fill the score, + Only bring him back once more! + + <i>The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, + And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. + The gray dust whirls in the market square, + And the silver hearts are covered with care + By thick tarpaulins. Once again + The bay is black under heavy rain.</i> + + The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. + A little boy weeps and prays no more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But why did I kill him? Why? Why? + In the small, gilded room, near the stair? + My ears rack and throb with his cry, + And his eyes goggle under his hair, + As my fingers sink into the fair + White skin of his throat. It was I! + + I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? + I shook him until his red tongue + Hung flapping out through the black, queer, + Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung + With my nails drawing blood, while I flung + The loose, heavy body in fear. + + Fear lest he should still not be dead. + I was drunk with the lust of his life. + The blood-drops oozed slow from his head + And dabbled a chair. And our strife + Lasted one reeling second, his knife + Lay and winked in the lights overhead. + + And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, + When I called him a low, sneaking cur. + And the wail of the violins stirred + My brute anger with visions of her. + As I throttled his windpipe, the purr + Of his breath with the waltz became blurred. + + I have ridden ten miles through the dark, + With that music, an infernal din, + Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! + One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in + To his flesh when the violins, thin + And straining with passion, grow stark. + + One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! + While she danced I was crushing his throat. + He had tasted the joy of her, wound + Round her body, and I heard him gloat + On the favour. That instant I smote. + One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round! + + He is here in the room, in my arm, + His limp body hangs on the spin + Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm + Of blood-drops is hemming us in! + Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin + Is red like his tongue lolling warm. + + One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. + He is heavy, his feet beat the floor + As I drag him about in the swell + Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, + The trumpets crash in through the door. + One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell. + + One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space + Rolls the earth to the hideous glee + Of death! And so cramped is this place, + I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! + Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! + He has covered my mouth with his face! + + And his blood has dripped into my heart! + And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! + Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part + Of my body in tentacles. Through + My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue + His dead body holds me athwart. + + One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! + One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! + One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, + Beats me into a jelly! The chime, + One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. + Air! Give me air! Air! My God! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The fountain bent and straightened itself + In the night wind, + Blowing like a flower. + It gleamed and glittered, + A tall white lily, + Under the eye of the golden moon. + From a stone seat, + Beneath a blossoming lime, + The man watched it. + And the spray pattered + On the dim grass at his feet. + + The fountain tossed its water, + Up and up, like silver marbles. + Is that an arm he sees? + And for one moment + Does he catch the moving curve + Of a thigh? + The fountain gurgled and splashed, + And the man's face was wet. + + Is it singing that he hears? + A song of playing at ball? + The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, + And through it he sees a woman, + Tossing the water-balls. + Her breasts point outwards, + And the nipples are like buds of peonies. + Her flanks ripple as she plays, + And the water is not more undulating + Than the lines of her body. + + "Come," she sings, "Poet! + Am I not more worth than your day ladies, + Covered with awkward stuffs, + Unreal, unbeautiful? + What do you fear in taking me? + Is not the night for poets? + I am your dream, + Recurrent as water, + Gemmed with the moon!" + + She steps to the edge of the pool + And the water runs, rustling, down her sides. + She stretches out her arms, + And the fountain streams behind her + Like an opened veil. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the morning the gardeners came to their work. + "There is something in the fountain," said one. + They shuddered as they laid their dead master + On the grass. + "I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, + "It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Basket + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, + in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into + the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air + is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + + See how the roof glitters, like ice! + + Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand + two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. + She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, + between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper + as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", + what a title for a book! + + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating + his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits + on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. + And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, + and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. + + "It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. + How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters + like ice. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter + to pay his morning's work with a holiday. + + "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" + + Peter jumps through the window. + + "Dear, are you alone?" + + "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread + is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have + seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" + + The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, + at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, + and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with + so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds + new-opened on their stems. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. + + "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. + My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little + pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. + The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes + are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do + any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down + and amuse me while I rest." + + The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb + the opposite wall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, + and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, + where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. + + The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. + His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room + is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands + the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour + on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs + his name. + + "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." + + And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. + + There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." + + "How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, + I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write + `No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, + that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage + strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied + the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, + you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. + Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot + feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." + + "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will + crush your heart and squeeze the love out." + + He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." + + "Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must + have sight! I <i>must</i>!" + + The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, + the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman + by a silver thread. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there + are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased + in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket + is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. + They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce + over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting + on the window-sill, eating human eyes. + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines + like ice. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, + and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, + and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them + burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". + + The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? + Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" + + The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, + bounces over and disappears. + + The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow + the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. + + A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, + and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Annette! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In a Castle + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip—hiss—drip—hiss— + fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, + and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip—hiss—the rain never stops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim, + in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinks + the rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes + the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewise + out from the wall, and then falls back again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly. + He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling. + The fire flutters and drops. Drip—hiss—the rain never stops. + He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor. + Outside, the wind goes wailing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above, + in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shivers + in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame. + She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her. + + How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet, + and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms, + and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms + her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself + beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble. + + Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, + terribly abhorred? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinks + on the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pure + and whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him, + for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes her + by the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord, + and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn, + shriven by her great love. + + Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops. + The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters. + Will the lady lose courage and not come? + + The rain claps on a loosened rafter. + + Is that laughter? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters. + One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rain + which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries + which chatters? + + The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall + the arras is blown! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds. + By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and + clasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form + and flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire, + which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noise + never stops. + + Drip—hiss—the rain drops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops. + For the storm never stops. + + On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, + grey air. Drip—hiss—fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. + The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. + A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along + the rush mat. + + A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. + It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life + for the high favour." + + Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, + "Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded + necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, + she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, + you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, + they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, + I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck + to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." + The end was a splashed flourish of ink. + + Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. + The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering + in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip—hiss—drip—hiss— + fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops. + + The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. + Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. + Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + In the castle church you may see them stand, + Two sumptuous tombs on either hand + Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand + In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, + A crusader, come from the Holy Land, + Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. + The page's name became a brand + For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, + After having been burnt by royal command. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Bell in the convent tower swung. + High overhead the great sun hung, + A navel for the curving sky. + The air was a blue clarity. + Swallows flew, + And a cock crew. + + The iron clanging sank through the light air, + Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare + Of spotted green, and a snake had gone + Into the bed where the snowdrops shone + In green new-started, + Their white bells parted. + + Two by two, in a long brown line, + The nuns were walking to breathe the fine + Bright April air. They must go in soon + And work at their tasks all the afternoon. + But this time is theirs! + They walk in pairs. + + First comes the Abbess, preoccupied + And slow, as a woman often tried, + With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. + Then younger and younger, until the last one + Has a laugh on her lips, + And fairly skips. + + They wind about the gravel walks + And all the long line buzzes and talks. + They step in time to the ringing bell, + With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well + In the core of a sky + Domed silverly. + + Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." + Sister Angelique said she must get her spud + And free the earth round the jasmine roots. + Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! + There's a crocus up, + With a purple cup." + + But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, + She looked up and down the old grey wall + To see if a lizard were basking there. + She looked across the garden to where + A sycamore + Flanked the garden door. + + She was restless, although her little feet danced, + And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced + Her morning's work had hung in her mind + And would not take form. She could not find + The beautifulness + For the Virgin's dress. + + Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? + Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? + Should it be banded with yellow and white + Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? + Or a crimson sheen + Over some sort of green? + + But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new + In all the garden, no single hue + So lovely or so marvellous + That its use would not seem impious. + So on she walked, + And the others talked. + + Sister Elisabeth edged away + From what her companion had to say, + For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, + She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. + She did plain stitching + And worked in the kitchen. + + "Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, + I told her so this Friday past. + I must speak to her before Compline." + Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. + The other nun sighed, + With her pleasure quite dried. + + Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: + "The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. + The little white cups bent over the ground, + And in among the light stems wound + A crested snake, + With his eyes awake. + + His body was green with a metal brightness + Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, + And all down his curling length were disks, + Evil vermilion asterisks, + They paled and flooded + As wounds fresh-blooded. + + His crest was amber glittered with blue, + And opaque so the sun came shining through. + It seemed a crown with fiery points. + When he quivered all down his scaly joints, + From every slot + The sparkles shot. + + The nuns huddled tightly together, fear + Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer + More closely at the beautiful snake, + She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make + Colours so rare, + The dress were there. + + The Abbess shook off her lethargy. + "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. + Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, + The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. + Only Clotilde + Was the last to yield. + + When the recreation hour was done + Each went in to her task. Alone + In the library, with its great north light, + Clotilde wrought at an exquisite + Wreath of flowers + For her Book of Hours. + + She twined the little crocus blooms + With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms + Of laurel leaves were interwoven + With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven + Fritillaries, + Whose colour varies. + + They framed the picture she had made, + Half-delighted and half-afraid. + In a courtyard with a lozenged floor + The Virgin watched, and through the arched door + The angel came + Like a springing flame. + + His wings were dipped in violet fire, + His limbs were strung to holy desire. + He lowered his head and passed under the arch, + And the air seemed beating a solemn march. + The Virgin waited + With eyes dilated. + + Her face was quiet and innocent, + And beautiful with her strange assent. + A silver thread about her head + Her halo was poised. But in the stead + Of her gown, there remained + The vellum, unstained. + + Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, + Lingering over each tint and dye. + She could spend great pains, now she had seen + That curious, unimagined green. + A colour so strange + It had seemed to change. + + She thought it had altered while she gazed. + At first it had been simple green; then glazed + All over with twisting flames, each spot + A molten colour, trembling and hot, + And every eye + Seemed to liquefy. + + She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. + After all, she had only glanced + At that wonderful snake, and she must know + Just what hues made the creature throw + Those splashes and sprays + Of prismed rays. + + When evening prayers were sung and said, + The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. + And soon in the convent there was no light, + For the moon did not rise until late that night, + Only the shine + Of the lamp at the shrine. + + Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. + Her heart shook her body with its beats. + She could not see till the moon should rise, + So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes + On the window-square + Till light should be there. + + The faintest shadow of a branch + Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch + With solemn purpose, softly rose + And fluttered down between the rows + Of sleeping nuns. + She almost runs. + + She must go out through the little side door + Lest the nuns who were always praying before + The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. + She pushed the bolts, and over the grass + The red moon's brim + Mounted its rim. + + Her shadow crept up the convent wall + As she swiftly left it, over all + The garden lay the level glow + Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. + The gravel glistened. + She stopped and listened. + + It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. + She laughed a little, but she felt queerer + Than ever before. The snowdrop bed + Was reached and she bent down her head. + On the striped ground + The snake was wound. + + For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, + Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. + She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. + She darted her hand out, and seized the thick + Wriggling slime, + Only just in time. + + The old gardener came muttering down the path, + And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, + And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. + He bit her, but what difference did that make! + The Virgin should dress + In his loveliness. + + The gardener was covering his new-set plants + For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts + Your lover of growing things. He spied + Something to do and turned aside, + And the moonlight streamed + On Clotilde, and gleamed. + + His business finished the gardener rose. + He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows + A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she + Grasping him, laughing, while quietly + Her eyes are weeping. + Is he sleeping? + + He thinks it is some holy vision, + Brushes that aside and with decision + Jumps—and hits the snake with his stick, + Crushes his spine, and then with quick, + Urgent command + Takes her hand. + + The gardener sucks the poison and spits, + Cursing and praying as befits + A poor old man half out of his wits. + "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's + Hatched of a devil + And very evil. + + It's one of them horrid basilisks + You read about. They say a man risks + His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it + Out by now. Lucky I chucked it + Away from you. + I guess you'll do." + + "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast + Was sent to me, to me the least + Worthy in all our convent, so I + Could finish my picture of the Most High + And Holy Queen, + In her dress of green. + + He is dead now, but his colours won't fade + At once, and by noon I shall have made + The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see + How kindly the moon shines down on me! + I can't die yet, + For the task was set." + + "You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," + Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. + If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,—" + "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." + So Clotilde vented + Her creed. He repented. + + "He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. + "Paint as much as you like." And gingerly + He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde + Thanked him, and begged that he would shield + Her secret, though itching + To talk in the kitchen. + + The gardener promised, not very pleased, + And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, + Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon + Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon + In her bed she lay + And waited for day. + + At dawn's first saffron-spired warning + Clotilde was up. And all that morning, + Except when she went to the chapel to pray, + She painted, and when the April day + Was hot with sun, + Clotilde had done. + + Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud + At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed + To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. + A lady, in excellence arrayed, + And wonder-souled. + Christ's Blessed Mould! + + From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, + But her eyes were starred like those of a saint + Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. + A sudden clamour hurled its rude + Force to break + Her vision awake. + + The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed + By the multitude of nuns. They hushed + When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, + Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. + And all the hive + Buzzed "She's alive!" + + Old Francois had told. He had found the strain + Of silence too great, and preferred the pain + Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, + And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. + For Francois, to spite them, + Had not seen fit to right them. + + The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, + Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, + Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, + To spare you while you imaged her face? + How could we have guessed + Our convent so blessed! + + A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! + To have you die! And I, who am + A hollow, living shell, the grave + Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave + To be taken, Dear Mother, + Instead of this other." + + She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, + With anguished hands and tears delayed + To a painful slowness. The minutes drew + To fractions. Then the west wind blew + The sound of a bell, + On a gusty swell. + + It came skipping over the slates of the roof, + And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof + To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. + The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. + And the sun lit the flowers + In Clotilde's Book of Hours. + + It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress + And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, + Pulse and start; and the violet wings + Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. + The book seemed a choir + Of rainbow fire. + + The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun + Did the same, then one by one, + They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers + Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. + Clotilde, the Inspired! + + She only felt tired. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The old chronicles say she did not die + Until heavy with years. And that is why + There hangs in the convent church a basket + Of osiered silver, a holy casket, + And treasured therein + A dried snake-skin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Exeter Road + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Panels of claret and blue which shine + Under the moon like lees of wine. + A coronet done in a golden scroll, + And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll + Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. + They daren't look back! + + They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! + What brutes men are when they think they're scored. + Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, + In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see + That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, + Hop about and slue. + + They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. + For my lord has a casket full of rolls + Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. + I laugh to think how he'll show his scars + In London to-morrow. He whines with rage + In his varnished cage. + + My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. + 'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. + But I shall relieve her of them yet, + When I see she limps in the minuet + I must beg to celebrate this night, + And the green moonlight. + + There's nothing to hurry about, the plain + Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. + My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, + In half an hour I'll bag the coins. + 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. + The chase is the thing! + + How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon + Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune + Is beating out of the curses and screams, + And the cracking all through the painted seams. + Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. + 'Tis a rare fine night! + + There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, + And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. + It seems a shame to break the air + In two with this pistol, but I've my share + Of drudgery like other men. + His hat? Amen! + + Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! + Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, + Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. + 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. + A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! + They'll get me, of course. + + The cursed coach will reach the town + And they'll all come out, every loafer grown + A lion to handcuff a man that's down. + What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! + I'll give it a head to fit it pat. + Thank you! No cravat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>They handcuffed the body just for style, + And they hung him in chains for the volatile + Wind to scour him flesh from bones. + Way out on the moor you can hear the groans + His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. + 'Tis a common tale.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Shadow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul Jannes was working very late, + For this watch must be done by eight + To-morrow or the Cardinal + Would certainly be vexed. Of all + His customers the old prelate + Was the most important, for his state + Descended to his watches and rings, + And he gave his mistresses many things + To make them forget his age and smile + When he paid visits, and they could while + The time away with a diamond locket + Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, + And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. + This watch was made to buy him blisses + From an Austrian countess on her way + Home, and she meant to start next day. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame + Of a tallow candle, and became + So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince + Striking the hour a moment since. + Its echo, only half apprehended, + Lingered about the room. He ended + Screwing the little rubies in, + Setting the wheels to lock and spin, + Curling the infinitesimal springs, + Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings + Of precious stones lay strewn about. + The table before him was a rout + Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. + There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite + A heap of emeralds, and steel. + Here was a gem, there was a wheel. + And glasses lay like limpid lakes + Shining and still, and there were flakes + Of silver, and shavings of pearl, + And little wires all awhirl + With the light of the candle. He took the watch + And wound its hands about to match + The time, then glanced up to take the hour + From the hanging clock. + Good, Merciful Power! + How came that shadow on the wall, + No woman was in the room! His tall + Chiffonier stood gaunt behind + His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, + Hung from a peg. The door was closed. + Just for a moment he must have dozed. + He looked again, and saw it plain. + The silhouette made a blue-black stain + On the opposite wall, and it never wavered + Even when the candle quavered + Under his panting breath. What made + That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade + Of something so lovely, so exquisite, + Cast from a substance which the sight + Had not been tutored to perceive? + Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve. + + Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall + Gleamed black, and never moved at all. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul's watches were like amulets, + Wrought into patterns and rosettes; + The cases were all set with stones, + And wreathing lines, and shining zones. + He knew the beauty in a curve, + And the Shadow tortured every nerve + With its perfect rhythm of outline + Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine + Was the neck he knew he could have spanned + It about with the fingers of one hand. + The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, + But could not see, the lips were pressed + Loosely together, the edges close, + And the proud and delicate line of the nose + Melted into a brow, and there + Broke into undulant waves of hair. + The lady was edged with the stamp of race. + A singular vision in such a place. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He moved the candle to the tall + Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. + He threw his cloak upon a chair, + And still the lady's face was there. + From every corner of the room + He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom + That was the lady. Her violet bloom + Was almost brighter than that which came + From his candle's tulip-flame. + He set the filigree hands; he laid + The watch in the case which he had made; + He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed + His candle out. The room seemed stuffed + With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, + And let himself out through the door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sun was flashing from every pin + And wheel, when Paul let himself in. + The whitewashed walls were hot with light. + The room was the core of a chrysolite, + Burning and shimmering with fiery might. + The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall + From the furniture upon the wall. + Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space + Where a glare usurped the lady's place. + He settled himself to his work, but his mind + Wandered, and he would wake to find + His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, + And nothing advanced beyond the rim + Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay + For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. + But Paul could hardly touch the gold, + It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. + With the first twilight he struck a match + And watched the little blue stars hatch + Into an egg of perfect flame. + He lit his candle, and almost in shame + At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. + The Shadow was there, and its precise + Outline etched the cold, white wall. + The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, + There's something the matter with your brain. + Go home now and sleep off the strain." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The next day was a storm, the rain + Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. + A grey and shadowless morning filled + The little shop. The watches, chilled, + Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. + The gems lay on the table like shoals + Of stranded shells, their colours faded, + Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. + Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed + No orders, for his fancy strayed. + His work became a simple round + Of watches repaired and watches wound. + The slanting ribbons of the rain + Broke themselves on the window-pane, + But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. + Only when the candle was lit + And on the wall just opposite + He watched again the coming of <i>it</i>, + Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul + And over his hands regain control. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul lingered late in his shop that night + And the designs which his delight + Sketched on paper seemed to be + A tribute offered wistfully + To the beautiful shadow of her who came + And hovered over his candle flame. + In the morning he selected all + His perfect jacinths. One large opal + Hung like a milky, rainbow moon + In the centre, and blown in loose festoon + The red stones quivered on silver threads + To the outer edge, where a single, fine + Band of mother-of-pearl the line + Completed. On the other side, + The creamy porcelain of the face + Bore diamond hours, and no lace + Of cotton or silk could ever be + Tossed into being more airily + Than the filmy golden hands; the time + Seemed to tick away in rhyme. + When, at dusk, the Shadow grew + Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. + Holding the watch, he spoke to her: + "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir + Into one brief sign of being. + Turn your eyes this way, and seeing + This watch, made from those sweet curves + Where your hair from your forehead swerves, + Accept the gift which I have wrought + With your fairness in my thought. + Grant me this, and I shall be + Honoured overwhelmingly." + + The Shadow rested black and still, + And the wind sighed over the window-sill. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul put the despised watch away + And laid out before him his array + Of stones and metals, and when the morning + Struck the stones to their best adorning, + He chose the brightest, and this new watch + Was so light and thin it seemed to catch + The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. + Topazes ran in a foamy stream + Over the cover, the hands were studded + With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. + The face was of crystal, and engraved + Upon it the figures flashed and waved + With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. + It took a week to make, and his trysts + At night with the Shadow were his alone. + Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. + The night that the jewel was worthy to give. + Paul watched the long hours of daylight live + To the faintest streak; then lit his light, + And sharp against the wall's pure white + The outline of the Shadow started + Into form. His burning-hearted + Words so long imprisoned swelled + To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, + He told the lady all his love, + And holding out the watch above + His head, he knelt, imploring some + Littlest sign. + The Shadow was dumb. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, + And everything he made he placed + Before his lady. The Shadow kept + Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. + He wooed her with the work of his hands, + He waited for those dear commands + She never gave. No word, no motion, + Eased the ache of his devotion. + His days passed in a strain of toil, + His nights burnt up in a seething coil. + Seasons shot by, uncognisant + He worked. The Shadow came to haunt + Even his days. Sometimes quite plain + He saw on the wall the blackberry stain + Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright + Enough to dazzle that from his sight. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There were moments when he groaned to see + His life spilled out so uselessly, + Begging for boons the Shade refused, + His finest workmanship abused, + The iridescent bubbles he blew + Into lovely existence, poor and few + In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse + Himself and her! The Universe! + And more, the beauty he could not make, + And give her, for her comfort's sake! + He would beat his weary, empty hands + Upon the table, would hold up strands + Of silver and gold, and ask her why + She scorned the best which he could buy. + He would pray as to some high-niched saint, + That she would cure him of the taint + Of failure. He would clutch the wall + With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall + He could catch, and hold her, and make her live! + With sobs he would ask her to forgive + All he had done. And broken, spent, + He would call himself impertinent; + Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven + To madness by the sight of Heaven. + At other times he would take the things + He had made, and winding them on strings, + Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes, + Chanting strangely, while the fumes + Wreathed and blotted the shadow face, + As with a cloudy, nacreous lace. + There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed + In tenderness, spoke to his bride, + Urged her to patience, said his skill + Should break the spell. A man's sworn will + Could compass life, even that, he knew. + By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true! + + The edge of the Shadow never blurred. + The lips of the Shadow never stirred. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He would climb on chairs to reach her lips, + And pat her hair with his finger-tips. + But instead of young, warm flesh returning + His warmth, the wall was cold and burning + Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled, + Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed + At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick, + He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick + Phantasmagoria crowded his brain, + And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain. + The crisis passed, he would wake and smile + With a vacant joy, half-imbecile + And quite confused, not being certain + Why he was suffering; a curtain + Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled + His sorrow. Like a little child + He would play with his watches and gems, with glee + Calling the Shadow to look and see + How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily + When he flashed his stones. "Mother, the green + Has slid so cunningly in between + The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!" + Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown, + He would get up slowly from his play + And walk round the room, feeling his way + From table to chair, from chair to door, + Stepping over the cracks in the floor, + Till reaching the table again, her face + Would bring recollection, and no solace + Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness + Stifled him and his great distress. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One morning he threw the street door wide + On coming in, and his vigorous stride + Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. + In his hands he carried a new-burst clump + Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks + Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks + To the wife he left an hour ago, + Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know + To-day the calendar calls it Spring, + And I woke this morning gathering + Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. + So I rushed out to see what flowers blew + Their pink-and-purple-scented souls + Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, + And made the approach to the Market Square + A garden with smells and sunny air. + I feel so well and happy to-day, + I think I shall take a Holiday. + And to-night we will have a little treat. + I am going to bring you something to eat!" + He looked at the Shadow anxiously. + It was quite grave and silent. He + Shut the outer door and came + And leant against the window-frame. + "Dearest," he said, "we live apart + Although I bear you in my heart. + We look out each from a different world. + At any moment we may be hurled + Asunder. They follow their orbits, we + Obey their laws entirely. + Now you must come, or I go there, + Unless we are willing to live the flare + Of a lighted instant and have it gone." + + A bee in the laurels began to drone. + A loosened petal fluttered prone. + + "Man grows by eating, if you eat + You will be filled with our life, sweet + Will be our planet in your mouth. + If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth + Until I gain to where you are, + And give you myself in whatever star + May happen. O You Beloved of Me! + Is it not ordered cleverly?" + + The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, + Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul slipped away as the dusk began + To dim the little shop. He ran + To the nearest inn, and chose with care + As much as his thin purse could bear. + As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking + Of the sacred wafer, and through the making + Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers + That God will bless this labour of theirs; + So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, + Purchased the best which he could buy. + Returning, he brushed his tools aside, + And laid across the table a wide + Napkin. He put a glass and plate + On either side, in duplicate. + Over the lady's, excellent + With loveliness, the laurels bent. + In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, + And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood + Was the wine which should bring the lustihood + Of human life to his lady's veins. + When all was ready, all which pertains + To a simple meal was there, with eyes + Lit by the joy of his great emprise, + He reverently bade her come, + And forsake for him her distant home. + He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, + And waited what should come to pass. + + The Shadow lay quietly on the wall. + From the street outside came a watchman's call + "A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall." + + And still he waited. The clock's slow tick + Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick. + + He filled his own glass full of wine; + From his pocket he took a paper. The twine + Was knotted, and he searched a knife + From his jumbled tools. The cord of life + Snapped as he cut the little string. + He knew that he must do the thing + He feared. He shook powder into the wine, + And holding it up so the candle's shine + Sparked a ruby through its heart, + He drank it. "Dear, never apart + Again! You have said it was mine to do. + It is done, and I am come to you!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall, + And held out his arms. The insentient wall + Stared down at him with its cold, white glare + Unstained! The Shadow was not there! + Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat. + He felt the veins in his body bloat, + And the hot blood run like fire and stones + Along the sides of his cracking bones. + But he laughed as he staggered towards the door, + And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Coroner took the body away, + And the watches were sold that Saturday. + The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy + Such watches, and the prices were high. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Forsaken + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come + from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such + far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused. + I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear + be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped + it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame, + just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, + and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not + be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry. + Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child + alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face + the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled + for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did. + Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "whore", + and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have + the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman, + he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, + what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, + Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman + must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing. + I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign. + What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never + feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have. + Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good + a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school + in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, + so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, + out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, + I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, + I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, + take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came. + No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months. + To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother. + She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born + for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away! + Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl. + Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known + my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, + and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, + and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, + I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another. + I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart + where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be + quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me. + What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues + when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby, + when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, + his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, + and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels + to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings? + I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem + just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother. + He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, + but give me strength to bring him up to be a man. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Late September + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tang of fruitage in the air; + Red boughs bursting everywhere; + Shimmering of seeded grass; + Hooded gentians all a'mass. + + Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind + Tearing off the husky rind, + Blowing feathered seeds to fall + By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. + + Beech trees in a golden haze; + Hardy sumachs all ablaze, + Glowing through the silver birches. + How that pine tree shouts and lurches! + + From the sunny door-jamb high, + Swings the shell of a butterfly. + Scrape of insect violins + Through the stubble shrilly dins. + + Every blade's a minaret + Where a small muezzin's set, + Loudly calling us to pray + At the miracle of day. + + Then the purple-lidded night + Westering comes, her footsteps light + Guided by the radiant boon + Of a sickle-shaped new moon. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pike + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the brown water, + Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, + Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, + A pike dozed. + Lost among the shadows of stems + He lay unnoticed. + Suddenly he flicked his tail, + And a green-and-copper brightness + Ran under the water. + + Out from under the reeds + Came the olive-green light, + And orange flashed up + Through the sun-thickened water. + So the fish passed across the pool, + Green and copper, + A darkness and a gleam, + And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank + Received it. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Blue Scarf + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded + In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, + it lies there, + Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. + Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! + A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down + on my face, + And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim + in cool-tinted heavens. + Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. + Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. + A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied + Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, + Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf + On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. + She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath + her slight stirring. + Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel + Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to + a handful of cinders, + And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. + + How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + White and Green + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hey! My daffodil-crowned, + Slim and without sandals! + As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness + So my eyeballs are startled with you, + Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, + Light runner through tasselled orchards. + You are an almond flower unsheathed + Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Aubade + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I would free the white almond from the green husk + So would I strip your trappings off, + Beloved. + And fingering the smooth and polished kernel + I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Music + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute. + From my bed I can hear him, + And the round notes flutter and tap about the room, + And hit against each other, + Blurring to unexpected chords. + It is very beautiful, + With the little flute-notes all about me, + In the darkness. + + In the daytime, + The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand + And copies music with the other. + He is fat and has a bald head, + So I do not look at him, + But run quickly past his window. + There is always the sky to look at, + Or the water in the well! + + But when night comes and he plays his flute, + I think of him as a young man, + With gold seals hanging from his watch, + And a blue coat with silver buttons. + As I lie in my bed + The flute-notes push against my ears and lips, + And I go to sleep, dreaming. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Lady + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You are beautiful and faded + Like an old opera tune + Played upon a harpsichord; + Or like the sun-flooded silks + Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. + In your eyes + Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, + And the perfume of your soul + Is vague and suffusing, + With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. + Your half-tones delight me, + And I grow mad with gazing + At your blent colours. + + My vigour is a new-minted penny, + Which I cast at your feet. + Gather it up from the dust, + That its sparkle may amuse you. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In a Garden + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gushing from the mouths of stone men + To spread at ease under the sky + In granite-lipped basins, + Where iris dabble their feet + And rustle to a passing wind, + The water fills the garden with its rushing, + In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. + + Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, + Where trickle and plash the fountains, + Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. + + Splashing down moss-tarnished steps + It falls, the water; + And the air is throbbing with it. + With its gurgling and running. + With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. + + And I wished for night and you. + I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, + White and shining in the silver-flecked water. + While the moon rode over the garden, + High in the arch of night, + And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. + + Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Tulip Garden + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, + Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, + The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry + Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace + Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! + Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, + With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye + Of purple batteries, every gun in place. + Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, + With torches burning, stepping out in time + To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, + We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime + Parades that army. With our utmost powers + We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. +</pre> + <p> + [End of original text.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes: + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + Originally: After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók: + + A Blockhead: + "There are non, ever. As a monk who prays" + changed to: + "There are none, ever. As a monk who prays" + + A Tale of Starvation: + "And he neither eat nor drank." + changed to: + "And he neither ate nor drank." + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck: + Stanza headings were originally Roman Numerals. + + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde: + The following names are presented in this etext sans accents: + Marguérite, Angélique, Véronique, Franc,ois. +</pre> + <p> + The following unconnected lines in the etext are presented sans accents: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The factory of Sèvres had lent + Strange wingéd dragons writhe about + And rich perfuméd smells + A faëry moonshine washing pale the crowds + Our eyes will close to undisturbéd rest. + And terror-wingéd steps. His heart began + On the stripéd ground +</pre> + <p> + Some books by Amy Lowell: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poetry: + A Critical Fable + * A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912) + * Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) + * Men, Women and Ghosts (1916) + Can Grande's Castle (1918) + Pictures of the Floating World (1919) + Legends (1921) + What's O'Clock (1925) + East Wind + Ballads For Sale + + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese (1921) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Prose: + John Keats + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature (1915) + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917) +</pre> + <p> + * Now available online from Project Gutenberg. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + About the author: + </h2> + <p> + From the notes to "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), edited + by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. + </p> + <p> + Lowell, Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874. Educated at private + schools. Author of "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass", 1912; "Sword Blades + and Poppy Seed", 1914; "Men, Women and Ghosts", 1916; "Can Grande's + Castle", 1918; "Pictures of the Floating World", 1919. Editor of the three + successive collections of "Some Imagist Poets", 1915, '16, and '17, + containing the early work of the "Imagist School" of which Miss Lowell + became the leader. This movement,... originated in England, the idea have + been first conceived by a young poet named T. E. Hulme, but developed and + put forth by Ezra Pound in an article called "Don'ts by an Imagist", which + appeared in `Poetry; A Magazine of Verse'. ... A small group of poets + gathered about Mr. Pound, experimenting along the technical lines + suggested, and a cult of "Imagism" was formed, whose first + group-expression was in the little volume, "Des Imagistes", published in + New York in April, 1914. Miss Lowell did not come actively into the + movement until after that time, but once she had entered it, she became + its leader, and it was chiefly through her effort in America that the + movement attained so much prominence and so influenced the trend of poetry + for the years immediately succeeding. Miss Lowell many times, in admirable + articles, stated the principles upon which Imagism is based, notably in + the Preface to "Some Imagist Poets" and in the Preface to the second + series, in 1916. She also elaborated it much more fully in her volume, + "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry", 1917, in the articles pertaining + to the work of "H.D." and John Gould Fletcher. In her own creative work, + however, Miss Lowell did most to establish the possibilities of the + Imagistic idea and of its modes of presentation, and opened up many + interesting avenues of poetic form. Her volume, "Can Grande's Castle", is + devoted to work in the medium which she styled "Polyphonic Prose" and + contains some of her finest work, particularly "The Bronze Horses". + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1020 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bcbf82b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1020 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1020) diff --git a/old/1020-8.txt b/old/1020-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cbb19f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1020-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5207 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by 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: Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + +Author: Amy Lowell + +Posting Date: August 3, 2008 [EBook #1020] +Release Date: August, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + +by Amy Lowell + +[American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] + + +[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and +continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose +poem.] + + + + +SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + + + _"Face invisible! je t'ai gravée en médailles + D'argent doux comme l'aube pâle, + D'or ardent comme le soleil, + D'airain sombre comme la nuit; + Il y en a de tout métal, + Qui tintent clair comme la joie, + Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, + Comme l'amour, comme la mort; + Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile + Sèche et fragile. + + "Une à une, vous les comptiez en souriant, + Et vous disiez: Il est habile; + Et vous passiez en souriant. + + "Aucun de vous n'a donc vu + Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, + Que tout le grand songe terrestre + Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux + Que je gravais aux métaux pieux, + Mes Dieux."_ + + Henri de Régnier, "Les Médailles d'Argile". + + + + + +Preface + + + +No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but +there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that +his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter +of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the +same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with +high thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his +reader by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a +poet. A workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments +to explain and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty +which cannot stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built +thing. + +In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should +not try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created +beauty, even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not +ask the trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army +feels it necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are +ridiculous, but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral +all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only +ridiculous, but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half +understand, and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we +are from "admitting the Universe"! The Universe, which flings down its +continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much a +function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of +Gravitation; and we insist upon considering it merely a little +scroll-work, of no great importance unless it be studded with nails +from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung! + +For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the +French, and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, +although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong +to it. High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to +produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. +Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an +inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has +a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These +clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. +Before the works of Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and José-Maria de +Heredia, or those of Henri de Régnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, +Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand +rebuked. Indeed--"They order this matter better in France." + +It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a +thing, that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a +vigorous tree has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with +originality and power is always seeking to give his readers the same +poignant feeling which he has himself. To do this he must constantly +find new and striking images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the +word "daybreak", for instance. What a remarkable picture it must once +have conjured up! The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty +egg, BREAKING through cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said +"daybreak" so often that we do not see the picture any more, it has +become only another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking +new pictures to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought. + +Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call +"Vers Libre", a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French +versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in "unrhymed +cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They +are built upon "organic rhythm", or the rhythm of the speaking voice +with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical +system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, +and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of +any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, +are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely +chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is +constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In +the preface to his "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in +which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do +in rhyme." The desire to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion +until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern +temper, and certainly "unrhymed cadence" is unique in its power of +expressing this. + +Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has +never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, +and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and +satisfactory. Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to +English. But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems +could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now +verse, and permitting a great variety of treatment. + +But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more +classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit +certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an +author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine +themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. + +In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many +questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these +poems in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling +criticism, nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the +beginning, solely with the question of technique. For the more +important part of the book, the poems must speak for themselves. + + Amy Lowell. +May 19, 1914. + + + + + +Contents + + + + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + + + Sword Blades + + The Captured Goddess + The Precinct. Rochester + The Cyclists + Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + Astigmatism + The Coal Picker + Storm-Racked + Convalescence + Patience + Apology + A Petition + A Blockhead + Stupidity + Irony + Happiness + The Last Quarter of the Moon + A Tale of Starvation + The Foreigner + Absence + A Gift + The Bungler + Fool's Money Bags + Miscast I + Miscast II + Anticipation + Vintage + The Tree of Scarlet Berries + Obligation + The Taxi + The Giver of Stars + The Temple + Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + In Answer to a Request + + + Poppy Seed + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok + Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + The Basket + In a Castle + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + The Exeter Road + The Shadow + The Forsaken + Late September + The Pike + The Blue Scarf + White and Green + Aubade + Music + A Lady + In a Garden + A Tulip Garden + + + + + +Sword Blades And Poppy Seed + + + A drifting, April, twilight sky, + A wind which blew the puddles dry, + And slapped the river into waves + That ran and hid among the staves + Of an old wharf. A watery light + Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white + Without the slightest tinge of gold, + The city shivered in the cold. + All day my thoughts had lain as dead, + Unborn and bursting in my head. + From time to time I wrote a word + Which lines and circles overscored. + My table seemed a graveyard, full + Of coffins waiting burial. + I seized these vile abortions, tore + Them into jagged bits, and swore + To be the dupe of hope no more. + Into the evening straight I went, + Starved of a day's accomplishment. + Unnoticing, I wandered where + The city gave a space for air, + And on the bridge's parapet + I leant, while pallidly there set + A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. + Behind me, where the tramways run, + Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, + When someone plucked me by the sleeve. + "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be + Most grateful could you lend to me + A carfare, I have lost my purse." + The voice was clear, concise, and terse. + I turned and met the quiet gaze + Of strange eyes flashing through the haze. + + The man was old and slightly bent, + Under his cloak some instrument + Disarranged its stately line, + He rested on his cane a fine + And nervous hand, an almandine + Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine + It burned in twisted gold, upon + His finger. Like some Spanish don, + Conferring favours even when + Asking an alms, he bowed again + And waited. But my pockets proved + Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, + No hidden penny lurking there + Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare + I have no money, pray forgive, + But let me take you where you live." + And so we plodded through the mire + Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. + I took no note of where we went, + His talk became the element + Wherein my being swam, content. + It flashed like rapiers in the night + Lit by uncertain candle-light, + When on some moon-forsaken sward + A quarrel dies upon a sword. + It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, + And the noise in the air the broad words made + Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane + On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. + Then it would run like a steady stream + Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, + Or lap the air like the lapping tide + Where a marble staircase lifts its wide + Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, + And a waning moon is sinking straight + Down to a black and ominous sea, + While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. + + I walked as though some opiate + Had stung and dulled my brain, a state + Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. + We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. + The old man scratched a match, the spark + Lit up the keyhole of a door, + We entered straight upon a floor + White with finest powdered sand + Carefully sifted, one might stand + Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace + Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. + From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, + And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. + My host threw pine-cones on the fire + And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre + Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. + The chamber opened like an eye, + As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky + The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy + It peered at the stranger warily. + A little shop with its various ware + Spread on shelves with nicest care. + Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, + Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots + Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, + Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. + Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, + Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. + In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned + Against the wall, like ships careened. + There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, + The carved, white figures fluttering there + Like leaves adrift upon the air. + Classic in touch, but emasculate, + The Greek soul grown effeminate. + The factory of Sevres had lent + Elegant boxes with ornament + Culled from gardens where fountains splashed + And golden carp in the shadows flashed, + Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, + Which ladies threw as the last of fads. + Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, + Hand on heart, and daintily spelt + Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, + Artificial and fragile, which told aright + The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. + The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs + Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs + Endlessly drank the foaming ale, + Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. + The glancing light of the burning wood + Played over a group of jars which stood + On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky + Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry + To paint these porcelains with unknown hues + Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, + Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen + Their colours are felt, but never seen. + Strange winged dragons writhe about + These vases, poisoned venoms spout, + Impregnate with old Chinese charms; + Sealed urns containing mortal harms, + They fill the mind with thoughts impure, + Pestilent drippings from the ure + Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," + Said I, "you deal in pottery." + The old man turned and looked at me. + Shook his head gently. "No," said he. + + Then from under his cloak he took the thing + Which I had wondered to see him bring + Guarded so carefully from sight. + As he laid it down it flashed in the light, + A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, + Damascened with arabesques of gilt, + Or rather gold, and tempered so + It could cut a floating thread at a blow. + The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, + 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath + My cloak, for a jostle to my arm + Would have resulted in serious harm. + But it was so fine, I could not wait, + So I brought it with me despite its state." + "An amateur of arms," I thought, + "Bringing home a prize which he has bought." + "You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" + "Not in the way which you infer. + I need them in business, that is all." + And he pointed his finger at the wall. + Then I saw what I had not noticed before. + The walls were hung with at least five score + Of swords and daggers of every size + Which nations of militant men could devise. + Poisoned spears from tropic seas, + That natives, under banana trees, + Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. + Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make + And tip with feathers, orange and green, + A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. + High up, a fan of glancing steel + Was formed of claymores in a wheel. + Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees + Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these + Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, + Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. + There were Samurai swords from old Japan, + And scimitars from Hindoostan, + While the blade of a Turkish yataghan + Made a waving streak of vitreous white + Upon the wall, in the firelight. + Foils with buttons broken or lost + Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed + The boarding-pike of a privateer. + Against the chimney leaned a queer + Two-handed weapon, with edges dull + As though from hacking on a skull. + The rusted blood corroded it still. + My host took up a paper spill + From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, + And lighted it at a burning coal. + At either end of the table, tall + Wax candles were placed, each in a small, + And slim, and burnished candlestick + Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, + And the room leapt more obviously + Upon my mind, and I could see + What the flickering fire had hid from me. + Above the chimney's yawning throat, + Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, + Was a mantelshelf of polished oak + Blackened with the pungent smoke + Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock + Of tarnished brass stood like a rock + In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea + Of every sort of cutlery. + There lay knives sharpened to any use, + The keenest lancet, and the obtuse + And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades + Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades + Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, + And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl + Of points and edges, and underneath + Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. + My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear + A battle-cry from somewhere near, + The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, + And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. + A smoky cloud had veiled the room, + Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom + Pounded with shouts and dying groans, + With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. + Sabres and lances in streaks of light + Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right + A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, + Glittered an instant, while it stung. + Streams, and points, and lines of fire! + The livid steel, which man's desire + Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. + Every blade which man could mould, + Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, + Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, + Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, + Or slice, or hack, they all were there. + Nerveless and shaking, round and round, + I stared at the walls and at the ground, + Till the room spun like a whipping top, + And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! + I sell no tools for murderers here. + Of what are you thinking! Please clear + Your mind of such imaginings. + Sit down. I will tell you of these things." + + He pushed me into a great chair + Of russet leather, poked a flare + Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, + Up the chimney; but said no word. + Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, + And brought back a crock of finest delf. + He rested a moment a blue-veined hand + Upon the cover, then cut a band + Of paper, pasted neatly round, + Opened and poured. A sliding sound + Came from beneath his old white hands, + And I saw a little heap of sands, + Black and smooth. What could they be: + "Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. + "What you see is poppy seed. + Lethean dreams for those in need." + He took up the grains with a gentle hand + And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. + On his old white finger the almandine + Shot out its rays, incarnadine. + "Visions for those too tired to sleep. + These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. + No single soul in the world could dwell, + Without these poppy-seeds I sell." + For a moment he played with the shining stuff, + Passing it through his fingers. Enough + At last, he poured it back into + The china jar of Holland blue, + Which he carefully carried to its place. + Then, with a smile on his aged face, + He drew up a chair to the open space + 'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, + Young man, I will say that what you see + Is not the puzzle you take it to be." + "But surely, Sir, there is something strange + In a shop with goods at so wide a range + Each from the other, as swords and seeds. + Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." + "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, + "Live everywhere from here to Pekin. + But you are wrong, my sort of goods + Is but one thing in all its moods." + He took a shagreen letter case + From his pocket, and with charming grace + Offered me a printed card. + I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. + Dealer in Words." And that was all. + I stared at the letters, whimsical + Indeed, or was it merely a jest. + He answered my unasked request: + "All books are either dreams or swords, + You can cut, or you can drug, with words. + My firm is a very ancient house, + The entries on my books would rouse + Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. + I inherited from an ancestry + Stretching remotely back and far, + This business, and my clients are + As were those of my grandfather's days, + Writers of books, and poems, and plays. + My swords are tempered for every speech, + For fencing wit, or to carve a breach + Through old abuses the world condones. + In another room are my grindstones and hones, + For whetting razors and putting a point + On daggers, sometimes I even anoint + The blades with a subtle poison, so + A twofold result may follow the blow. + These are purchased by men who feel + The need of stabbing society's heel, + Which egotism has brought them to think + Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink + An adversary to quaint reply, + And I have customers who buy + Scalpels with which to dissect the brains + And hearts of men. Ultramundanes + Even demand some finer kinds + To open their own souls and minds. + But the other half of my business deals + With visions and fancies. Under seals, + Sorted, and placed in vessels here, + I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. + Each jar contains a different kind + Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind + Come the purple flowers, opium filled, + From which the weirdest myths are distilled; + My orient porcelains contain them all. + Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall + Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; + And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat + On that lowest shelf beside the door, + Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". + Every castle of the air + Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there + Are seeds for every romance, or light + Whiff of a dream for a summer night. + I supply to every want and taste." + 'Twas slowly said, in no great haste + He seemed to push his wares, but I + Dumfounded listened. By and by + A log on the fire broke in two. + He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" + I groped for something I should say; + Amazement held me numb. "To-day + You sweated at a fruitless task." + He spoke for me, "What do you ask? + How can I serve you?" "My kind host, + My penniless state was not a boast; + I have no money with me." He smiled. + "Not for that money I beguiled + You here; you paid me in advance." + Again I felt as though a trance + Had dimmed my faculties. Again + He spoke, and this time to explain. + "The money I demand is Life, + Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" + What infamous proposal now + Was made me with so calm a brow? + Bursting through my lethargy, + Indignantly I hurled the cry: + "Is this a nightmare, or am I + Drunk with some infernal wine? + I am no Faust, and what is mine + Is what I call my soul! Old Man! + Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan + Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," + And the old tones were very mild, + "I have no wish to barter souls; + My traffic does not ask such tolls. + I am no devil; is there one? + Surely the age of fear is gone. + We live within a daylight world + Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled + Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, + And then blow back the sun again. + I sell my fancies, or my swords, + To those who care far more for words, + Ideas, of which they are the sign, + Than any other life-design. + Who buy of me must simply pay + Their whole existence quite away: + Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, + Their hours from morning till the time + When evening comes on tiptoe feet, + And losing life, think it complete; + Must miss what other men count being, + To gain the gift of deeper seeing; + Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, + All which could hold or bind; must prove + The farthest boundaries of thought, + And shun no end which these have brought; + Then die in satisfaction, knowing + That what was sown was worth the sowing. + I claim for all the goods I sell + That they will serve their purpose well, + And though you perish, they will live. + Full measure for your pay I give. + To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. + What since has happened is the train + Your toiling brought. I spoke to you + For my share of the bargain, due." + "My life! And is that all you crave + In pay? What even childhood gave! + I have been dedicate from youth. + Before my God I speak the truth!" + Fatigue, excitement of the past + Few hours broke me down at last. + All day I had forgot to eat, + My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. + I bowed my head and felt the storm + Plough shattering through my prostrate form. + The tearless sobs tore at my heart. + My host withdrew himself apart; + Busied among his crockery, + He paid no farther heed to me. + Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, + Within the arms of the old carved chair. + + A long half-hour dragged away, + And then I heard a kind voice say, + "The day will soon be dawning, when + You must begin to work again. + Here are the things which you require." + By the fading light of the dying fire, + And by the guttering candle's flare, + I saw the old man standing there. + He handed me a packet, tied + With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside + Are seeds of many differing flowers, + To occupy your utmost powers + Of storied vision, and these swords + Are the finest which my shop affords. + Go home and use them; do not spare + Yourself; let that be all your care. + Whatever you have means to buy + Be very sure I can supply." + He slowly walked to the window, flung + It open, and in the grey air rung + The sound of distant matin bells. + I took my parcels. Then, as tells + An ancient mumbling monk his beads, + I tried to thank for his courteous deeds + My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," + He urged me, "you have a long walk + Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" + And gently sped upon my way + I stumbled out in the morning hush, + As down the empty street a flush + Ran level from the rising sun. + Another day was just begun. + + + + + +SWORD BLADES + + + + +The Captured Goddess + + + + Over the housetops, + Above the rotating chimney-pots, + I have seen a shiver of amethyst, + And blue and cinnamon have flickered + A moment, + At the far end of a dusty street. + + Through sheeted rain + Has come a lustre of crimson, + And I have watched moonbeams + Hushed by a film of palest green. + + It was her wings, + Goddess! + Who stepped over the clouds, + And laid her rainbow feathers + Aslant on the currents of the air. + + I followed her for long, + With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. + I cared not where she led me, + My eyes were full of colours: + Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, + And the indigo-blue of quartz; + Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, + Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, + The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, + The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. + I followed, + And watched for the flashing of her wings. + + In the city I found her, + The narrow-streeted city. + In the market-place I came upon her, + Bound and trembling. + Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, + She was naked and cold, + For that day the wind blew + Without sunshine. + + Men chaffered for her, + They bargained in silver and gold, + In copper, in wheat, + And called their bids across the market-place. + + The Goddess wept. + + Hiding my face I fled, + And the grey wind hissed behind me, + Along the narrow streets. + + + + +The Precinct. Rochester + + + + The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, + Still and straight, + With their round blossoms spread open, + In the quiet sunshine. + And still is the old Roman wall, + Rough with jagged bits of flint, + And jutting stones, + Old and cragged, + Quite still in its antiquity. + The pear-trees press their branches against it, + And feeling it warm and kindly, + The little pears ripen to yellow and red. + They hang heavy, bursting with juice, + Against the wall. + So old, so still! + + The sky is still. + The clouds make no sound + As they slide away + Beyond the Cathedral Tower, + To the river, + And the sea. + It is very quiet, + Very sunny. + The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, + But make no sound. + The roses push their little tendrils up, + And climb higher and higher. + In spots they have climbed over the wall. + But they are very still, + They do not seem to move. + And the old wall carries them + Without effort, and quietly + Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms. + + A bird in a plane-tree + Sings a few notes, + Cadenced and perfect + They weave into the silence. + The Cathedral bell knocks, + One, two, three, and again, + And then again. + It is a quiet sound, + Calling to prayer, + Hardly scattering the stillness, + Only making it close in more densely. + The gardener picks ripe gooseberries + For the Dean's supper to-night. + It is very quiet, + Very regulated and mellow. + But the wall is old, + It has known many days. + It is a Roman wall, + Left-over and forgotten. + + Beyond the Cathedral Close + Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, + Not well-regulated. + People who care more for bread than for beauty, + Who would break the tombs of saints, + And give the painted windows of churches + To their children for toys. + People who say: + "They are dead, we live! + The world is for the living." + + Fools! It is always the dead who breed. + Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, + Yet its seeds shall fructify, + And trees rise where your huts were standing. + But the little people are ignorant, + They chaffer, and swarm. + They gnaw like rats, + And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. + + The Dean is in the Chapter House; + He is reading the architect's bill + For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. + He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, + And then he will walk up and down the path + By the wall, + And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, + Thinking how quiet and peaceful + The garden is. + The old wall will watch him, + Very quietly and patiently it will watch. + For the wall is old, + It is a Roman wall. + + + + +The Cyclists + + + + Spread on the roadway, + With open-blown jackets, + Like black, soaring pinions, + They swoop down the hillside, + The Cyclists. + + Seeming dark-plumaged + Birds, after carrion, + Careening and circling, + Over the dying + Of England. + + She lies with her bosom + Beneath them, no longer + The Dominant Mother, + The Virile--but rotting + Before time. + + The smell of her, tainted, + Has bitten their nostrils. + Exultant they hover, + And shadow the sun with + Foreboding. + + + + +Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + + + + What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, + Of outworn, childish mysteries, + Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! + And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream + Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. + + Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, + The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese + Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky + Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly + And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. + + Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk + From over-handling, by some anxious monk. + Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven + With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, + And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. + + They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung + By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung + In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, + Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen + Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. + + + + +A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + + + + They have watered the street, + It shines in the glare of lamps, + Cold, white lamps, + And lies + Like a slow-moving river, + Barred with silver and black. + Cabs go down it, + One, + And then another. + Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. + Tramps doze on the window-ledges, + Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. + The city is squalid and sinister, + With the silver-barred street in the midst, + Slow-moving, + A river leading nowhere. + + Opposite my window, + The moon cuts, + Clear and round, + Through the plum-coloured night. + She cannot light the city; + It is too bright. + It has white lamps, + And glitters coldly. + + I stand in the window and watch the moon. + She is thin and lustreless, + But I love her. + I know the moon, + And this is an alien city. + + + + +Astigmatism + + To Ezra Pound + + With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion + + + + The Poet took his walking-stick + Of fine and polished ebony. + Set in the close-grained wood + Were quaint devices; + Patterns in ambers, + And in the clouded green of jades. + The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, + And a tassel of tarnished gold + Hung by a faded cord from a hole + Pierced in the hard wood, + Circled with silver. + For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. + His wealth had gone to enrich it, + His experiences to pattern it, + His labour to fashion and burnish it. + To him it was perfect, + A work of art and a weapon, + A delight and a defence. + The Poet took his walking-stick + And walked abroad. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + + + The Poet came to a meadow. + Sifted through the grass were daisies, + Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. + The Poet struck them with his cane. + The little heads flew off, and they lay + Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, + On the hard ground. + "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. + + + The Poet came to a stream. + Purple and blue flags waded in the water; + In among them hopped the speckled frogs; + The wind slid through them, rustling. + The Poet lifted his cane, + And the iris heads fell into the water. + They floated away, torn and drowning. + "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, + "They are not roses." + + Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. + + + The Poet came to a garden. + Dahlias ripened against a wall, + Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, + And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour + With the red and gold of its blossoms. + Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. + The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, + And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. + Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. + Red and gold they lay scattered, + Red and gold, as on a battle field; + Red and gold, prone and dying. + "They were not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + But behind you is destruction, and waste places. + + + The Poet came home at evening, + And in the candle-light + He wiped and polished his cane. + The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, + And made the jades undulate like green pools. + It played along the bright ebony, + And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. + But these things were dead, + Only the candle-light made them seem to move. + "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. + + + + +The Coal Picker + + + + He perches in the slime, inert, + Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. + The oil upon the puddles dries + To colours like a peacock's eyes, + And half-submerged tomato-cans + Shine scaly, as leviathans + Oozily crawling through the mud. + The ground is here and there bestud + With lumps of only part-burned coal. + His duty is to glean the whole, + To pick them from the filth, each one, + To hoard them for the hidden sun + Which glows within each fiery core + And waits to be made free once more. + Their sharp and glistening edges cut + His stiffened fingers. Through the smut + Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. + Wet through and shivering he kneels + And digs the slippery coals; like eels + They slide about. His force all spent, + He counts his small accomplishment. + A half-a-dozen clinker-coals + Which still have fire in their souls. + Fire! And in his thought there burns + The topaz fire of votive urns. + He sees it fling from hill to hill, + And still consumed, is burning still. + Higher and higher leaps the flame, + The smoke an ever-shifting frame. + He sees a Spanish Castle old, + With silver steps and paths of gold. + From myrtle bowers comes the plash + Of fountains, and the emerald flash + Of parrots in the orange trees, + Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. + He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke + Bears visions, that his master-stroke + Is out of dirt and misery + To light the fire of poesy. + He sees the glory, yet he knows + That others cannot see his shows. + To them his smoke is sightless, black, + His votive vessels but a pack + Of old discarded shards, his fire + A peddler's; still to him the pyre + Is incensed, an enduring goal! + He sighs and grubs another coal. + + + + +Storm-Racked + + + + How should I sing when buffeting salt waves + And stung with bitter surges, in whose might + I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night + Marshals its undefeated dark and raves + In brutal madness, reeling over graves + Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, + Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite + Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. + No parting cloud reveals a watery star, + My cries are washed away upon the wind, + My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, + My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. + But painted on the sky great visions burn, + My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! + + + + +Convalescence + + + + From out the dragging vastness of the sea, + Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, + He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands + One moment, white and dripping, silently, + Cut like a cameo in lazuli, + Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands + Prone in the jeering water, and his hands + Clutch for support where no support can be. + So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, + He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow + And sandflies dance their little lives away. + The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch + The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, + And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. + + + + +Patience + + + + Be patient with you? + When the stooping sky + Leans down upon the hills + And tenderly, as one who soothing stills + An anguish, gathers earth to lie + Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When the snow-girt earth + Cracks to let through a spurt + Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt + A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth + To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When pain's iron bars + Their rivets tighten, stern + To bend and break their victims; as they turn, + Hopeless, there stand the purple jars + Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + You! My sun and moon! + My basketful of flowers! + My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, + Windless and still, of afternoon! + You are my world and I your citizen. + What meaning can have patience then? + + + + +Apology + + + + Be not angry with me that I bear + Your colours everywhere, + All through each crowded street, + And meet + The wonder-light in every eye, + As I go by. + + Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, + Blinded by rainbow haze, + The stuff of happiness, + No less, + Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds + Of peacock golds. + + Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way + Flushes beneath its gray. + My steps fall ringed with light, + So bright, + It seems a myriad suns are strown + About the town. + + Around me is the sound of steepled bells, + And rich perfumed smells + Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, + And shroud + Me from close contact with the world. + I dwell impearled. + + You blazon me with jewelled insignia. + A flaming nebula + Rims in my life. And yet + You set + The word upon me, unconfessed + To go unguessed. + + + + +A Petition + + + + I pray to be the tool which to your hand + Long use has shaped and moulded till it be + Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, + You take it for its service. I demand + To be forgotten in the woven strand + Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry + Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie + A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. + I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, + The railing to the stairway of the clouds, + To guard your steps securely up, where streams + A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby + You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. + + + + +A Blockhead + + + + Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, + Unseparated atoms, and I must + Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust + Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, + There are none, ever. As a monk who prays + The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust + Each tasteless particle aside, and just + Begin again the task which never stays. + And I have known a glory of great suns, + When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! + Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, + And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! + Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand + Threw down the cup, and did not understand. + + + + +Stupidity + + + + Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch + I broke and bruised your rose. + I hardly could suppose + It were a thing so fragile that my clutch + Could kill it, thus. + + It stood so proudly up upon its stem, + I knew no thought of fear, + And coming very near + Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, + Tearing it down. + + Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, + The crimson petals, all + Outspread about my fall. + They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone + Of memory. + + And with my words I carve a little jar + To keep their scented dust, + Which, opening, you must + Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far + More grieved than you. + + + + +Irony + + + + An arid daylight shines along the beach + Dried to a grey monotony of tone, + And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon + The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach + Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach + The skeletons of fishes, every bone + Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, + The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. + And they are dead while waiting for the sea, + The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. + Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. + Only the shells and stones can wait to be + Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, + May not endure till time can bring them ease. + + + + +Happiness + + + + Happiness, to some, elation; + Is, to others, mere stagnation. + Days of passive somnolence, + At its wildest, indolence. + Hours of empty quietness, + No delight, and no distress. + + Happiness to me is wine, + Effervescent, superfine. + Full of tang and fiery pleasure, + Far too hot to leave me leisure + For a single thought beyond it. + Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it + Means to give one's soul to gain + Life's quintessence. Even pain + Pricks to livelier living, then + Wakes the nerves to laugh again, + Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. + Although we must die to-morrow, + Losing every thought but this; + Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. + + Happiness: We rarely feel it. + I would buy it, beg it, steal it, + Pay in coins of dripping blood + For this one transcendent good. + + + + +The Last Quarter of the Moon + + + + How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, + A spatter of rust on its polished steel! + The seasons reel + Like a goaded wheel. + Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. + + The night is sliding towards the dawn, + And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. + A torn moon flees + Through the hemlock trees, + The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. + + Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing + A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. + Like dogs unleashed + After a beast, + They stream on the sky, an outflung string. + + A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, + Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, + And the fierce unrests + I keep as guests + Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. + + Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt + My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. + I have not quailed, + I was all unmailed + And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. + + The moon drops into the silver day + As waking out of her swoon she comes. + I hear the drums + Of millenniums + Beating the mornings I still must stay. + + The years I must watch go in and out, + While I build with water, and dig in air, + And the trumpets blare + Hollow despair, + The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. + + An atom tossed in a chaos made + Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. + Whence have I come? + What would be home? + I hear no answer. I am afraid! + + I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. + Pushed into nothingness by a breath, + And quench in a wreath + Of engulfing death + This fight for a God, or this devil's game. + + + + +A Tale of Starvation + + + + There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, + And a disagreeable man was he. + He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, + And he cursed eternally. + + He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, + And he blasted the winds in the sky. + He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, + And he raved at the birds as they fly. + + His oaths were many, and his range was wide, + He swore in fancy ways; + But his meaning was plain: that no created thing + Was other than a hurt to his gaze. + + He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, + And windows toward the hill there were none, + And on the other side they were white-washed thick, + To keep out every spark of the sun. + + When he went to market he walked all the way + Blaspheming at the path he trod. + He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, + By all the names he knew of God. + + For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, + And his hopes had curdled in his breast. + His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over + For the chinking money-bags she liked best. + + The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, + The deer had trampled on his corn, + His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, + And his sheep had died unshorn. + + His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, + And his old horse perished of a colic. + In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes + By little, glutton mice on a frolic. + + So he slowly lost all he ever had, + And the blood in his body dried. + Shrunken and mean he still lived on, + And cursed that future which had lied. + + One day he was digging, a spade or two, + As his aching back could lift, + When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, + And to get it out he made great shift. + + So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, + And the veins in his forehead stood taut. + At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, + He gathered up what he had sought. + + A dim old vase of crusted glass, + Prismed while it lay buried deep. + Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, + At the touch of the sun began to leap. + + It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; + Flashing like an opal-stone, + Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, + Where at first there had seemed to be none. + + It had handles on each side to bear it up, + And a belly for the gurgling wine. + Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, + And its lip was curled and fine. + + The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare + And the colours started up through the crust, + And he who had cursed at the yellow sun + Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. + + And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, + Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; + And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, + And the sun shone without his sneer. + + Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, + But it was only grey in the gloom. + So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, + And he went outside with a broom. + + And he washed his windows just to let the sun + Lie upon his new-found vase; + And when evening came, he moved it down + And put it on a table near the place + + Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. + The old man forgot to swear, + Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, + Dancing in the kitchen there. + + He forgot to revile the sun next morning + When he found his vase afire in its light. + And he carried it out of the house that day, + And kept it close beside him until night. + + And so it happened from day to day. + The old man fed his life + On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. + And his soul forgot its former strife. + + And the village-folk came and begged to see + The flagon which was dug from the ground. + And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy + At showing what he had found. + + One day the master of the village school + Passed him as he stooped at toil, + Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side + Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. + + "My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, + "That's a valuable thing you have there, + But it might get broken out of doors, + It should meet with the utmost care. + + What are you doing with it out here?" + "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, + "I like to have it about, do you see? + To be with it all I can." + + "You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, + "Mark my words and see!" + And he walked away, while the old man looked + At his treasure despondingly. + + Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! + He had toiled for it, and now he cared. + Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, + Which his own hard work had bared. + + He would carry it round with him everywhere, + As it gave him joy to do. + A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! + Who would dare to say so? Who? + + Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, + And he bent to his hoe again.... + A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, + And he lurched with a cry of pain. + + For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, + And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. + The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. + He did not curse, he had no words. + + He gathered the fragments, one by one, + And his fingers were cut and torn. + Then he made a hole in the very place + Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. + + He covered the hole, and he patted it down, + Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. + He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows + That no beam of light should cross the floor. + + He sat down in front of the empty hearth, + And he neither ate nor drank. + In three days they found him, dead and cold, + And they said: "What a queer old crank!" + + + + +The Foreigner + + + + Have at you, you Devils! + My back's to this tree, + For you're nothing so nice + That the hind-side of me + Would escape your assault. + Come on now, all three! + + Here's a dandified gentleman, + Rapier at point, + And a wrist which whirls round + Like a circular joint. + A spatter of blood, man! + That's just to anoint + + And make supple your limbs. + 'Tis a pity the silk + Of your waistcoat is stained. + Why! Your heart's full of milk, + And so full, it spills over! + I'm not of your ilk. + + You said so, and laughed + At my old-fashioned hose, + At the cut of my hair, + At the length of my nose. + To carve it to pattern + I think you propose. + + Your pardon, young Sir, + But my nose and my sword + Are proving themselves + In quite perfect accord. + I grieve to have spotted + Your shirt. On my word! + + And hullo! You Bully! + That blade's not a stick + To slash right and left, + And my skull is too thick + To be cleft with such cuffs + Of a sword. Now a lick + + Down the side of your face. + What a pretty, red line! + Tell the taverns that scar + Was an honour. Don't whine + That a stranger has marked you. + * * * * * + The tree's there, You Swine! + + Did you think to get in + At the back, while your friends + Made a little diversion + In front? So it ends, + With your sword clattering down + On the ground. 'Tis amends + + I make for your courteous + Reception of me, + A foreigner, landed + From over the sea. + Your welcome was fervent + I think you'll agree. + + My shoes are not buckled + With gold, nor my hair + Oiled and scented, my jacket's + Not satin, I wear + Corded breeches, wide hats, + And I make people stare! + + So I do, but my heart + Is the heart of a man, + And my thoughts cannot twirl + In the limited span + 'Twixt my head and my heels, + As some other men's can. + + I have business more strange + Than the shape of my boots, + And my interests range + From the sky, to the roots + Of this dung-hill you live in, + You half-rotted shoots + + Of a mouldering tree! + Here's at you, once more. + You Apes! You Jack-fools! + You can show me the door, + And jeer at my ways, + But you're pinked to the core. + + And before I have done, + I will prick my name in + With the front of my steel, + And your lily-white skin + Shall be printed with me. + For I've come here to win! + + + + +Absence + + + + My cup is empty to-night, + Cold and dry are its sides, + Chilled by the wind from the open window. + Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. + The room is filled with the strange scent + Of wistaria blossoms. + They sway in the moon's radiance + And tap against the wall. + But the cup of my heart is still, + And cold, and empty. + + When you come, it brims + Red and trembling with blood, + Heart's blood for your drinking; + To fill your mouth with love + And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. + + + + +A Gift + + + + See! I give myself to you, Beloved! + My words are little jars + For you to take and put upon a shelf. + Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, + And they have many pleasant colours and lustres + To recommend them. + Also the scent from them fills the room + With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. + + When I shall have given you the last one, + You will have the whole of me, + But I shall be dead. + + + + +The Bungler + + + + You glow in my heart + Like the flames of uncounted candles. + But when I go to warm my hands, + My clumsiness overturns the light, + And then I stumble + Against the tables and chairs. + + + + +Fool's Money Bags + + + + Outside the long window, + With his head on the stone sill, + The dog is lying, + Gazing at his Beloved. + His eyes are wet and urgent, + And his body is taut and shaking. + It is cold on the terrace; + A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, + But the dog gazes through the glass + And is content. + + The Beloved is writing a letter. + Occasionally she speaks to the dog, + But she is thinking of her writing. + Does she, too, give her devotion to one + Not worthy? + + + + +Miscast I + + + + I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, + So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, + So sharp that the air would turn its edge + Were it to be twisted in flight. + Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, + And the mark of them lies, in and out, + Worm-like, + With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. + My brain is curved like a scimitar, + And sighs at its cutting + Like a sickle mowing grass. + + But of what use is all this to me! + I, who am set to crack stones + In a country lane! + + + + +Miscast II + + + + My heart is like a cleft pomegranate + Bleeding crimson seeds + And dripping them on the ground. + My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, + And its seeds are bursting from it. + + But how is this other than a torment to me! + I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, + In a dark closet! + + + + +Anticipation + + + + I have been temperate always, + But I am like to be very drunk + With your coming. + There have been times + I feared to walk down the street + Lest I should reel with the wine of you, + And jerk against my neighbours + As they go by. + I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, + But my brain is noisy + With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. + + + + +Vintage + + + + I will mix me a drink of stars,-- + Large stars with polychrome needles, + Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, + Cool, quiet, green stars. + I will tear them out of the sky, + And squeeze them over an old silver cup, + And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, + So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. + + It will lap and scratch + As I swallow it down; + And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, + Coiling and twisting in my belly. + His snortings will rise to my head, + And I shall be hot, and laugh, + Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. + + + + +The Tree of Scarlet Berries + + + + The rain gullies the garden paths + And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. + A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. + Even so, I can see that it has red berries, + A scarlet fruit, + Filmed over with moisture. + It seems as though the rain, + Dripping from it, + Should be tinged with colour. + I desire the berries, + But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. + Probably, too, they are bitter. + + + + +Obligation + + + + Hold your apron wide + That I may pour my gifts into it, + So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them + From falling to the ground. + + I would pour them upon you + And cover you, + For greatly do I feel this need + Of giving you something, + Even these poor things. + + Dearest of my Heart! + + + + +The Taxi + + + + When I go away from you + The world beats dead + Like a slackened drum. + I call out for you against the jutted stars + And shout into the ridges of the wind. + Streets coming fast, + One after the other, + Wedge you away from me, + And the lamps of the city prick my eyes + So that I can no longer see your face. + Why should I leave you, + To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? + + + + +The Giver of Stars + + + + Hold your soul open for my welcoming. + Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me + With its clear and rippled coolness, + That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, + Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. + + Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, + That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, + The life and joy of tongues of flame, + And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, + I may rouse the blear-eyed world, + And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. + + + + +The Temple + + + + Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. + Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue + Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew + And vanished in the sunshine. How it came + We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. + From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew + Together into fire. But we knew + The winds would slap and quench it in their game. + And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks + To treasure it, and placed them round about. + With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, + And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks + Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, + The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole. + + + + +Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + + + + Beneath this sod lie the remains + Of one who died of growing pains. + + + + +In Answer to a Request + + + + You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, + Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? + Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June + And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? + For your sake, I would go and seek the year, + Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, + Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon + Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer + Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! + My shadow stretches forward, and the ground + Is dark in front because the light's behind. + It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, + In watching it and walking I have found + More than enough to occupy my mind. + + I cannot turn, the light would make me blind. + + + + +POPPY SEED + + + + +The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + + + + 1 + + A yellow band of light upon the street + Pours from an open door, and makes a wide + Pathway of bright gold across a sheet + Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside + Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch + Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, + The clip of tankards on a table top, + And stir of booted heels. Against the patch + Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth + Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. + + + 2 + + This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, + Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. + Within his cellar men can have to drink + The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed + To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art + Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. + Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, + Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart + A cap as ever in his wantonness + Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. + + + 3 + + Tall candles stand upon the table, where + Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, + Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were + Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. + The centre of the board is piled with pipes, + Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay + Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault + Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way + Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes + And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. + + + 4 + + "For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" + Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. + "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, + From that small barrel in the very roots + Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! + Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. + We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke + His best tobacco for a grand climax. + Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, + We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!" + + + 5 + + Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. + "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." + The host set down a jar; then to a vat + Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. + Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem + Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew + The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. + It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew + Into the silver night. At once there flung + Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: + + + 6 + + "Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, + Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? + My master sent me to inquire where + Such men do mostly be, but every door + Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. + I pray you tell me where I may now find + One versed in law, the matter will not wait." + "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind + Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. + I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. + + + 7 + + Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, + Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy + Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout + Within the tavern jeered at his employ. + Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, + Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, + Flooded the open spaces, and took flight + Before tall, serried houses in platoon, + Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House + They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. + + + 8 + + Before a door which fronted a canal + The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. + The water lapped the stones in musical + And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot + Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. + The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame + Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, + And through the open door Max went toward + Another door, whence sound of voices came. + He entered a large room where candelabra burned. + + + 9 + + An aged man in quilted dressing gown + Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent + Your messenger to seek throughout the town + A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, + But I am at your service, and my name + Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." + "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged + Am I, and count myself much privileged. + I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame + Is better known on distant oceans than on land. + + + 10 + + My ship has tasted water in strange seas, + And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. + She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, + And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." + "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, + "Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." + The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, + "My good friend, Grootver,--" he at once began. + "No introductions, let us have some wine, + And business, now that you at last have made your choice." + + + 11 + + A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, + This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. + Kurler explained, his old hands nervously + Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought + From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay + The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind + Had so delayed him that his cargo brought + But half its proper price, the very day + He came to port he stepped ashore to find + The market glutted and his counted profits naught. + + + 12 + + Little by little Max made out the way + That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. + His money he must have, too long delay + Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. + "But let me take my ship, with many bales + Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, + Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste + Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails + Open for home, such stores will I bring you + That all your former ventures will be counted waste. + + + 13 + + Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, + And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, + Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam + Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, + Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. + Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard + The deed to which the sailor gave his word. + He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed + The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, + He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. + + + 14 + + For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, + Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. + But on one black and most unfriendly day + Grootver had caught her as she passed between + The kitchen and the garden. She had run + In fear of him, his evil leering eye, + And when he came she, bolted in her room, + Refused to show, though gave no reason why. + The spinning of her future had begun, + On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. + + + 15 + + Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, + Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. + He felt his hands were building up the pyre + To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo + He staggered to his chair. Before him lay + White paper still unspotted by a crime. + "Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. + "`If in two years my vessel should yet stay + From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime + A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear." + + + 16 + + And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, + And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. + Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. + Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" + He shuffled from the room, and left the house. + His footsteps wore to silence down the street. + At last the aged man began to rouse. + With help he once more gained his trembling feet. + "My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. + Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow." + + + 17 + + Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, + "Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, + So to protect your daughter from all harm + As one man may." Thus sorrowful, forlorn, + The situation to Max Breuck appeared, + He gave his promise almost without thought, + Nor looked to see a difficulty. "Bred + Gently to watch a mother left alone; + Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared + The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; + + + 18 + + Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. + Last Winter she died also, and my days + Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, + And undo habits used to earn her praise. + My leisure I will gladly give to see + Your household and your daughter prosperous." + The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. + He could not brook that his humility, + So little wonted, and so tremulous, + Should first before a stranger make such great display. + + + 19 + + "Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, + I sail at the full sea, my daughter then + I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon + If after I have bid good-by, and when + Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, + You bring her home again. She lives with one + Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. + But that is no friend for so free a heart. + No head to match her questions. It is done. + And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. + + + 20 + + My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam + As home, so not a letter can you send. + I shall be back, before to where I am + Another ship could reach. Now your stipend--" + Quickly Breuck interposed. "When you once more + Tread on the stones which pave our streets.--Good night! + To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, + At the great wharf." Then hurrying, in spite + Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon + Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. + + + 21 + + 'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, + And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. + The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here + The sun sank deep into the waters cold. + And every clock and belfry in the town + Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, + To shake the sunny morning into life, + And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, + Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, + Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. + + + 22 + + The "Horn of Fortune" sails away to-day. + At highest tide she lets her anchor go, + And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! + Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, + And beckons to her boats to let her start. + Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. + The shining waves are quick to take her part. + They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, + Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize + And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. + + + 23 + + At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, + And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. + Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, + Bowing before them both. The brigantine + Bounces impatient at the long delay, + Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. + A heavy galliot unloads on the walls + Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls + Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more + Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. + + + 24 + + Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, + Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. + Max moved aside and let her be alone, + For grief exacts each penny of its toll. + The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. + A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, + Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again + Upon the other side. Now on the lee + It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight + Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. + + + 25 + + Then up above the eager brigantine, + Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, + Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine + Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight + Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, + Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. + They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, + The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw + She glided imperceptibly away, + Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. + + + 26 + + Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, + Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. + Before the iron gateway, clasped between + Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, + Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? + My father told me of your courtesy. + Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me + To show such hospitality as maiden may, + Without disdaining rules must not be broke. + Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today." + + + 27 + + She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. + Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones + Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, + It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones + Are budded with much peering at the rows, + And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. + Max started at the beauty, at the glare + Of tints. At either end was set a wide + Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows + Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! + + + 28 + + From side to side, midway each path, there ran + A longer one which cut the space in two. + And, like a tunnel some magician + Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, + Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers + Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came + The plump and heavy apples crowding stood + And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame + Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers + They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. + + + 29 + + Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, + Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun + From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes + Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one + Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. + Bordered along the wall, in beds between, + Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, + The pride of all the garden, there were more + Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. + They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. + + + 30 + + "Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring + Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best + Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring + Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest + To please her guest she flew. A moment more + She came again, with her old nurse behind. + Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, + She talked as someone with a noble store + Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, + Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. + + + 31 + + The little apple leaves above their heads + Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, + In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds + Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule + And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes + Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues + Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed + To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes + Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. + Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. + + + 32 + + Of every pattern and in every shade. + Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. + Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made + An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. + Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. + Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. + They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, + Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. + The shade within the arbour made a port + To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. + + + 33 + + Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, + This child matured to woman unaware, + The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked + Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. + Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, + And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich + And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died + Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, + She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch + At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. + + + 34 + + Two years was long! She loved her father well, + But fears she had not. He had always been + Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell + On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen + Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. + Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! + Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. + Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, + The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall. + When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. + + + 35 + + The next day, and the next, Max went to ask + The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: + Another tulip blown, or the great task + Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; + The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles + Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. + Such things were Christine's world, and his was she + Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. + Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, + Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. + + + 36 + + Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself + The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. + As one in charge of guineas on a shelf + Loose in a china teapot, may confess + His need, but may not borrow till his friend + Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said + No word of love or marriage; but the days + He clipped off on his almanac. The end + Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, + Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. + + + 37 + + Two years had made Christine a woman grown, + With dignity and gently certain pride. + But all her childhood fancies had not flown, + Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. + Max was her trusted friend, did she confess + A closer happiness? Max could not tell. + Two years were over and his life he found + Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness + He waited for the "Horn of Fortune". Well + Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. + + + 38 + + Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass + Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came + Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass + Was justified, for he had won the game. + Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, + And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship + Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank + To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent + For Max. "Come quickly," said her note, "I skip + The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank." + + + 39 + + Through the long sunshine of late afternoon + Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost + In bitter reverie, he found her soon. + And sitting down beside her, at the cost + Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing + So suddenly has happened?" Then, in tears, + She told that Grootver, on the following morn, + Would come to marry her, and shuddering: + "I will die rather, death has lesser fears." + Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. + + + 40 + + "My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! + I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. + In strictest honour I have played my part; + But all this misery has overthrown + My scruples. If you love me, marry me + Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. + You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, + Can eat his anger. My care it shall be + To pay your father's debt, by such degrees + As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. + + + 41 + + This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known + My love, and silence forced upon my lips. + I worship you with all the strength I've shown + In keeping faith." With pleading finger tips + He touched her arm. "Christine! Beloved! Think. + Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, + I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? + They've been in leash so long upon the brink." + She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. + Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. + + + 42 + + And they were married ere the westering sun + Had disappeared behind the garden trees. + The evening poured on them its benison, + And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, + Rose up around them from the beamy ground, + Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. + Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, + In such enraptured sweetness as they found + Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon + To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. + + + 43 + + At last Max spoke, "Dear Heart, this night is ours, + To watch it pale, together, into dawn, + Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers + Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, + Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, + Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. + For that desired thing I leave you now. + To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, + By telling Grootver that a bootless quest + Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow." + + + 44 + + But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, + Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. + And wound her arms about his knees and thighs + As he stood over her. With dread, begot + Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, + She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint + Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, + Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint + Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright + With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. + + + 45 + + But at the gate once more she held him close + And quenched her heart again upon his lips. + "My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose + But to be gone one hour! Evening slips + Away, this errand must be done." "Max! Max! + First goes my father, if I lose you now!" + She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. + Softly he laughed, "One hour through the town + By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. + Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. + + + 46 + + One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. + We front another day as man and wife. + I shall be back almost before I'm gone, + And midnight shall anoint and crown our life." + Then through the gate he passed. Along the street + She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. + He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. + Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. + Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, + Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. + + + 47 + + Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. + His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot + He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall + Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. + He dreaded no man, since he could protect + Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. + His starved life had not fitted him for joy. + It strained him to the utmost to reject + Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. + "Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!" + + + 48 + + He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol + To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. + In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. + And he would be returned, lifting the latch + Of his own gate, eager to take Christine + And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? + He broke into a run. In front, a line + Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. + Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day + Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. + + + 49 + + "Why, Max! Stop, Max!" And out they came pell-mell, + His old companions. "Max, where have you been? + Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! + How many months is it since we have seen + You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! + Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, + Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. + Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; + Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. + Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!" + + + 50 + + They forced him to a seat, and held him there, + Despite his anger, while the hideous joke + Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care + A brimming glass of whiskey. "Here, we've broke + Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! + Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? + Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! + Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think." + Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, + Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. + + + 51 + + Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried + To quell the uproar, told them what he dared + Of his own life and circumstance. Implied + Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. + In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, + And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more + Goaded and bursting;--"Cowards! Is no one loth + To mock at duty--" Here they called for ale, + And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath + He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. + + + 52 + + Sobered a little by his violence, + And by the host who begged them to be still, + Nor injure his good name, "Max, no offence," + They blurted, "you may leave now if you will." + "One moment, Max," said Franz. "We've gone too far. + I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. + It started in a wager ere you came. + The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar + I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, + Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. + + + 53 + + Its properties are to induce a sleep + Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time + Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep + Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime + Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream + Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock + Are but so many seconds. We agreed + That the next man who came should prove the scheme; + And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. + Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed." + + + 54 + + "It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!" + Max Breuck was maddened now. "Another jest + Of your befuddled wits. I know not why + I am to be your butt. At my request + You'll choose among you one who'll answer for + Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night + And good-by,--gentlemen. You'll hear from me." + But Franz had caught him at the very door, + "It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight + I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. + + + 55 + + You have no business, that is why we laughed, + Since you had none a few minutes ago. + As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, + Knowing the length of time it takes to do + A simple thing like that in this slow world. + Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. + I'll burn the drug if you prefer." But Breuck + Muttered and stared,--"A lie." And then he hurled, + Distraught, this word at Franz: "Prove it. And when + It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. + + + 56 + + I'll give you just one week to make your case. + On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, + I shall require your proof." With wondering face + Franz cried, "A week to August, and fourteen + The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. + April, and eighteen-twelve." Max staggered, caught + A chair,--"April two years ago! Indeed, + Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how + Either could blunder so." Hilverdink brought + "The Amsterdam Gazette", and Max was forced to read. + + + 57 + + "Eighteen hundred and twelve," in largest print; + And next to it, "April the twenty-first." + The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint + Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, + He read it, and into his pounding brain + Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea + Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: + "This is two years ago! What of Christine?" + He fled the cellar, in his agony + Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. + + + 58 + + The darkened buildings echoed to his feet + Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. + Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet + And terror-winged steps. His heart began + To labour at the speed. And still no sign, + No flutter of a leaf against the sky. + And this should be the garden wall, and round + The corner, the old gate. No even line + Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry + Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. + + + 59 + + Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, + They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones + To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine + Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones + Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, + Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, + The twisted iron of the garden gate, + Was there. The houses touched and left no space + Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves + Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. + + + 60 + + Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. + His slobbering lips could only cry, "Christine! + My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? + What future is our past? What saturnine, + Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live + Two years together in a puff of smoke? + It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, + Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give + Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke + Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are." + + + 61 + + His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. + The moon had long been set. And still he cried: + "Christine! My Love! Christine!" A sudden spark + Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied + With his uncertain vision, so within + Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, + A latticed window where a crimson gleam + Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, + An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth + Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. + + + 62 + + Softly he knocked against the casement, wide + It flew, and a cracked voice his business there + Demanded. The door opened, and inside + Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air + Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. + "Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve + You?" "Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? + I want a pistol." Quick the old man grew + Livid. "Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve + You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms--" + + + 63 + + "Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose + My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been + Blest above others. You have many rows + Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen + Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts + Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' + Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! + 'Twill serve my turn though--" Hastily he counts + The florins down upon the table. "Well, + Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast." + + + 64 + + Into the night again he hurried, now + Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town + He set his goal. And then he wondered how + Poor C. D. L. had come to die. "It's grown + Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, + And will work punctually." His sorrow fell + Upon his senses, shutting out all else. + Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought + The heavy miles away. "Christine. I'm well. + I'm coming. My Own Wife!" He lurched with failing pulse. + + + 65 + + Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, + And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. + The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts + Long stealthy fingers up some way to find + And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here + The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. + No lights were burning in the distant thorps. + Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, + Babbled "Christine!" A shot split through the breeze. + The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. + + + + +Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + + + + Dear Virgin Mary, far away, + Look down from Heaven while I pray. + Open your golden casement high, + And lean way out beyond the sky. + I am so little, it may be + A task for you to harken me. + + O Lady Mary, I have bought + A candle, as the good priest taught. + I only had one penny, so + Old Goody Jenkins let it go. + It is a little bent, you see. + But Oh, be merciful to me! + + I have not anything to give, + Yet I so long for him to live. + A year ago he sailed away + And not a word unto today. + I've strained my eyes from the sea-wall + But never does he come at all. + + Other ships have entered port + Their voyages finished, long or short, + And other sailors have received + Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved. + My heart is bursting for his hail, + O Virgin, let me spy his sail. + + _Hull down on the edge of a sun-soaked sea + Sparkle the bellying sails for me. + Taut to the push of a rousing wind + Shaking the sea till it foams behind, + The tightened rigging is shrill with the song: + "We are back again who were gone so long."_ + + One afternoon I bumped my head. + I sat on a post and wished I were dead + Like father and mother, for no one cared + Whither I went or how I fared. + A man's voice said, "My little lad, + Here's a bit of a toy to make you glad." + + Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, + With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain + Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail + Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail + Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, + Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen. + + He held out his hand and gave to me + The most marvellous top which could ever be. + It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, + And a red stone carved into little wings, + All joined by a twisted golden line, + And set in the brown wood, even and fine. + + Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought + My treasure to you as I ought, + But he said to keep it for his sake + And comfort myself with it, and take + Joy in its spinning, and so I do. + It couldn't mean quite the same to you. + + Every day I met him there, + Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. + He told me stories of courts and kings, + Of storms at sea, of lots of things. + The top he said was a sort of sign + That something in the big world was mine. + + _Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. + Against the horizon a glint in motion. + Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, + Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, + Singing and shouting to port she races, + A flying harp, with her sheets and braces._ + + O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, + I am in very utmost need. + He loved me, he was all I had, + And when he came it made the sad + Thoughts disappear. This very day + Send his ship home to me I pray. + + I'll be a priest, if you want it so, + I'll work till I have enough to go + And study Latin to say the prayers + On the rosary our old priest wears. + I wished to be a sailor too, + But I will give myself to you. + + I'll never even spin my top, + But put it away in a box. I'll stop + Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. + I'll save my pennies till I have bought + A silver heart in the market square, + I've seen some beautiful, white ones there. + + I'll give up all I want to do + And do whatever you tell me to. + Heavenly Lady, take away + All the games I like to play, + Take my life to fill the score, + Only bring him back once more! + + _The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, + And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. + The gray dust whirls in the market square, + And the silver hearts are covered with care + By thick tarpaulins. Once again + The bay is black under heavy rain._ + + The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. + A little boy weeps and prays no more. + + + + +After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók + + + + But why did I kill him? Why? Why? + In the small, gilded room, near the stair? + My ears rack and throb with his cry, + And his eyes goggle under his hair, + As my fingers sink into the fair + White skin of his throat. It was I! + + I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? + I shook him until his red tongue + Hung flapping out through the black, queer, + Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung + With my nails drawing blood, while I flung + The loose, heavy body in fear. + + Fear lest he should still not be dead. + I was drunk with the lust of his life. + The blood-drops oozed slow from his head + And dabbled a chair. And our strife + Lasted one reeling second, his knife + Lay and winked in the lights overhead. + + And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, + When I called him a low, sneaking cur. + And the wail of the violins stirred + My brute anger with visions of her. + As I throttled his windpipe, the purr + Of his breath with the waltz became blurred. + + I have ridden ten miles through the dark, + With that music, an infernal din, + Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! + One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in + To his flesh when the violins, thin + And straining with passion, grow stark. + + One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! + While she danced I was crushing his throat. + He had tasted the joy of her, wound + Round her body, and I heard him gloat + On the favour. That instant I smote. + One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round! + + He is here in the room, in my arm, + His limp body hangs on the spin + Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm + Of blood-drops is hemming us in! + Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin + Is red like his tongue lolling warm. + + One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. + He is heavy, his feet beat the floor + As I drag him about in the swell + Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, + The trumpets crash in through the door. + One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell. + + One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space + Rolls the earth to the hideous glee + Of death! And so cramped is this place, + I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! + Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! + He has covered my mouth with his face! + + And his blood has dripped into my heart! + And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! + Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part + Of my body in tentacles. Through + My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue + His dead body holds me athwart. + + One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! + One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! + One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, + Beats me into a jelly! The chime, + One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. + Air! Give me air! Air! My God! + + + + +Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + + + + The fountain bent and straightened itself + In the night wind, + Blowing like a flower. + It gleamed and glittered, + A tall white lily, + Under the eye of the golden moon. + From a stone seat, + Beneath a blossoming lime, + The man watched it. + And the spray pattered + On the dim grass at his feet. + + The fountain tossed its water, + Up and up, like silver marbles. + Is that an arm he sees? + And for one moment + Does he catch the moving curve + Of a thigh? + The fountain gurgled and splashed, + And the man's face was wet. + + Is it singing that he hears? + A song of playing at ball? + The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, + And through it he sees a woman, + Tossing the water-balls. + Her breasts point outwards, + And the nipples are like buds of peonies. + Her flanks ripple as she plays, + And the water is not more undulating + Than the lines of her body. + + "Come," she sings, "Poet! + Am I not more worth than your day ladies, + Covered with awkward stuffs, + Unreal, unbeautiful? + What do you fear in taking me? + Is not the night for poets? + I am your dream, + Recurrent as water, + Gemmed with the moon!" + + She steps to the edge of the pool + And the water runs, rustling, down her sides. + She stretches out her arms, + And the fountain streams behind her + Like an opened veil. + + * * * * * + + In the morning the gardeners came to their work. + "There is something in the fountain," said one. + They shuddered as they laid their dead master + On the grass. + "I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, + "It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun." + + + + +The Basket + + + + I + + The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, + in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into + the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air + is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + + See how the roof glitters, like ice! + + Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand + two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. + + + See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. + She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, + between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper + as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", + what a title for a book! + + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. + + + He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating + his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits + on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. + And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, + and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. + + "It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. + How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters + like ice. + + + II + + Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter + to pay his morning's work with a holiday. + + "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" + + Peter jumps through the window. + + "Dear, are you alone?" + + "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread + is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have + seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" + + The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, + at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, + and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with + so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds + new-opened on their stems. + + + Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. + + "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. + My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little + pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. + The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes + are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do + any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down + and amuse me while I rest." + + The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb + the opposite wall. + + + Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, + and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, + where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. + + The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. + + + He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. + His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room + is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands + the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour + on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs + his name. + + "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." + + And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. + + There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. + + + III + + "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." + + "How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, + I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write + `No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, + that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage + strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied + the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, + you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. + Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot + feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." + + "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will + crush your heart and squeeze the love out." + + He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." + + "Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must + have sight! I _must_!" + + The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, + the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman + by a silver thread. + + + They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there + are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased + in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket + is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. + They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce + over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting + on the window-sill, eating human eyes. + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines + like ice. + + + IV + + How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, + and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, + and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them + burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". + + The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? + Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" + + The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, + bounces over and disappears. + + The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. + + + V + + The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow + the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. + + A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, + and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. + + + Annette! + + + + +In a Castle + + + + I + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- + fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, + and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops. + + + The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim, + in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinks + the rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes + the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewise + out from the wall, and then falls back again. + + + It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly. + He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling. + The fire flutters and drops. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops. + He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor. + Outside, the wind goes wailing. + + + The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above, + in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shivers + in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame. + She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her. + + How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips! + + + It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet, + and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms, + and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms + her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself + beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble. + + Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, + terribly abhorred? + + + He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinks + on the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pure + and whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him, + for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes her + by the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord, + and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn, + shriven by her great love. + + Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. + The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall. + + + The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters. + Will the lady lose courage and not come? + + The rain claps on a loosened rafter. + + Is that laughter? + + + The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters. + One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rain + which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries + which chatters? + + The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall + the arras is blown! + + + Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds. + By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and + clasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form + and flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire, + which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noise + never stops. + + Drip--hiss--the rain drops. + + + He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door. + + + II + + The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. + For the storm never stops. + + On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, + grey air. Drip--hiss--fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. + The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. + A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along + the rush mat. + + A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. + It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life + for the high favour." + + Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, + "Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded + necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, + she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, + you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, + they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, + I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck + to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." + The end was a splashed flourish of ink. + + Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. + The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering + in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair. + + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- + fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops. + + The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. + Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. + Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold. + + + III + + In the castle church you may see them stand, + Two sumptuous tombs on either hand + Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand + In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, + A crusader, come from the Holy Land, + Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. + The page's name became a brand + For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, + After having been burnt by royal command. + + + + +The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + + + + The Bell in the convent tower swung. + High overhead the great sun hung, + A navel for the curving sky. + The air was a blue clarity. + Swallows flew, + And a cock crew. + + The iron clanging sank through the light air, + Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare + Of spotted green, and a snake had gone + Into the bed where the snowdrops shone + In green new-started, + Their white bells parted. + + Two by two, in a long brown line, + The nuns were walking to breathe the fine + Bright April air. They must go in soon + And work at their tasks all the afternoon. + But this time is theirs! + They walk in pairs. + + First comes the Abbess, preoccupied + And slow, as a woman often tried, + With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. + Then younger and younger, until the last one + Has a laugh on her lips, + And fairly skips. + + They wind about the gravel walks + And all the long line buzzes and talks. + They step in time to the ringing bell, + With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well + In the core of a sky + Domed silverly. + + Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." + Sister Angelique said she must get her spud + And free the earth round the jasmine roots. + Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! + There's a crocus up, + With a purple cup." + + But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, + She looked up and down the old grey wall + To see if a lizard were basking there. + She looked across the garden to where + A sycamore + Flanked the garden door. + + She was restless, although her little feet danced, + And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced + Her morning's work had hung in her mind + And would not take form. She could not find + The beautifulness + For the Virgin's dress. + + Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? + Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? + Should it be banded with yellow and white + Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? + Or a crimson sheen + Over some sort of green? + + But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new + In all the garden, no single hue + So lovely or so marvellous + That its use would not seem impious. + So on she walked, + And the others talked. + + Sister Elisabeth edged away + From what her companion had to say, + For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, + She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. + She did plain stitching + And worked in the kitchen. + + "Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, + I told her so this Friday past. + I must speak to her before Compline." + Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. + The other nun sighed, + With her pleasure quite dried. + + Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: + "The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. + The little white cups bent over the ground, + And in among the light stems wound + A crested snake, + With his eyes awake. + + His body was green with a metal brightness + Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, + And all down his curling length were disks, + Evil vermilion asterisks, + They paled and flooded + As wounds fresh-blooded. + + His crest was amber glittered with blue, + And opaque so the sun came shining through. + It seemed a crown with fiery points. + When he quivered all down his scaly joints, + From every slot + The sparkles shot. + + The nuns huddled tightly together, fear + Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer + More closely at the beautiful snake, + She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make + Colours so rare, + The dress were there. + + The Abbess shook off her lethargy. + "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. + Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, + The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. + Only Clotilde + Was the last to yield. + + When the recreation hour was done + Each went in to her task. Alone + In the library, with its great north light, + Clotilde wrought at an exquisite + Wreath of flowers + For her Book of Hours. + + She twined the little crocus blooms + With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms + Of laurel leaves were interwoven + With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven + Fritillaries, + Whose colour varies. + + They framed the picture she had made, + Half-delighted and half-afraid. + In a courtyard with a lozenged floor + The Virgin watched, and through the arched door + The angel came + Like a springing flame. + + His wings were dipped in violet fire, + His limbs were strung to holy desire. + He lowered his head and passed under the arch, + And the air seemed beating a solemn march. + The Virgin waited + With eyes dilated. + + Her face was quiet and innocent, + And beautiful with her strange assent. + A silver thread about her head + Her halo was poised. But in the stead + Of her gown, there remained + The vellum, unstained. + + Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, + Lingering over each tint and dye. + She could spend great pains, now she had seen + That curious, unimagined green. + A colour so strange + It had seemed to change. + + She thought it had altered while she gazed. + At first it had been simple green; then glazed + All over with twisting flames, each spot + A molten colour, trembling and hot, + And every eye + Seemed to liquefy. + + She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. + After all, she had only glanced + At that wonderful snake, and she must know + Just what hues made the creature throw + Those splashes and sprays + Of prismed rays. + + When evening prayers were sung and said, + The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. + And soon in the convent there was no light, + For the moon did not rise until late that night, + Only the shine + Of the lamp at the shrine. + + Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. + Her heart shook her body with its beats. + She could not see till the moon should rise, + So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes + On the window-square + Till light should be there. + + The faintest shadow of a branch + Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch + With solemn purpose, softly rose + And fluttered down between the rows + Of sleeping nuns. + She almost runs. + + She must go out through the little side door + Lest the nuns who were always praying before + The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. + She pushed the bolts, and over the grass + The red moon's brim + Mounted its rim. + + Her shadow crept up the convent wall + As she swiftly left it, over all + The garden lay the level glow + Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. + The gravel glistened. + She stopped and listened. + + It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. + She laughed a little, but she felt queerer + Than ever before. The snowdrop bed + Was reached and she bent down her head. + On the striped ground + The snake was wound. + + For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, + Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. + She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. + She darted her hand out, and seized the thick + Wriggling slime, + Only just in time. + + The old gardener came muttering down the path, + And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, + And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. + He bit her, but what difference did that make! + The Virgin should dress + In his loveliness. + + The gardener was covering his new-set plants + For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts + Your lover of growing things. He spied + Something to do and turned aside, + And the moonlight streamed + On Clotilde, and gleamed. + + His business finished the gardener rose. + He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows + A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she + Grasping him, laughing, while quietly + Her eyes are weeping. + Is he sleeping? + + He thinks it is some holy vision, + Brushes that aside and with decision + Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, + Crushes his spine, and then with quick, + Urgent command + Takes her hand. + + The gardener sucks the poison and spits, + Cursing and praying as befits + A poor old man half out of his wits. + "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's + Hatched of a devil + And very evil. + + It's one of them horrid basilisks + You read about. They say a man risks + His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it + Out by now. Lucky I chucked it + Away from you. + I guess you'll do." + + "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast + Was sent to me, to me the least + Worthy in all our convent, so I + Could finish my picture of the Most High + And Holy Queen, + In her dress of green. + + He is dead now, but his colours won't fade + At once, and by noon I shall have made + The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see + How kindly the moon shines down on me! + I can't die yet, + For the task was set." + + "You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," + Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. + If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,--" + "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." + So Clotilde vented + Her creed. He repented. + + "He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. + "Paint as much as you like." And gingerly + He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde + Thanked him, and begged that he would shield + Her secret, though itching + To talk in the kitchen. + + The gardener promised, not very pleased, + And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, + Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon + Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon + In her bed she lay + And waited for day. + + At dawn's first saffron-spired warning + Clotilde was up. And all that morning, + Except when she went to the chapel to pray, + She painted, and when the April day + Was hot with sun, + Clotilde had done. + + Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud + At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed + To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. + A lady, in excellence arrayed, + And wonder-souled. + Christ's Blessed Mould! + + From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, + But her eyes were starred like those of a saint + Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. + A sudden clamour hurled its rude + Force to break + Her vision awake. + + The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed + By the multitude of nuns. They hushed + When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, + Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. + And all the hive + Buzzed "She's alive!" + + Old Francois had told. He had found the strain + Of silence too great, and preferred the pain + Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, + And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. + For Francois, to spite them, + Had not seen fit to right them. + + The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, + Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, + Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, + To spare you while you imaged her face? + How could we have guessed + Our convent so blessed! + + A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! + To have you die! And I, who am + A hollow, living shell, the grave + Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave + To be taken, Dear Mother, + Instead of this other." + + She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, + With anguished hands and tears delayed + To a painful slowness. The minutes drew + To fractions. Then the west wind blew + The sound of a bell, + On a gusty swell. + + It came skipping over the slates of the roof, + And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof + To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. + The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. + And the sun lit the flowers + In Clotilde's Book of Hours. + + It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress + And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, + Pulse and start; and the violet wings + Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. + The book seemed a choir + Of rainbow fire. + + The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun + Did the same, then one by one, + They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers + Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. + Clotilde, the Inspired! + + She only felt tired. + + * * * * * + + The old chronicles say she did not die + Until heavy with years. And that is why + There hangs in the convent church a basket + Of osiered silver, a holy casket, + And treasured therein + A dried snake-skin. + + + + +The Exeter Road + + + + Panels of claret and blue which shine + Under the moon like lees of wine. + A coronet done in a golden scroll, + And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll + Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. + They daren't look back! + + They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! + What brutes men are when they think they're scored. + Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, + In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see + That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, + Hop about and slue. + + They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. + For my lord has a casket full of rolls + Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. + I laugh to think how he'll show his scars + In London to-morrow. He whines with rage + In his varnished cage. + + My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. + 'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. + But I shall relieve her of them yet, + When I see she limps in the minuet + I must beg to celebrate this night, + And the green moonlight. + + There's nothing to hurry about, the plain + Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. + My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, + In half an hour I'll bag the coins. + 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. + The chase is the thing! + + How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon + Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune + Is beating out of the curses and screams, + And the cracking all through the painted seams. + Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. + 'Tis a rare fine night! + + There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, + And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. + It seems a shame to break the air + In two with this pistol, but I've my share + Of drudgery like other men. + His hat? Amen! + + Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! + Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, + Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. + 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. + A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! + They'll get me, of course. + + The cursed coach will reach the town + And they'll all come out, every loafer grown + A lion to handcuff a man that's down. + What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! + I'll give it a head to fit it pat. + Thank you! No cravat. + + + _They handcuffed the body just for style, + And they hung him in chains for the volatile + Wind to scour him flesh from bones. + Way out on the moor you can hear the groans + His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. + 'Tis a common tale._ + + + + +The Shadow + + + + Paul Jannes was working very late, + For this watch must be done by eight + To-morrow or the Cardinal + Would certainly be vexed. Of all + His customers the old prelate + Was the most important, for his state + Descended to his watches and rings, + And he gave his mistresses many things + To make them forget his age and smile + When he paid visits, and they could while + The time away with a diamond locket + Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, + And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. + This watch was made to buy him blisses + From an Austrian countess on her way + Home, and she meant to start next day. + + + Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame + Of a tallow candle, and became + So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince + Striking the hour a moment since. + Its echo, only half apprehended, + Lingered about the room. He ended + Screwing the little rubies in, + Setting the wheels to lock and spin, + Curling the infinitesimal springs, + Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings + Of precious stones lay strewn about. + The table before him was a rout + Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. + There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite + A heap of emeralds, and steel. + Here was a gem, there was a wheel. + And glasses lay like limpid lakes + Shining and still, and there were flakes + Of silver, and shavings of pearl, + And little wires all awhirl + With the light of the candle. He took the watch + And wound its hands about to match + The time, then glanced up to take the hour + From the hanging clock. + Good, Merciful Power! + How came that shadow on the wall, + No woman was in the room! His tall + Chiffonier stood gaunt behind + His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, + Hung from a peg. The door was closed. + Just for a moment he must have dozed. + He looked again, and saw it plain. + The silhouette made a blue-black stain + On the opposite wall, and it never wavered + Even when the candle quavered + Under his panting breath. What made + That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade + Of something so lovely, so exquisite, + Cast from a substance which the sight + Had not been tutored to perceive? + Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve. + + Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall + Gleamed black, and never moved at all. + + + Paul's watches were like amulets, + Wrought into patterns and rosettes; + The cases were all set with stones, + And wreathing lines, and shining zones. + He knew the beauty in a curve, + And the Shadow tortured every nerve + With its perfect rhythm of outline + Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine + Was the neck he knew he could have spanned + It about with the fingers of one hand. + The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, + But could not see, the lips were pressed + Loosely together, the edges close, + And the proud and delicate line of the nose + Melted into a brow, and there + Broke into undulant waves of hair. + The lady was edged with the stamp of race. + A singular vision in such a place. + + + He moved the candle to the tall + Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. + He threw his cloak upon a chair, + And still the lady's face was there. + From every corner of the room + He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom + That was the lady. Her violet bloom + Was almost brighter than that which came + From his candle's tulip-flame. + He set the filigree hands; he laid + The watch in the case which he had made; + He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed + His candle out. The room seemed stuffed + With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, + And let himself out through the door. + + + The sun was flashing from every pin + And wheel, when Paul let himself in. + The whitewashed walls were hot with light. + The room was the core of a chrysolite, + Burning and shimmering with fiery might. + The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall + From the furniture upon the wall. + Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space + Where a glare usurped the lady's place. + He settled himself to his work, but his mind + Wandered, and he would wake to find + His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, + And nothing advanced beyond the rim + Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay + For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. + But Paul could hardly touch the gold, + It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. + With the first twilight he struck a match + And watched the little blue stars hatch + Into an egg of perfect flame. + He lit his candle, and almost in shame + At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. + The Shadow was there, and its precise + Outline etched the cold, white wall. + The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, + There's something the matter with your brain. + Go home now and sleep off the strain." + + + The next day was a storm, the rain + Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. + A grey and shadowless morning filled + The little shop. The watches, chilled, + Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. + The gems lay on the table like shoals + Of stranded shells, their colours faded, + Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. + Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed + No orders, for his fancy strayed. + His work became a simple round + Of watches repaired and watches wound. + The slanting ribbons of the rain + Broke themselves on the window-pane, + But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. + Only when the candle was lit + And on the wall just opposite + He watched again the coming of _it_, + Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul + And over his hands regain control. + + + Paul lingered late in his shop that night + And the designs which his delight + Sketched on paper seemed to be + A tribute offered wistfully + To the beautiful shadow of her who came + And hovered over his candle flame. + In the morning he selected all + His perfect jacinths. One large opal + Hung like a milky, rainbow moon + In the centre, and blown in loose festoon + The red stones quivered on silver threads + To the outer edge, where a single, fine + Band of mother-of-pearl the line + Completed. On the other side, + The creamy porcelain of the face + Bore diamond hours, and no lace + Of cotton or silk could ever be + Tossed into being more airily + Than the filmy golden hands; the time + Seemed to tick away in rhyme. + When, at dusk, the Shadow grew + Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. + Holding the watch, he spoke to her: + "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir + Into one brief sign of being. + Turn your eyes this way, and seeing + This watch, made from those sweet curves + Where your hair from your forehead swerves, + Accept the gift which I have wrought + With your fairness in my thought. + Grant me this, and I shall be + Honoured overwhelmingly." + + The Shadow rested black and still, + And the wind sighed over the window-sill. + + + Paul put the despised watch away + And laid out before him his array + Of stones and metals, and when the morning + Struck the stones to their best adorning, + He chose the brightest, and this new watch + Was so light and thin it seemed to catch + The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. + Topazes ran in a foamy stream + Over the cover, the hands were studded + With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. + The face was of crystal, and engraved + Upon it the figures flashed and waved + With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. + It took a week to make, and his trysts + At night with the Shadow were his alone. + Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. + The night that the jewel was worthy to give. + Paul watched the long hours of daylight live + To the faintest streak; then lit his light, + And sharp against the wall's pure white + The outline of the Shadow started + Into form. His burning-hearted + Words so long imprisoned swelled + To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, + He told the lady all his love, + And holding out the watch above + His head, he knelt, imploring some + Littlest sign. + The Shadow was dumb. + + + Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, + And everything he made he placed + Before his lady. The Shadow kept + Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. + He wooed her with the work of his hands, + He waited for those dear commands + She never gave. No word, no motion, + Eased the ache of his devotion. + His days passed in a strain of toil, + His nights burnt up in a seething coil. + Seasons shot by, uncognisant + He worked. The Shadow came to haunt + Even his days. Sometimes quite plain + He saw on the wall the blackberry stain + Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright + Enough to dazzle that from his sight. + + + There were moments when he groaned to see + His life spilled out so uselessly, + Begging for boons the Shade refused, + His finest workmanship abused, + The iridescent bubbles he blew + Into lovely existence, poor and few + In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse + Himself and her! The Universe! + And more, the beauty he could not make, + And give her, for her comfort's sake! + He would beat his weary, empty hands + Upon the table, would hold up strands + Of silver and gold, and ask her why + She scorned the best which he could buy. + He would pray as to some high-niched saint, + That she would cure him of the taint + Of failure. He would clutch the wall + With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall + He could catch, and hold her, and make her live! + With sobs he would ask her to forgive + All he had done. And broken, spent, + He would call himself impertinent; + Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven + To madness by the sight of Heaven. + At other times he would take the things + He had made, and winding them on strings, + Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes, + Chanting strangely, while the fumes + Wreathed and blotted the shadow face, + As with a cloudy, nacreous lace. + There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed + In tenderness, spoke to his bride, + Urged her to patience, said his skill + Should break the spell. A man's sworn will + Could compass life, even that, he knew. + By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true! + + The edge of the Shadow never blurred. + The lips of the Shadow never stirred. + + + He would climb on chairs to reach her lips, + And pat her hair with his finger-tips. + But instead of young, warm flesh returning + His warmth, the wall was cold and burning + Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled, + Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed + At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick, + He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick + Phantasmagoria crowded his brain, + And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain. + The crisis passed, he would wake and smile + With a vacant joy, half-imbecile + And quite confused, not being certain + Why he was suffering; a curtain + Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled + His sorrow. Like a little child + He would play with his watches and gems, with glee + Calling the Shadow to look and see + How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily + When he flashed his stones. "Mother, the green + Has slid so cunningly in between + The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!" + Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown, + He would get up slowly from his play + And walk round the room, feeling his way + From table to chair, from chair to door, + Stepping over the cracks in the floor, + Till reaching the table again, her face + Would bring recollection, and no solace + Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness + Stifled him and his great distress. + + + One morning he threw the street door wide + On coming in, and his vigorous stride + Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. + In his hands he carried a new-burst clump + Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks + Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks + To the wife he left an hour ago, + Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know + To-day the calendar calls it Spring, + And I woke this morning gathering + Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. + So I rushed out to see what flowers blew + Their pink-and-purple-scented souls + Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, + And made the approach to the Market Square + A garden with smells and sunny air. + I feel so well and happy to-day, + I think I shall take a Holiday. + And to-night we will have a little treat. + I am going to bring you something to eat!" + He looked at the Shadow anxiously. + It was quite grave and silent. He + Shut the outer door and came + And leant against the window-frame. + "Dearest," he said, "we live apart + Although I bear you in my heart. + We look out each from a different world. + At any moment we may be hurled + Asunder. They follow their orbits, we + Obey their laws entirely. + Now you must come, or I go there, + Unless we are willing to live the flare + Of a lighted instant and have it gone." + + A bee in the laurels began to drone. + A loosened petal fluttered prone. + + "Man grows by eating, if you eat + You will be filled with our life, sweet + Will be our planet in your mouth. + If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth + Until I gain to where you are, + And give you myself in whatever star + May happen. O You Beloved of Me! + Is it not ordered cleverly?" + + The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, + Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. + + + Paul slipped away as the dusk began + To dim the little shop. He ran + To the nearest inn, and chose with care + As much as his thin purse could bear. + As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking + Of the sacred wafer, and through the making + Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers + That God will bless this labour of theirs; + So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, + Purchased the best which he could buy. + Returning, he brushed his tools aside, + And laid across the table a wide + Napkin. He put a glass and plate + On either side, in duplicate. + Over the lady's, excellent + With loveliness, the laurels bent. + In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, + And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood + Was the wine which should bring the lustihood + Of human life to his lady's veins. + When all was ready, all which pertains + To a simple meal was there, with eyes + Lit by the joy of his great emprise, + He reverently bade her come, + And forsake for him her distant home. + He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, + And waited what should come to pass. + + The Shadow lay quietly on the wall. + From the street outside came a watchman's call + "A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall." + + And still he waited. The clock's slow tick + Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick. + + He filled his own glass full of wine; + From his pocket he took a paper. The twine + Was knotted, and he searched a knife + From his jumbled tools. The cord of life + Snapped as he cut the little string. + He knew that he must do the thing + He feared. He shook powder into the wine, + And holding it up so the candle's shine + Sparked a ruby through its heart, + He drank it. "Dear, never apart + Again! You have said it was mine to do. + It is done, and I am come to you!" + + + Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall, + And held out his arms. The insentient wall + Stared down at him with its cold, white glare + Unstained! The Shadow was not there! + Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat. + He felt the veins in his body bloat, + And the hot blood run like fire and stones + Along the sides of his cracking bones. + But he laughed as he staggered towards the door, + And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor. + + + + The Coroner took the body away, + And the watches were sold that Saturday. + The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy + Such watches, and the prices were high. + + + + +The Forsaken + + + + Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come + from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such + far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused. + I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause! + + + Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear + be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped + it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame, + just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, + and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die? + + + That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not + be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry. + Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child + alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face + the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled + for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did. + Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me! + + + I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "whore", + and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have + the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman, + he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, + what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, + Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman + must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing. + I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign. + What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never + feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have. + Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! + + + He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good + a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school + in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, + so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, + out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, + I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, + I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, + take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came. + No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months. + To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother. + She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born + for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away! + Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! + + + And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl. + Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known + my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, + and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, + and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, + I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another. + I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! + + + So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart + where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be + quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me. + What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues + when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby, + when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, + his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, + and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels + to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings? + I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem + just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother. + He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, + but give me strength to bring him up to be a man. + + + + +Late September + + + + Tang of fruitage in the air; + Red boughs bursting everywhere; + Shimmering of seeded grass; + Hooded gentians all a'mass. + + Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind + Tearing off the husky rind, + Blowing feathered seeds to fall + By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. + + Beech trees in a golden haze; + Hardy sumachs all ablaze, + Glowing through the silver birches. + How that pine tree shouts and lurches! + + From the sunny door-jamb high, + Swings the shell of a butterfly. + Scrape of insect violins + Through the stubble shrilly dins. + + Every blade's a minaret + Where a small muezzin's set, + Loudly calling us to pray + At the miracle of day. + + Then the purple-lidded night + Westering comes, her footsteps light + Guided by the radiant boon + Of a sickle-shaped new moon. + + + + +The Pike + + + + In the brown water, + Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, + Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, + A pike dozed. + Lost among the shadows of stems + He lay unnoticed. + Suddenly he flicked his tail, + And a green-and-copper brightness + Ran under the water. + + Out from under the reeds + Came the olive-green light, + And orange flashed up + Through the sun-thickened water. + So the fish passed across the pool, + Green and copper, + A darkness and a gleam, + And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank + Received it. + + + + +The Blue Scarf + + + + Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded + In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, + it lies there, + Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. + Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! + A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down + on my face, + And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim + in cool-tinted heavens. + Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. + Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. + A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied + Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, + Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf + On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. + She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath + her slight stirring. + Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel + Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to + a handful of cinders, + And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. + + How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone! + + + + +White and Green + + + + Hey! My daffodil-crowned, + Slim and without sandals! + As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness + So my eyeballs are startled with you, + Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, + Light runner through tasselled orchards. + You are an almond flower unsheathed + Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. + + + + +Aubade + + + + As I would free the white almond from the green husk + So would I strip your trappings off, + Beloved. + And fingering the smooth and polished kernel + I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. + + + + +Music + + + + The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute. + From my bed I can hear him, + And the round notes flutter and tap about the room, + And hit against each other, + Blurring to unexpected chords. + It is very beautiful, + With the little flute-notes all about me, + In the darkness. + + In the daytime, + The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand + And copies music with the other. + He is fat and has a bald head, + So I do not look at him, + But run quickly past his window. + There is always the sky to look at, + Or the water in the well! + + But when night comes and he plays his flute, + I think of him as a young man, + With gold seals hanging from his watch, + And a blue coat with silver buttons. + As I lie in my bed + The flute-notes push against my ears and lips, + And I go to sleep, dreaming. + + + + +A Lady + + + + You are beautiful and faded + Like an old opera tune + Played upon a harpsichord; + Or like the sun-flooded silks + Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. + In your eyes + Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, + And the perfume of your soul + Is vague and suffusing, + With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. + Your half-tones delight me, + And I grow mad with gazing + At your blent colours. + + My vigour is a new-minted penny, + Which I cast at your feet. + Gather it up from the dust, + That its sparkle may amuse you. + + + + +In a Garden + + + + Gushing from the mouths of stone men + To spread at ease under the sky + In granite-lipped basins, + Where iris dabble their feet + And rustle to a passing wind, + The water fills the garden with its rushing, + In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. + + Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, + Where trickle and plash the fountains, + Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. + + Splashing down moss-tarnished steps + It falls, the water; + And the air is throbbing with it. + With its gurgling and running. + With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. + + And I wished for night and you. + I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, + White and shining in the silver-flecked water. + While the moon rode over the garden, + High in the arch of night, + And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. + + Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! + + + + +A Tulip Garden + + + + Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, + Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, + The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry + Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace + Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! + Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, + With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye + Of purple batteries, every gun in place. + Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, + With torches burning, stepping out in time + To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, + We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime + Parades that army. With our utmost powers + We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +Notes: + + + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + Originally: After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók: + + A Blockhead: + "There are non, ever. As a monk who prays" + changed to: + "There are none, ever. As a monk who prays" + + A Tale of Starvation: + "And he neither eat nor drank." + changed to: + "And he neither ate nor drank." + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck: + Stanza headings were originally Roman Numerals. + + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde: + The following names are presented in this etext sans accents: + Marguérite, Angélique, Véronique, Franc,ois. + +The following unconnected lines in the etext are presented sans accents: + + The factory of Sèvres had lent + Strange wingéd dragons writhe about + And rich perfuméd smells + A faëry moonshine washing pale the crowds + Our eyes will close to undisturbéd rest. + And terror-wingéd steps. His heart began + On the stripéd ground + + +Some books by Amy Lowell: + + + Poetry: + A Critical Fable + * A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912) + * Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) + * Men, Women and Ghosts (1916) + Can Grande's Castle (1918) + Pictures of the Floating World (1919) + Legends (1921) + What's O'Clock (1925) + East Wind + Ballads For Sale + + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese (1921) + + + Prose: + John Keats + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature (1915) + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917) + +* Now available online from Project Gutenberg. + + + + +About the author: + +From the notes to "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), +edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. + + +Lowell, Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874. Educated at +private schools. Author of "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass", 1912; +"Sword Blades and Poppy Seed", 1914; "Men, Women and Ghosts", 1916; "Can +Grande's Castle", 1918; "Pictures of the Floating World", 1919. Editor +of the three successive collections of "Some Imagist Poets", 1915, '16, +and '17, containing the early work of the "Imagist School" of which Miss +Lowell became the leader. This movement,... originated in England, +the idea have been first conceived by a young poet named T. E. Hulme, +but developed and put forth by Ezra Pound in an article called "Don'ts +by an Imagist", which appeared in `Poetry; A Magazine of Verse'. ... +A small group of poets gathered about Mr. Pound, experimenting along the +technical lines suggested, and a cult of "Imagism" was formed, whose +first group-expression was in the little volume, "Des Imagistes", +published in New York in April, 1914. Miss Lowell did not come actively +into the movement until after that time, but once she had entered it, +she became its leader, and it was chiefly through her effort in America +that the movement attained so much prominence and so influenced the +trend of poetry for the years immediately succeeding. Miss Lowell many +times, in admirable articles, stated the principles upon which Imagism +is based, notably in the Preface to "Some Imagist Poets" and in the +Preface to the second series, in 1916. She also elaborated it much more +fully in her volume, "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry", 1917, in +the articles pertaining to the work of "H.D." and John Gould Fletcher. +In her own creative work, however, Miss Lowell did most to establish the +possibilities of the Imagistic idea and of its modes of presentation, +and opened up many interesting avenues of poetic form. Her volume, "Can +Grande's Castle", is devoted to work in the medium which she styled +"Polyphonic Prose" and contains some of her finest work, particularly +"The Bronze Horses". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED *** + +***** This file should be named 1020-8.txt or 1020-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1020/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light + +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. 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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: Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + +Author: Amy Lowell + +Release Date: August 3, 2008 [EBook #1020] +Last Updated: January 9, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Amy Lowell + </h2> + <h3> + [American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + [Transcriber's note: Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and + continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose + poem.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + <i>"Face invisible! je t'ai gravée en médailles + D'argent doux comme l'aube pâle, + D'or ardent comme le soleil, + D'airain sombre comme la nuit; + Il y en a de tout métal, + Qui tintent clair comme la joie, + Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, + Comme l'amour, comme la mort; + Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile + Sèche et fragile. + + "Une à une, vous les comptiez en souriant, + Et vous disiez: Il est habile; + Et vous passiez en souriant. + + "Aucun de vous n'a donc vu + Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, + Que tout le grand songe terrestre + Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux + Que je gravais aux métaux pieux, + Mes Dieux."</i> + + Henri de Régnier, "Les Médailles d'Argile". +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> + <p> + No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but there + is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that his + verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter of + fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the same + painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with high + thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his reader + by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a poet. A + workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments to explain + and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot + stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not + try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty, + even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not ask the + trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army feels it + necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are ridiculous, + but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral all over a + work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only ridiculous, but timid + and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half understand, and rush in with + our impertinent suggestions. How far we are from "admitting the Universe"! + The Universe, which flings down its continents and seas, and leaves them + without comment. Art is as much a function of the Universe as an + Equinoctial gale, or the Law of Gravitation; and we insist upon + considering it merely a little scroll-work, of no great importance unless + it be studded with nails from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be + hung! + </p> + <p> + For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the French, + and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, although some + of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong to it. + High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to produce a + poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. Poetry so full of + beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an inspiration and a + despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has a tendency to think + that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These clear-eyed Frenchmen + are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. Before the works of + Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and José-Maria de Heredia, or those of + Henri de Régnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, Remy de Gourmont, and + Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand rebuked. Indeed—"They + order this matter better in France." + </p> + <p> + It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a thing, + that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a vigorous tree + has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with originality and + power is always seeking to give his readers the same poignant feeling + which he has himself. To do this he must constantly find new and striking + images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the word "daybreak", for + instance. What a remarkable picture it must once have conjured up! The + great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty egg, BREAKING through + cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said "daybreak" so often that + we do not see the picture any more, it has become only another word for + dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking new pictures to make his readers + feel the vitality of his thought. + </p> + <p> + Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call "Vers + Libre", a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French + versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in "unrhymed + cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They are + built upon "organic rhythm", or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its + necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They + differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, and containing + more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular + metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more + subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping prose + lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is constructed upon + mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface to his + "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to + quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme." The desire + to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion until it burns white-hot, + seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly "unrhymed + cadence" is unique in its power of expressing this. + </p> + <p> + Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has + never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, and + the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and satisfactory. + Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to English. But I + found it the only medium in which these particular poems could be written. + It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now verse, and permitting a + great variety of treatment. + </p> + <p> + But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more + classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit + certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an + author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine + themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. + </p> + <p> + In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many + questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these poems + in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling criticism, + nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the beginning, solely with + the question of technique. For the more important part of the book, the + poems must speak for themselves.<br /> <br /> Amy Lowell.<br /> <br /> May 19, + 1914. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Sword Blades And Poppy Seed </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>SWORD BLADES</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Captured Goddess </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Precinct. Rochester </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Cyclists </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Astigmatism </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> The Coal Picker </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Storm-Racked </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Convalescence </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Patience </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Apology </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> A Petition </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A Blockhead </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Stupidity </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Irony </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Happiness </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> The Last Quarter of the Moon </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> A Tale of Starvation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> The Foreigner </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Absence </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> A Gift </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> The Bungler </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Fool's Money Bags </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Miscast I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Miscast II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Anticipation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Vintage </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Tree of Scarlet Berries </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Obligation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> The Taxi </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> The Giver of Stars </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Temple </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having + Achieved Success </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> In Answer to a Request </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> <b>POPPY SEED</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Great Adventure of Max Breuck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Clear, with Light, Variable Winds </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> The Basket </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> In a Castle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> The Exeter Road </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> The Shadow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> The Forsaken </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> Late September </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> The Pike </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> The Blue Scarf </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> White and Green </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> Aubade </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> Music </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> A Lady </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> In a Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> A Tulip Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> Notes: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> About the author </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Sword Blades And Poppy Seed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + A drifting, April, twilight sky, + A wind which blew the puddles dry, + And slapped the river into waves + That ran and hid among the staves + Of an old wharf. A watery light + Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white + Without the slightest tinge of gold, + The city shivered in the cold. + All day my thoughts had lain as dead, + Unborn and bursting in my head. + From time to time I wrote a word + Which lines and circles overscored. + My table seemed a graveyard, full + Of coffins waiting burial. + I seized these vile abortions, tore + Them into jagged bits, and swore + To be the dupe of hope no more. + Into the evening straight I went, + Starved of a day's accomplishment. + Unnoticing, I wandered where + The city gave a space for air, + And on the bridge's parapet + I leant, while pallidly there set + A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. + Behind me, where the tramways run, + Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, + When someone plucked me by the sleeve. + "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be + Most grateful could you lend to me + A carfare, I have lost my purse." + The voice was clear, concise, and terse. + I turned and met the quiet gaze + Of strange eyes flashing through the haze. + + The man was old and slightly bent, + Under his cloak some instrument + Disarranged its stately line, + He rested on his cane a fine + And nervous hand, an almandine + Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine + It burned in twisted gold, upon + His finger. Like some Spanish don, + Conferring favours even when + Asking an alms, he bowed again + And waited. But my pockets proved + Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, + No hidden penny lurking there + Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare + I have no money, pray forgive, + But let me take you where you live." + And so we plodded through the mire + Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. + I took no note of where we went, + His talk became the element + Wherein my being swam, content. + It flashed like rapiers in the night + Lit by uncertain candle-light, + When on some moon-forsaken sward + A quarrel dies upon a sword. + It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, + And the noise in the air the broad words made + Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane + On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. + Then it would run like a steady stream + Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, + Or lap the air like the lapping tide + Where a marble staircase lifts its wide + Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, + And a waning moon is sinking straight + Down to a black and ominous sea, + While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. + + I walked as though some opiate + Had stung and dulled my brain, a state + Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. + We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. + The old man scratched a match, the spark + Lit up the keyhole of a door, + We entered straight upon a floor + White with finest powdered sand + Carefully sifted, one might stand + Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace + Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. + From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, + And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. + My host threw pine-cones on the fire + And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre + Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. + The chamber opened like an eye, + As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky + The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy + It peered at the stranger warily. + A little shop with its various ware + Spread on shelves with nicest care. + Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, + Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots + Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, + Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. + Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, + Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. + In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned + Against the wall, like ships careened. + There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, + The carved, white figures fluttering there + Like leaves adrift upon the air. + Classic in touch, but emasculate, + The Greek soul grown effeminate. + The factory of Sevres had lent + Elegant boxes with ornament + Culled from gardens where fountains splashed + And golden carp in the shadows flashed, + Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, + Which ladies threw as the last of fads. + Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, + Hand on heart, and daintily spelt + Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, + Artificial and fragile, which told aright + The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. + The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs + Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs + Endlessly drank the foaming ale, + Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. + The glancing light of the burning wood + Played over a group of jars which stood + On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky + Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry + To paint these porcelains with unknown hues + Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, + Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen + Their colours are felt, but never seen. + Strange winged dragons writhe about + These vases, poisoned venoms spout, + Impregnate with old Chinese charms; + Sealed urns containing mortal harms, + They fill the mind with thoughts impure, + Pestilent drippings from the ure + Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," + Said I, "you deal in pottery." + The old man turned and looked at me. + Shook his head gently. "No," said he. + + Then from under his cloak he took the thing + Which I had wondered to see him bring + Guarded so carefully from sight. + As he laid it down it flashed in the light, + A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, + Damascened with arabesques of gilt, + Or rather gold, and tempered so + It could cut a floating thread at a blow. + The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, + 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath + My cloak, for a jostle to my arm + Would have resulted in serious harm. + But it was so fine, I could not wait, + So I brought it with me despite its state." + "An amateur of arms," I thought, + "Bringing home a prize which he has bought." + "You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" + "Not in the way which you infer. + I need them in business, that is all." + And he pointed his finger at the wall. + Then I saw what I had not noticed before. + The walls were hung with at least five score + Of swords and daggers of every size + Which nations of militant men could devise. + Poisoned spears from tropic seas, + That natives, under banana trees, + Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. + Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make + And tip with feathers, orange and green, + A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. + High up, a fan of glancing steel + Was formed of claymores in a wheel. + Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees + Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these + Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, + Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. + There were Samurai swords from old Japan, + And scimitars from Hindoostan, + While the blade of a Turkish yataghan + Made a waving streak of vitreous white + Upon the wall, in the firelight. + Foils with buttons broken or lost + Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed + The boarding-pike of a privateer. + Against the chimney leaned a queer + Two-handed weapon, with edges dull + As though from hacking on a skull. + The rusted blood corroded it still. + My host took up a paper spill + From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, + And lighted it at a burning coal. + At either end of the table, tall + Wax candles were placed, each in a small, + And slim, and burnished candlestick + Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, + And the room leapt more obviously + Upon my mind, and I could see + What the flickering fire had hid from me. + Above the chimney's yawning throat, + Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, + Was a mantelshelf of polished oak + Blackened with the pungent smoke + Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock + Of tarnished brass stood like a rock + In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea + Of every sort of cutlery. + There lay knives sharpened to any use, + The keenest lancet, and the obtuse + And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades + Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades + Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, + And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl + Of points and edges, and underneath + Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. + My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear + A battle-cry from somewhere near, + The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, + And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. + A smoky cloud had veiled the room, + Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom + Pounded with shouts and dying groans, + With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. + Sabres and lances in streaks of light + Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right + A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, + Glittered an instant, while it stung. + Streams, and points, and lines of fire! + The livid steel, which man's desire + Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. + Every blade which man could mould, + Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, + Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, + Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, + Or slice, or hack, they all were there. + Nerveless and shaking, round and round, + I stared at the walls and at the ground, + Till the room spun like a whipping top, + And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! + I sell no tools for murderers here. + Of what are you thinking! Please clear + Your mind of such imaginings. + Sit down. I will tell you of these things." + + He pushed me into a great chair + Of russet leather, poked a flare + Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, + Up the chimney; but said no word. + Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, + And brought back a crock of finest delf. + He rested a moment a blue-veined hand + Upon the cover, then cut a band + Of paper, pasted neatly round, + Opened and poured. A sliding sound + Came from beneath his old white hands, + And I saw a little heap of sands, + Black and smooth. What could they be: + "Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. + "What you see is poppy seed. + Lethean dreams for those in need." + He took up the grains with a gentle hand + And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. + On his old white finger the almandine + Shot out its rays, incarnadine. + "Visions for those too tired to sleep. + These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. + No single soul in the world could dwell, + Without these poppy-seeds I sell." + For a moment he played with the shining stuff, + Passing it through his fingers. Enough + At last, he poured it back into + The china jar of Holland blue, + Which he carefully carried to its place. + Then, with a smile on his aged face, + He drew up a chair to the open space + 'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, + Young man, I will say that what you see + Is not the puzzle you take it to be." + "But surely, Sir, there is something strange + In a shop with goods at so wide a range + Each from the other, as swords and seeds. + Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." + "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, + "Live everywhere from here to Pekin. + But you are wrong, my sort of goods + Is but one thing in all its moods." + He took a shagreen letter case + From his pocket, and with charming grace + Offered me a printed card. + I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. + Dealer in Words." And that was all. + I stared at the letters, whimsical + Indeed, or was it merely a jest. + He answered my unasked request: + "All books are either dreams or swords, + You can cut, or you can drug, with words. + My firm is a very ancient house, + The entries on my books would rouse + Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. + I inherited from an ancestry + Stretching remotely back and far, + This business, and my clients are + As were those of my grandfather's days, + Writers of books, and poems, and plays. + My swords are tempered for every speech, + For fencing wit, or to carve a breach + Through old abuses the world condones. + In another room are my grindstones and hones, + For whetting razors and putting a point + On daggers, sometimes I even anoint + The blades with a subtle poison, so + A twofold result may follow the blow. + These are purchased by men who feel + The need of stabbing society's heel, + Which egotism has brought them to think + Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink + An adversary to quaint reply, + And I have customers who buy + Scalpels with which to dissect the brains + And hearts of men. Ultramundanes + Even demand some finer kinds + To open their own souls and minds. + But the other half of my business deals + With visions and fancies. Under seals, + Sorted, and placed in vessels here, + I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. + Each jar contains a different kind + Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind + Come the purple flowers, opium filled, + From which the weirdest myths are distilled; + My orient porcelains contain them all. + Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall + Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; + And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat + On that lowest shelf beside the door, + Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". + Every castle of the air + Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there + Are seeds for every romance, or light + Whiff of a dream for a summer night. + I supply to every want and taste." + 'Twas slowly said, in no great haste + He seemed to push his wares, but I + Dumfounded listened. By and by + A log on the fire broke in two. + He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" + I groped for something I should say; + Amazement held me numb. "To-day + You sweated at a fruitless task." + He spoke for me, "What do you ask? + How can I serve you?" "My kind host, + My penniless state was not a boast; + I have no money with me." He smiled. + "Not for that money I beguiled + You here; you paid me in advance." + Again I felt as though a trance + Had dimmed my faculties. Again + He spoke, and this time to explain. + "The money I demand is Life, + Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" + What infamous proposal now + Was made me with so calm a brow? + Bursting through my lethargy, + Indignantly I hurled the cry: + "Is this a nightmare, or am I + Drunk with some infernal wine? + I am no Faust, and what is mine + Is what I call my soul! Old Man! + Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan + Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," + And the old tones were very mild, + "I have no wish to barter souls; + My traffic does not ask such tolls. + I am no devil; is there one? + Surely the age of fear is gone. + We live within a daylight world + Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled + Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, + And then blow back the sun again. + I sell my fancies, or my swords, + To those who care far more for words, + Ideas, of which they are the sign, + Than any other life-design. + Who buy of me must simply pay + Their whole existence quite away: + Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, + Their hours from morning till the time + When evening comes on tiptoe feet, + And losing life, think it complete; + Must miss what other men count being, + To gain the gift of deeper seeing; + Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, + All which could hold or bind; must prove + The farthest boundaries of thought, + And shun no end which these have brought; + Then die in satisfaction, knowing + That what was sown was worth the sowing. + I claim for all the goods I sell + That they will serve their purpose well, + And though you perish, they will live. + Full measure for your pay I give. + To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. + What since has happened is the train + Your toiling brought. I spoke to you + For my share of the bargain, due." + "My life! And is that all you crave + In pay? What even childhood gave! + I have been dedicate from youth. + Before my God I speak the truth!" + Fatigue, excitement of the past + Few hours broke me down at last. + All day I had forgot to eat, + My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. + I bowed my head and felt the storm + Plough shattering through my prostrate form. + The tearless sobs tore at my heart. + My host withdrew himself apart; + Busied among his crockery, + He paid no farther heed to me. + Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, + Within the arms of the old carved chair. + + A long half-hour dragged away, + And then I heard a kind voice say, + "The day will soon be dawning, when + You must begin to work again. + Here are the things which you require." + By the fading light of the dying fire, + And by the guttering candle's flare, + I saw the old man standing there. + He handed me a packet, tied + With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside + Are seeds of many differing flowers, + To occupy your utmost powers + Of storied vision, and these swords + Are the finest which my shop affords. + Go home and use them; do not spare + Yourself; let that be all your care. + Whatever you have means to buy + Be very sure I can supply." + He slowly walked to the window, flung + It open, and in the grey air rung + The sound of distant matin bells. + I took my parcels. Then, as tells + An ancient mumbling monk his beads, + I tried to thank for his courteous deeds + My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," + He urged me, "you have a long walk + Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" + And gently sped upon my way + I stumbled out in the morning hush, + As down the empty street a flush + Ran level from the rising sun. + Another day was just begun. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWORD BLADES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Captured Goddess + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + Over the housetops, + Above the rotating chimney-pots, + I have seen a shiver of amethyst, + And blue and cinnamon have flickered + A moment, + At the far end of a dusty street. + + Through sheeted rain + Has come a lustre of crimson, + And I have watched moonbeams + Hushed by a film of palest green. + + It was her wings, + Goddess! + Who stepped over the clouds, + And laid her rainbow feathers + Aslant on the currents of the air. + + I followed her for long, + With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. + I cared not where she led me, + My eyes were full of colours: + Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, + And the indigo-blue of quartz; + Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, + Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, + The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, + The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. + I followed, + And watched for the flashing of her wings. + + In the city I found her, + The narrow-streeted city. + In the market-place I came upon her, + Bound and trembling. + Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, + She was naked and cold, + For that day the wind blew + Without sunshine. + + Men chaffered for her, + They bargained in silver and gold, + In copper, in wheat, + And called their bids across the market-place. + + The Goddess wept. + + Hiding my face I fled, + And the grey wind hissed behind me, + Along the narrow streets. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Precinct. Rochester + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, + Still and straight, + With their round blossoms spread open, + In the quiet sunshine. + And still is the old Roman wall, + Rough with jagged bits of flint, + And jutting stones, + Old and cragged, + Quite still in its antiquity. + The pear-trees press their branches against it, + And feeling it warm and kindly, + The little pears ripen to yellow and red. + They hang heavy, bursting with juice, + Against the wall. + So old, so still! + + The sky is still. + The clouds make no sound + As they slide away + Beyond the Cathedral Tower, + To the river, + And the sea. + It is very quiet, + Very sunny. + The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, + But make no sound. + The roses push their little tendrils up, + And climb higher and higher. + In spots they have climbed over the wall. + But they are very still, + They do not seem to move. + And the old wall carries them + Without effort, and quietly + Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms. + + A bird in a plane-tree + Sings a few notes, + Cadenced and perfect + They weave into the silence. + The Cathedral bell knocks, + One, two, three, and again, + And then again. + It is a quiet sound, + Calling to prayer, + Hardly scattering the stillness, + Only making it close in more densely. + The gardener picks ripe gooseberries + For the Dean's supper to-night. + It is very quiet, + Very regulated and mellow. + But the wall is old, + It has known many days. + It is a Roman wall, + Left-over and forgotten. + + Beyond the Cathedral Close + Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, + Not well-regulated. + People who care more for bread than for beauty, + Who would break the tombs of saints, + And give the painted windows of churches + To their children for toys. + People who say: + "They are dead, we live! + The world is for the living." + + Fools! It is always the dead who breed. + Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, + Yet its seeds shall fructify, + And trees rise where your huts were standing. + But the little people are ignorant, + They chaffer, and swarm. + They gnaw like rats, + And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. + + The Dean is in the Chapter House; + He is reading the architect's bill + For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. + He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, + And then he will walk up and down the path + By the wall, + And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, + Thinking how quiet and peaceful + The garden is. + The old wall will watch him, + Very quietly and patiently it will watch. + For the wall is old, + It is a Roman wall. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cyclists + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Spread on the roadway, + With open-blown jackets, + Like black, soaring pinions, + They swoop down the hillside, + The Cyclists. + + Seeming dark-plumaged + Birds, after carrion, + Careening and circling, + Over the dying + Of England. + + She lies with her bosom + Beneath them, no longer + The Dominant Mother, + The Virile—but rotting + Before time. + + The smell of her, tainted, + Has bitten their nostrils. + Exultant they hover, + And shadow the sun with + Foreboding. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, + Of outworn, childish mysteries, + Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! + And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream + Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. + + Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, + The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese + Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky + Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly + And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. + + Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk + From over-handling, by some anxious monk. + Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven + With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, + And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. + + They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung + By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung + In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, + Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen + Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They have watered the street, + It shines in the glare of lamps, + Cold, white lamps, + And lies + Like a slow-moving river, + Barred with silver and black. + Cabs go down it, + One, + And then another. + Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. + Tramps doze on the window-ledges, + Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. + The city is squalid and sinister, + With the silver-barred street in the midst, + Slow-moving, + A river leading nowhere. + + Opposite my window, + The moon cuts, + Clear and round, + Through the plum-coloured night. + She cannot light the city; + It is too bright. + It has white lamps, + And glitters coldly. + + I stand in the window and watch the moon. + She is thin and lustreless, + But I love her. + I know the moon, + And this is an alien city. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Astigmatism + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To Ezra Pound + + With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet took his walking-stick + Of fine and polished ebony. + Set in the close-grained wood + Were quaint devices; + Patterns in ambers, + And in the clouded green of jades. + The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, + And a tassel of tarnished gold + Hung by a faded cord from a hole + Pierced in the hard wood, + Circled with silver. + For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. + His wealth had gone to enrich it, + His experiences to pattern it, + His labour to fashion and burnish it. + To him it was perfect, + A work of art and a weapon, + A delight and a defence. + The Poet took his walking-stick + And walked abroad. + + Peace be with you, Brother. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came to a meadow. + Sifted through the grass were daisies, + Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. + The Poet struck them with his cane. + The little heads flew off, and they lay + Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, + On the hard ground. + "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came to a stream. + Purple and blue flags waded in the water; + In among them hopped the speckled frogs; + The wind slid through them, rustling. + The Poet lifted his cane, + And the iris heads fell into the water. + They floated away, torn and drowning. + "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, + "They are not roses." + + Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came to a garden. + Dahlias ripened against a wall, + Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, + And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour + With the red and gold of its blossoms. + Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. + The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, + And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. + Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. + Red and gold they lay scattered, + Red and gold, as on a battle field; + Red and gold, prone and dying. + "They were not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + But behind you is destruction, and waste places. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Poet came home at evening, + And in the candle-light + He wiped and polished his cane. + The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, + And made the jades undulate like green pools. + It played along the bright ebony, + And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. + But these things were dead, + Only the candle-light made them seem to move. + "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Coal Picker + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He perches in the slime, inert, + Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. + The oil upon the puddles dries + To colours like a peacock's eyes, + And half-submerged tomato-cans + Shine scaly, as leviathans + Oozily crawling through the mud. + The ground is here and there bestud + With lumps of only part-burned coal. + His duty is to glean the whole, + To pick them from the filth, each one, + To hoard them for the hidden sun + Which glows within each fiery core + And waits to be made free once more. + Their sharp and glistening edges cut + His stiffened fingers. Through the smut + Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. + Wet through and shivering he kneels + And digs the slippery coals; like eels + They slide about. His force all spent, + He counts his small accomplishment. + A half-a-dozen clinker-coals + Which still have fire in their souls. + Fire! And in his thought there burns + The topaz fire of votive urns. + He sees it fling from hill to hill, + And still consumed, is burning still. + Higher and higher leaps the flame, + The smoke an ever-shifting frame. + He sees a Spanish Castle old, + With silver steps and paths of gold. + From myrtle bowers comes the plash + Of fountains, and the emerald flash + Of parrots in the orange trees, + Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. + He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke + Bears visions, that his master-stroke + Is out of dirt and misery + To light the fire of poesy. + He sees the glory, yet he knows + That others cannot see his shows. + To them his smoke is sightless, black, + His votive vessels but a pack + Of old discarded shards, his fire + A peddler's; still to him the pyre + Is incensed, an enduring goal! + He sighs and grubs another coal. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Storm-Racked + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How should I sing when buffeting salt waves + And stung with bitter surges, in whose might + I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night + Marshals its undefeated dark and raves + In brutal madness, reeling over graves + Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, + Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite + Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. + No parting cloud reveals a watery star, + My cries are washed away upon the wind, + My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, + My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. + But painted on the sky great visions burn, + My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Convalescence + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From out the dragging vastness of the sea, + Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, + He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands + One moment, white and dripping, silently, + Cut like a cameo in lazuli, + Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands + Prone in the jeering water, and his hands + Clutch for support where no support can be. + So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, + He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow + And sandflies dance their little lives away. + The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch + The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, + And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Patience + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be patient with you? + When the stooping sky + Leans down upon the hills + And tenderly, as one who soothing stills + An anguish, gathers earth to lie + Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When the snow-girt earth + Cracks to let through a spurt + Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt + A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth + To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When pain's iron bars + Their rivets tighten, stern + To bend and break their victims; as they turn, + Hopeless, there stand the purple jars + Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + You! My sun and moon! + My basketful of flowers! + My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, + Windless and still, of afternoon! + You are my world and I your citizen. + What meaning can have patience then? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Apology + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be not angry with me that I bear + Your colours everywhere, + All through each crowded street, + And meet + The wonder-light in every eye, + As I go by. + + Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, + Blinded by rainbow haze, + The stuff of happiness, + No less, + Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds + Of peacock golds. + + Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way + Flushes beneath its gray. + My steps fall ringed with light, + So bright, + It seems a myriad suns are strown + About the town. + + Around me is the sound of steepled bells, + And rich perfumed smells + Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, + And shroud + Me from close contact with the world. + I dwell impearled. + + You blazon me with jewelled insignia. + A flaming nebula + Rims in my life. And yet + You set + The word upon me, unconfessed + To go unguessed. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Petition + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I pray to be the tool which to your hand + Long use has shaped and moulded till it be + Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, + You take it for its service. I demand + To be forgotten in the woven strand + Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry + Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie + A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. + I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, + The railing to the stairway of the clouds, + To guard your steps securely up, where streams + A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby + You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Blockhead + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, + Unseparated atoms, and I must + Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust + Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, + There are none, ever. As a monk who prays + The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust + Each tasteless particle aside, and just + Begin again the task which never stays. + And I have known a glory of great suns, + When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! + Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, + And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! + Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand + Threw down the cup, and did not understand. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Stupidity + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch + I broke and bruised your rose. + I hardly could suppose + It were a thing so fragile that my clutch + Could kill it, thus. + + It stood so proudly up upon its stem, + I knew no thought of fear, + And coming very near + Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, + Tearing it down. + + Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, + The crimson petals, all + Outspread about my fall. + They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone + Of memory. + + And with my words I carve a little jar + To keep their scented dust, + Which, opening, you must + Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far + More grieved than you. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Irony + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An arid daylight shines along the beach + Dried to a grey monotony of tone, + And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon + The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach + Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach + The skeletons of fishes, every bone + Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, + The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. + And they are dead while waiting for the sea, + The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. + Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. + Only the shells and stones can wait to be + Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, + May not endure till time can bring them ease. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Happiness + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Happiness, to some, elation; + Is, to others, mere stagnation. + Days of passive somnolence, + At its wildest, indolence. + Hours of empty quietness, + No delight, and no distress. + + Happiness to me is wine, + Effervescent, superfine. + Full of tang and fiery pleasure, + Far too hot to leave me leisure + For a single thought beyond it. + Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it + Means to give one's soul to gain + Life's quintessence. Even pain + Pricks to livelier living, then + Wakes the nerves to laugh again, + Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. + Although we must die to-morrow, + Losing every thought but this; + Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. + + Happiness: We rarely feel it. + I would buy it, beg it, steal it, + Pay in coins of dripping blood + For this one transcendent good. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Last Quarter of the Moon + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, + A spatter of rust on its polished steel! + The seasons reel + Like a goaded wheel. + Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. + + The night is sliding towards the dawn, + And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. + A torn moon flees + Through the hemlock trees, + The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. + + Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing + A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. + Like dogs unleashed + After a beast, + They stream on the sky, an outflung string. + + A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, + Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, + And the fierce unrests + I keep as guests + Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. + + Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt + My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. + I have not quailed, + I was all unmailed + And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. + + The moon drops into the silver day + As waking out of her swoon she comes. + I hear the drums + Of millenniums + Beating the mornings I still must stay. + + The years I must watch go in and out, + While I build with water, and dig in air, + And the trumpets blare + Hollow despair, + The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. + + An atom tossed in a chaos made + Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. + Whence have I come? + What would be home? + I hear no answer. I am afraid! + + I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. + Pushed into nothingness by a breath, + And quench in a wreath + Of engulfing death + This fight for a God, or this devil's game. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Tale of Starvation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, + And a disagreeable man was he. + He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, + And he cursed eternally. + + He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, + And he blasted the winds in the sky. + He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, + And he raved at the birds as they fly. + + His oaths were many, and his range was wide, + He swore in fancy ways; + But his meaning was plain: that no created thing + Was other than a hurt to his gaze. + + He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, + And windows toward the hill there were none, + And on the other side they were white-washed thick, + To keep out every spark of the sun. + + When he went to market he walked all the way + Blaspheming at the path he trod. + He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, + By all the names he knew of God. + + For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, + And his hopes had curdled in his breast. + His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over + For the chinking money-bags she liked best. + + The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, + The deer had trampled on his corn, + His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, + And his sheep had died unshorn. + + His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, + And his old horse perished of a colic. + In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes + By little, glutton mice on a frolic. + + So he slowly lost all he ever had, + And the blood in his body dried. + Shrunken and mean he still lived on, + And cursed that future which had lied. + + One day he was digging, a spade or two, + As his aching back could lift, + When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, + And to get it out he made great shift. + + So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, + And the veins in his forehead stood taut. + At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, + He gathered up what he had sought. + + A dim old vase of crusted glass, + Prismed while it lay buried deep. + Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, + At the touch of the sun began to leap. + + It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; + Flashing like an opal-stone, + Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, + Where at first there had seemed to be none. + + It had handles on each side to bear it up, + And a belly for the gurgling wine. + Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, + And its lip was curled and fine. + + The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare + And the colours started up through the crust, + And he who had cursed at the yellow sun + Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. + + And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, + Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; + And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, + And the sun shone without his sneer. + + Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, + But it was only grey in the gloom. + So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, + And he went outside with a broom. + + And he washed his windows just to let the sun + Lie upon his new-found vase; + And when evening came, he moved it down + And put it on a table near the place + + Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. + The old man forgot to swear, + Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, + Dancing in the kitchen there. + + He forgot to revile the sun next morning + When he found his vase afire in its light. + And he carried it out of the house that day, + And kept it close beside him until night. + + And so it happened from day to day. + The old man fed his life + On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. + And his soul forgot its former strife. + + And the village-folk came and begged to see + The flagon which was dug from the ground. + And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy + At showing what he had found. + + One day the master of the village school + Passed him as he stooped at toil, + Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side + Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. + + "My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, + "That's a valuable thing you have there, + But it might get broken out of doors, + It should meet with the utmost care. + + What are you doing with it out here?" + "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, + "I like to have it about, do you see? + To be with it all I can." + + "You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, + "Mark my words and see!" + And he walked away, while the old man looked + At his treasure despondingly. + + Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! + He had toiled for it, and now he cared. + Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, + Which his own hard work had bared. + + He would carry it round with him everywhere, + As it gave him joy to do. + A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! + Who would dare to say so? Who? + + Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, + And he bent to his hoe again.... + A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, + And he lurched with a cry of pain. + + For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, + And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. + The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. + He did not curse, he had no words. + + He gathered the fragments, one by one, + And his fingers were cut and torn. + Then he made a hole in the very place + Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. + + He covered the hole, and he patted it down, + Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. + He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows + That no beam of light should cross the floor. + + He sat down in front of the empty hearth, + And he neither ate nor drank. + In three days they found him, dead and cold, + And they said: "What a queer old crank!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Foreigner + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Have at you, you Devils! + My back's to this tree, + For you're nothing so nice + That the hind-side of me + Would escape your assault. + Come on now, all three! + + Here's a dandified gentleman, + Rapier at point, + And a wrist which whirls round + Like a circular joint. + A spatter of blood, man! + That's just to anoint + + And make supple your limbs. + 'Tis a pity the silk + Of your waistcoat is stained. + Why! Your heart's full of milk, + And so full, it spills over! + I'm not of your ilk. + + You said so, and laughed + At my old-fashioned hose, + At the cut of my hair, + At the length of my nose. + To carve it to pattern + I think you propose. + + Your pardon, young Sir, + But my nose and my sword + Are proving themselves + In quite perfect accord. + I grieve to have spotted + Your shirt. On my word! + + And hullo! You Bully! + That blade's not a stick + To slash right and left, + And my skull is too thick + To be cleft with such cuffs + Of a sword. Now a lick + + Down the side of your face. + What a pretty, red line! + Tell the taverns that scar + Was an honour. Don't whine + That a stranger has marked you. + +</pre> + <p> + . . . . . + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + The tree's there, You Swine! + + Did you think to get in + At the back, while your friends + Made a little diversion + In front? So it ends, + With your sword clattering down + On the ground. 'Tis amends + + I make for your courteous + Reception of me, + A foreigner, landed + From over the sea. + Your welcome was fervent + I think you'll agree. + + My shoes are not buckled + With gold, nor my hair + Oiled and scented, my jacket's + Not satin, I wear + Corded breeches, wide hats, + And I make people stare! + + So I do, but my heart + Is the heart of a man, + And my thoughts cannot twirl + In the limited span + 'Twixt my head and my heels, + As some other men's can. + + I have business more strange + Than the shape of my boots, + And my interests range + From the sky, to the roots + Of this dung-hill you live in, + You half-rotted shoots + + Of a mouldering tree! + Here's at you, once more. + You Apes! You Jack-fools! + You can show me the door, + And jeer at my ways, + But you're pinked to the core. + + And before I have done, + I will prick my name in + With the front of my steel, + And your lily-white skin + Shall be printed with me. + For I've come here to win! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Absence + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My cup is empty to-night, + Cold and dry are its sides, + Chilled by the wind from the open window. + Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. + The room is filled with the strange scent + Of wistaria blossoms. + They sway in the moon's radiance + And tap against the wall. + But the cup of my heart is still, + And cold, and empty. + + When you come, it brims + Red and trembling with blood, + Heart's blood for your drinking; + To fill your mouth with love + And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Gift + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See! I give myself to you, Beloved! + My words are little jars + For you to take and put upon a shelf. + Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, + And they have many pleasant colours and lustres + To recommend them. + Also the scent from them fills the room + With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. + + When I shall have given you the last one, + You will have the whole of me, + But I shall be dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bungler + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You glow in my heart + Like the flames of uncounted candles. + But when I go to warm my hands, + My clumsiness overturns the light, + And then I stumble + Against the tables and chairs. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fool's Money Bags + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Outside the long window, + With his head on the stone sill, + The dog is lying, + Gazing at his Beloved. + His eyes are wet and urgent, + And his body is taut and shaking. + It is cold on the terrace; + A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, + But the dog gazes through the glass + And is content. + + The Beloved is writing a letter. + Occasionally she speaks to the dog, + But she is thinking of her writing. + Does she, too, give her devotion to one + Not worthy? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Miscast I + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, + So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, + So sharp that the air would turn its edge + Were it to be twisted in flight. + Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, + And the mark of them lies, in and out, + Worm-like, + With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. + My brain is curved like a scimitar, + And sighs at its cutting + Like a sickle mowing grass. + + But of what use is all this to me! + I, who am set to crack stones + In a country lane! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Miscast II + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My heart is like a cleft pomegranate + Bleeding crimson seeds + And dripping them on the ground. + My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, + And its seeds are bursting from it. + + But how is this other than a torment to me! + I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, + In a dark closet! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Anticipation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have been temperate always, + But I am like to be very drunk + With your coming. + There have been times + I feared to walk down the street + Lest I should reel with the wine of you, + And jerk against my neighbours + As they go by. + I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, + But my brain is noisy + With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Vintage + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I will mix me a drink of stars,— + Large stars with polychrome needles, + Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, + Cool, quiet, green stars. + I will tear them out of the sky, + And squeeze them over an old silver cup, + And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, + So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. + + It will lap and scratch + As I swallow it down; + And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, + Coiling and twisting in my belly. + His snortings will rise to my head, + And I shall be hot, and laugh, + Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Tree of Scarlet Berries + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The rain gullies the garden paths + And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. + A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. + Even so, I can see that it has red berries, + A scarlet fruit, + Filmed over with moisture. + It seems as though the rain, + Dripping from it, + Should be tinged with colour. + I desire the berries, + But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. + Probably, too, they are bitter. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Obligation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hold your apron wide + That I may pour my gifts into it, + So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them + From falling to the ground. + + I would pour them upon you + And cover you, + For greatly do I feel this need + Of giving you something, + Even these poor things. + + Dearest of my Heart! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Taxi + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I go away from you + The world beats dead + Like a slackened drum. + I call out for you against the jutted stars + And shout into the ridges of the wind. + Streets coming fast, + One after the other, + Wedge you away from me, + And the lamps of the city prick my eyes + So that I can no longer see your face. + Why should I leave you, + To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Giver of Stars + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hold your soul open for my welcoming. + Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me + With its clear and rippled coolness, + That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, + Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. + + Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, + That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, + The life and joy of tongues of flame, + And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, + I may rouse the blear-eyed world, + And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Temple + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. + Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue + Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew + And vanished in the sunshine. How it came + We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. + From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew + Together into fire. But we knew + The winds would slap and quench it in their game. + And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks + To treasure it, and placed them round about. + With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, + And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks + Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, + The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath this sod lie the remains + Of one who died of growing pains. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Answer to a Request + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, + Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? + Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June + And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? + For your sake, I would go and seek the year, + Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, + Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon + Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer + Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! + My shadow stretches forward, and the ground + Is dark in front because the light's behind. + It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, + In watching it and walking I have found + More than enough to occupy my mind. + + I cannot turn, the light would make me blind. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POPPY SEED + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 + + A yellow band of light upon the street + Pours from an open door, and makes a wide + Pathway of bright gold across a sheet + Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside + Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch + Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, + The clip of tankards on a table top, + And stir of booted heels. Against the patch + Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth + Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, + Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. + Within his cellar men can have to drink + The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed + To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art + Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. + Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, + Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart + A cap as ever in his wantonness + Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 3 + + Tall candles stand upon the table, where + Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, + Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were + Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. + The centre of the board is piled with pipes, + Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay + Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault + Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way + Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes + And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 4 + + "For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" + Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. + "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, + From that small barrel in the very roots + Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! + Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. + We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke + His best tobacco for a grand climax. + Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, + We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 5 + + Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. + "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." + The host set down a jar; then to a vat + Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. + Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem + Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew + The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. + It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew + Into the silver night. At once there flung + Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 6 + + "Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, + Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? + My master sent me to inquire where + Such men do mostly be, but every door + Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. + I pray you tell me where I may now find + One versed in law, the matter will not wait." + "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind + Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. + I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 7 + + Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, + Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy + Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout + Within the tavern jeered at his employ. + Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, + Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, + Flooded the open spaces, and took flight + Before tall, serried houses in platoon, + Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House + They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 8 + + Before a door which fronted a canal + The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. + The water lapped the stones in musical + And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot + Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. + The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame + Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, + And through the open door Max went toward + Another door, whence sound of voices came. + He entered a large room where candelabra burned. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 9 + + An aged man in quilted dressing gown + Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent + Your messenger to seek throughout the town + A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, + But I am at your service, and my name + Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." + "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged + Am I, and count myself much privileged. + I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame + Is better known on distant oceans than on land. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 10 + + My ship has tasted water in strange seas, + And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. + She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, + And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." + "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, + "Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." + The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, + "My good friend, Grootver,—" he at once began. + "No introductions, let us have some wine, + And business, now that you at last have made your choice." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 11 + + A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, + This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. + Kurler explained, his old hands nervously + Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought + From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay + The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind + Had so delayed him that his cargo brought + But half its proper price, the very day + He came to port he stepped ashore to find + The market glutted and his counted profits naught. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 12 + + Little by little Max made out the way + That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. + His money he must have, too long delay + Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. + "But let me take my ship, with many bales + Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, + Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste + Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails + Open for home, such stores will I bring you + That all your former ventures will be counted waste. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 13 + + Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, + And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, + Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam + Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, + Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. + Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard + The deed to which the sailor gave his word. + He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed + The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, + He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 14 + + For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, + Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. + But on one black and most unfriendly day + Grootver had caught her as she passed between + The kitchen and the garden. She had run + In fear of him, his evil leering eye, + And when he came she, bolted in her room, + Refused to show, though gave no reason why. + The spinning of her future had begun, + On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 15 + + Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, + Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. + He felt his hands were building up the pyre + To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo + He staggered to his chair. Before him lay + White paper still unspotted by a crime. + "Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. + "`If in two years my vessel should yet stay + From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime + A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 16 + + And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, + And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. + Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. + Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" + He shuffled from the room, and left the house. + His footsteps wore to silence down the street. + At last the aged man began to rouse. + With help he once more gained his trembling feet. + "My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. + Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 17 + + Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, + "Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, + So to protect your daughter from all harm + As one man may." Thus sorrowful, forlorn, + The situation to Max Breuck appeared, + He gave his promise almost without thought, + Nor looked to see a difficulty. "Bred + Gently to watch a mother left alone; + Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared + The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 18 + + Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. + Last Winter she died also, and my days + Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, + And undo habits used to earn her praise. + My leisure I will gladly give to see + Your household and your daughter prosperous." + The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. + He could not brook that his humility, + So little wonted, and so tremulous, + Should first before a stranger make such great display. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 19 + + "Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, + I sail at the full sea, my daughter then + I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon + If after I have bid good-by, and when + Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, + You bring her home again. She lives with one + Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. + But that is no friend for so free a heart. + No head to match her questions. It is done. + And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 20 + + My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam + As home, so not a letter can you send. + I shall be back, before to where I am + Another ship could reach. Now your stipend—" + Quickly Breuck interposed. "When you once more + Tread on the stones which pave our streets.—Good night! + To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, + At the great wharf." Then hurrying, in spite + Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon + Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 + + 'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, + And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. + The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here + The sun sank deep into the waters cold. + And every clock and belfry in the town + Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, + To shake the sunny morning into life, + And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, + Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, + Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 22 + + The "Horn of Fortune" sails away to-day. + At highest tide she lets her anchor go, + And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! + Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, + And beckons to her boats to let her start. + Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. + The shining waves are quick to take her part. + They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, + Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize + And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 23 + + At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, + And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. + Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, + Bowing before them both. The brigantine + Bounces impatient at the long delay, + Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. + A heavy galliot unloads on the walls + Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls + Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more + Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 24 + + Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, + Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. + Max moved aside and let her be alone, + For grief exacts each penny of its toll. + The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. + A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, + Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again + Upon the other side. Now on the lee + It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight + Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 25 + + Then up above the eager brigantine, + Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, + Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine + Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight + Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, + Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. + They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, + The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw + She glided imperceptibly away, + Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 26 + + Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, + Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. + Before the iron gateway, clasped between + Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, + Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? + My father told me of your courtesy. + Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me + To show such hospitality as maiden may, + Without disdaining rules must not be broke. + Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 27 + + She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. + Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones + Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, + It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones + Are budded with much peering at the rows, + And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. + Max started at the beauty, at the glare + Of tints. At either end was set a wide + Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows + Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 28 + + From side to side, midway each path, there ran + A longer one which cut the space in two. + And, like a tunnel some magician + Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, + Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers + Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came + The plump and heavy apples crowding stood + And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame + Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers + They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 29 + + Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, + Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun + From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes + Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one + Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. + Bordered along the wall, in beds between, + Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, + The pride of all the garden, there were more + Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. + They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 30 + + "Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring + Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best + Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring + Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest + To please her guest she flew. A moment more + She came again, with her old nurse behind. + Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, + She talked as someone with a noble store + Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, + Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 31 + + The little apple leaves above their heads + Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, + In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds + Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule + And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes + Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues + Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed + To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes + Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. + Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 32 + + Of every pattern and in every shade. + Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. + Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made + An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. + Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. + Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. + They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, + Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. + The shade within the arbour made a port + To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 33 + + Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, + This child matured to woman unaware, + The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked + Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. + Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, + And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich + And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died + Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, + She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch + At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 34 + + Two years was long! She loved her father well, + But fears she had not. He had always been + Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell + On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen + Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. + Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! + Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. + Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, + The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall. + When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 35 + + The next day, and the next, Max went to ask + The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: + Another tulip blown, or the great task + Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; + The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles + Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. + Such things were Christine's world, and his was she + Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. + Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, + Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 36 + + Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself + The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. + As one in charge of guineas on a shelf + Loose in a china teapot, may confess + His need, but may not borrow till his friend + Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said + No word of love or marriage; but the days + He clipped off on his almanac. The end + Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, + Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 37 + + Two years had made Christine a woman grown, + With dignity and gently certain pride. + But all her childhood fancies had not flown, + Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. + Max was her trusted friend, did she confess + A closer happiness? Max could not tell. + Two years were over and his life he found + Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness + He waited for the "Horn of Fortune". Well + Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 38 + + Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass + Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came + Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass + Was justified, for he had won the game. + Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, + And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship + Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank + To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent + For Max. "Come quickly," said her note, "I skip + The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 39 + + Through the long sunshine of late afternoon + Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost + In bitter reverie, he found her soon. + And sitting down beside her, at the cost + Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing + So suddenly has happened?" Then, in tears, + She told that Grootver, on the following morn, + Would come to marry her, and shuddering: + "I will die rather, death has lesser fears." + Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 40 + + "My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! + I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. + In strictest honour I have played my part; + But all this misery has overthrown + My scruples. If you love me, marry me + Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. + You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, + Can eat his anger. My care it shall be + To pay your father's debt, by such degrees + As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 41 + + This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known + My love, and silence forced upon my lips. + I worship you with all the strength I've shown + In keeping faith." With pleading finger tips + He touched her arm. "Christine! Beloved! Think. + Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, + I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? + They've been in leash so long upon the brink." + She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. + Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 42 + + And they were married ere the westering sun + Had disappeared behind the garden trees. + The evening poured on them its benison, + And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, + Rose up around them from the beamy ground, + Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. + Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, + In such enraptured sweetness as they found + Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon + To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 43 + + At last Max spoke, "Dear Heart, this night is ours, + To watch it pale, together, into dawn, + Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers + Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, + Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, + Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. + For that desired thing I leave you now. + To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, + By telling Grootver that a bootless quest + Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 44 + + But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, + Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. + And wound her arms about his knees and thighs + As he stood over her. With dread, begot + Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, + She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint + Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, + Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint + Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright + With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 45 + + But at the gate once more she held him close + And quenched her heart again upon his lips. + "My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose + But to be gone one hour! Evening slips + Away, this errand must be done." "Max! Max! + First goes my father, if I lose you now!" + She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. + Softly he laughed, "One hour through the town + By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. + Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 46 + + One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. + We front another day as man and wife. + I shall be back almost before I'm gone, + And midnight shall anoint and crown our life." + Then through the gate he passed. Along the street + She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. + He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. + Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. + Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, + Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 47 + + Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. + His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot + He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall + Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. + He dreaded no man, since he could protect + Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. + His starved life had not fitted him for joy. + It strained him to the utmost to reject + Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. + "Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 48 + + He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol + To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. + In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. + And he would be returned, lifting the latch + Of his own gate, eager to take Christine + And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? + He broke into a run. In front, a line + Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. + Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day + Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 49 + + "Why, Max! Stop, Max!" And out they came pell-mell, + His old companions. "Max, where have you been? + Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! + How many months is it since we have seen + You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! + Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, + Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. + Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; + Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. + Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 50 + + They forced him to a seat, and held him there, + Despite his anger, while the hideous joke + Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care + A brimming glass of whiskey. "Here, we've broke + Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! + Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? + Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! + Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think." + Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, + Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 51 + + Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried + To quell the uproar, told them what he dared + Of his own life and circumstance. Implied + Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. + In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, + And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more + Goaded and bursting;—"Cowards! Is no one loth + To mock at duty—" Here they called for ale, + And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath + He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 52 + + Sobered a little by his violence, + And by the host who begged them to be still, + Nor injure his good name, "Max, no offence," + They blurted, "you may leave now if you will." + "One moment, Max," said Franz. "We've gone too far. + I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. + It started in a wager ere you came. + The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar + I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, + Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 53 + + Its properties are to induce a sleep + Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time + Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep + Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime + Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream + Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock + Are but so many seconds. We agreed + That the next man who came should prove the scheme; + And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. + Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 54 + + "It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!" + Max Breuck was maddened now. "Another jest + Of your befuddled wits. I know not why + I am to be your butt. At my request + You'll choose among you one who'll answer for + Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night + And good-by,—gentlemen. You'll hear from me." + But Franz had caught him at the very door, + "It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight + I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 55 + + You have no business, that is why we laughed, + Since you had none a few minutes ago. + As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, + Knowing the length of time it takes to do + A simple thing like that in this slow world. + Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. + I'll burn the drug if you prefer." But Breuck + Muttered and stared,—"A lie." And then he hurled, + Distraught, this word at Franz: "Prove it. And when + It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 56 + + I'll give you just one week to make your case. + On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, + I shall require your proof." With wondering face + Franz cried, "A week to August, and fourteen + The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. + April, and eighteen-twelve." Max staggered, caught + A chair,—"April two years ago! Indeed, + Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how + Either could blunder so." Hilverdink brought + "The Amsterdam Gazette", and Max was forced to read. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 57 + + "Eighteen hundred and twelve," in largest print; + And next to it, "April the twenty-first." + The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint + Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, + He read it, and into his pounding brain + Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea + Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: + "This is two years ago! What of Christine?" + He fled the cellar, in his agony + Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 58 + + The darkened buildings echoed to his feet + Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. + Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet + And terror-winged steps. His heart began + To labour at the speed. And still no sign, + No flutter of a leaf against the sky. + And this should be the garden wall, and round + The corner, the old gate. No even line + Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry + Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 59 + + Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, + They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones + To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine + Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones + Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, + Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, + The twisted iron of the garden gate, + Was there. The houses touched and left no space + Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves + Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 60 + + Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. + His slobbering lips could only cry, "Christine! + My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? + What future is our past? What saturnine, + Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live + Two years together in a puff of smoke? + It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, + Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give + Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke + Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 61 + + His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. + The moon had long been set. And still he cried: + "Christine! My Love! Christine!" A sudden spark + Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied + With his uncertain vision, so within + Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, + A latticed window where a crimson gleam + Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, + An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth + Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 62 + + Softly he knocked against the casement, wide + It flew, and a cracked voice his business there + Demanded. The door opened, and inside + Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air + Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. + "Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve + You?" "Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? + I want a pistol." Quick the old man grew + Livid. "Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve + You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms—" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 63 + + "Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose + My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been + Blest above others. You have many rows + Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen + Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts + Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' + Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! + 'Twill serve my turn though—" Hastily he counts + The florins down upon the table. "Well, + Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 64 + + Into the night again he hurried, now + Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town + He set his goal. And then he wondered how + Poor C. D. L. had come to die. "It's grown + Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, + And will work punctually." His sorrow fell + Upon his senses, shutting out all else. + Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought + The heavy miles away. "Christine. I'm well. + I'm coming. My Own Wife!" He lurched with failing pulse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 65 + + Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, + And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. + The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts + Long stealthy fingers up some way to find + And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here + The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. + No lights were burning in the distant thorps. + Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, + Babbled "Christine!" A shot split through the breeze. + The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Virgin Mary, far away, + Look down from Heaven while I pray. + Open your golden casement high, + And lean way out beyond the sky. + I am so little, it may be + A task for you to harken me. + + O Lady Mary, I have bought + A candle, as the good priest taught. + I only had one penny, so + Old Goody Jenkins let it go. + It is a little bent, you see. + But Oh, be merciful to me! + + I have not anything to give, + Yet I so long for him to live. + A year ago he sailed away + And not a word unto today. + I've strained my eyes from the sea-wall + But never does he come at all. + + Other ships have entered port + Their voyages finished, long or short, + And other sailors have received + Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved. + My heart is bursting for his hail, + O Virgin, let me spy his sail. + + <i>Hull down on the edge of a sun-soaked sea + Sparkle the bellying sails for me. + Taut to the push of a rousing wind + Shaking the sea till it foams behind, + The tightened rigging is shrill with the song: + "We are back again who were gone so long."</i> + + One afternoon I bumped my head. + I sat on a post and wished I were dead + Like father and mother, for no one cared + Whither I went or how I fared. + A man's voice said, "My little lad, + Here's a bit of a toy to make you glad." + + Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, + With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain + Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail + Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail + Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, + Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen. + + He held out his hand and gave to me + The most marvellous top which could ever be. + It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, + And a red stone carved into little wings, + All joined by a twisted golden line, + And set in the brown wood, even and fine. + + Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought + My treasure to you as I ought, + But he said to keep it for his sake + And comfort myself with it, and take + Joy in its spinning, and so I do. + It couldn't mean quite the same to you. + + Every day I met him there, + Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. + He told me stories of courts and kings, + Of storms at sea, of lots of things. + The top he said was a sort of sign + That something in the big world was mine. + + <i>Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. + Against the horizon a glint in motion. + Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, + Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, + Singing and shouting to port she races, + A flying harp, with her sheets and braces.</i> + + O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, + I am in very utmost need. + He loved me, he was all I had, + And when he came it made the sad + Thoughts disappear. This very day + Send his ship home to me I pray. + + I'll be a priest, if you want it so, + I'll work till I have enough to go + And study Latin to say the prayers + On the rosary our old priest wears. + I wished to be a sailor too, + But I will give myself to you. + + I'll never even spin my top, + But put it away in a box. I'll stop + Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. + I'll save my pennies till I have bought + A silver heart in the market square, + I've seen some beautiful, white ones there. + + I'll give up all I want to do + And do whatever you tell me to. + Heavenly Lady, take away + All the games I like to play, + Take my life to fill the score, + Only bring him back once more! + + <i>The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, + And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. + The gray dust whirls in the market square, + And the silver hearts are covered with care + By thick tarpaulins. Once again + The bay is black under heavy rain.</i> + + The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. + A little boy weeps and prays no more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But why did I kill him? Why? Why? + In the small, gilded room, near the stair? + My ears rack and throb with his cry, + And his eyes goggle under his hair, + As my fingers sink into the fair + White skin of his throat. It was I! + + I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? + I shook him until his red tongue + Hung flapping out through the black, queer, + Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung + With my nails drawing blood, while I flung + The loose, heavy body in fear. + + Fear lest he should still not be dead. + I was drunk with the lust of his life. + The blood-drops oozed slow from his head + And dabbled a chair. And our strife + Lasted one reeling second, his knife + Lay and winked in the lights overhead. + + And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, + When I called him a low, sneaking cur. + And the wail of the violins stirred + My brute anger with visions of her. + As I throttled his windpipe, the purr + Of his breath with the waltz became blurred. + + I have ridden ten miles through the dark, + With that music, an infernal din, + Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! + One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in + To his flesh when the violins, thin + And straining with passion, grow stark. + + One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! + While she danced I was crushing his throat. + He had tasted the joy of her, wound + Round her body, and I heard him gloat + On the favour. That instant I smote. + One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round! + + He is here in the room, in my arm, + His limp body hangs on the spin + Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm + Of blood-drops is hemming us in! + Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin + Is red like his tongue lolling warm. + + One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. + He is heavy, his feet beat the floor + As I drag him about in the swell + Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, + The trumpets crash in through the door. + One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell. + + One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space + Rolls the earth to the hideous glee + Of death! And so cramped is this place, + I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! + Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! + He has covered my mouth with his face! + + And his blood has dripped into my heart! + And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! + Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part + Of my body in tentacles. Through + My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue + His dead body holds me athwart. + + One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! + One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! + One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, + Beats me into a jelly! The chime, + One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. + Air! Give me air! Air! My God! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The fountain bent and straightened itself + In the night wind, + Blowing like a flower. + It gleamed and glittered, + A tall white lily, + Under the eye of the golden moon. + From a stone seat, + Beneath a blossoming lime, + The man watched it. + And the spray pattered + On the dim grass at his feet. + + The fountain tossed its water, + Up and up, like silver marbles. + Is that an arm he sees? + And for one moment + Does he catch the moving curve + Of a thigh? + The fountain gurgled and splashed, + And the man's face was wet. + + Is it singing that he hears? + A song of playing at ball? + The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, + And through it he sees a woman, + Tossing the water-balls. + Her breasts point outwards, + And the nipples are like buds of peonies. + Her flanks ripple as she plays, + And the water is not more undulating + Than the lines of her body. + + "Come," she sings, "Poet! + Am I not more worth than your day ladies, + Covered with awkward stuffs, + Unreal, unbeautiful? + What do you fear in taking me? + Is not the night for poets? + I am your dream, + Recurrent as water, + Gemmed with the moon!" + + She steps to the edge of the pool + And the water runs, rustling, down her sides. + She stretches out her arms, + And the fountain streams behind her + Like an opened veil. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the morning the gardeners came to their work. + "There is something in the fountain," said one. + They shuddered as they laid their dead master + On the grass. + "I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, + "It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Basket + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, + in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into + the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air + is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + + See how the roof glitters, like ice! + + Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand + two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. + She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, + between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper + as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", + what a title for a book! + + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating + his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits + on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. + And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, + and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. + + "It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. + How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters + like ice. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter + to pay his morning's work with a holiday. + + "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" + + Peter jumps through the window. + + "Dear, are you alone?" + + "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread + is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have + seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" + + The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, + at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, + and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with + so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds + new-opened on their stems. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. + + "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. + My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little + pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. + The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes + are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do + any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down + and amuse me while I rest." + + The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb + the opposite wall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, + and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, + where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. + + The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. + His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room + is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands + the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour + on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs + his name. + + "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." + + And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. + + There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." + + "How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, + I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write + `No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, + that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage + strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied + the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, + you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. + Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot + feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." + + "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will + crush your heart and squeeze the love out." + + He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." + + "Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must + have sight! I <i>must</i>!" + + The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, + the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman + by a silver thread. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there + are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased + in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket + is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. + They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce + over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting + on the window-sill, eating human eyes. + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines + like ice. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, + and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, + and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them + burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". + + The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? + Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" + + The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, + bounces over and disappears. + + The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow + the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. + + A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, + and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Annette! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In a Castle + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip—hiss—drip—hiss— + fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, + and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip—hiss—the rain never stops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim, + in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinks + the rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes + the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewise + out from the wall, and then falls back again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly. + He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling. + The fire flutters and drops. Drip—hiss—the rain never stops. + He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor. + Outside, the wind goes wailing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above, + in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shivers + in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame. + She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her. + + How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet, + and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms, + and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms + her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself + beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble. + + Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, + terribly abhorred? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinks + on the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pure + and whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him, + for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes her + by the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord, + and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn, + shriven by her great love. + + Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops. + The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters. + Will the lady lose courage and not come? + + The rain claps on a loosened rafter. + + Is that laughter? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters. + One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rain + which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries + which chatters? + + The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall + the arras is blown! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds. + By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and + clasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form + and flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire, + which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noise + never stops. + + Drip—hiss—the rain drops. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops. + For the storm never stops. + + On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, + grey air. Drip—hiss—fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. + The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. + A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along + the rush mat. + + A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. + It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life + for the high favour." + + Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, + "Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded + necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, + she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, + you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, + they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, + I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck + to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." + The end was a splashed flourish of ink. + + Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. + The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering + in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip—hiss—drip—hiss— + fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops. + + The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. + Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. + Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + In the castle church you may see them stand, + Two sumptuous tombs on either hand + Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand + In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, + A crusader, come from the Holy Land, + Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. + The page's name became a brand + For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, + After having been burnt by royal command. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Bell in the convent tower swung. + High overhead the great sun hung, + A navel for the curving sky. + The air was a blue clarity. + Swallows flew, + And a cock crew. + + The iron clanging sank through the light air, + Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare + Of spotted green, and a snake had gone + Into the bed where the snowdrops shone + In green new-started, + Their white bells parted. + + Two by two, in a long brown line, + The nuns were walking to breathe the fine + Bright April air. They must go in soon + And work at their tasks all the afternoon. + But this time is theirs! + They walk in pairs. + + First comes the Abbess, preoccupied + And slow, as a woman often tried, + With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. + Then younger and younger, until the last one + Has a laugh on her lips, + And fairly skips. + + They wind about the gravel walks + And all the long line buzzes and talks. + They step in time to the ringing bell, + With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well + In the core of a sky + Domed silverly. + + Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." + Sister Angelique said she must get her spud + And free the earth round the jasmine roots. + Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! + There's a crocus up, + With a purple cup." + + But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, + She looked up and down the old grey wall + To see if a lizard were basking there. + She looked across the garden to where + A sycamore + Flanked the garden door. + + She was restless, although her little feet danced, + And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced + Her morning's work had hung in her mind + And would not take form. She could not find + The beautifulness + For the Virgin's dress. + + Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? + Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? + Should it be banded with yellow and white + Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? + Or a crimson sheen + Over some sort of green? + + But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new + In all the garden, no single hue + So lovely or so marvellous + That its use would not seem impious. + So on she walked, + And the others talked. + + Sister Elisabeth edged away + From what her companion had to say, + For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, + She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. + She did plain stitching + And worked in the kitchen. + + "Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, + I told her so this Friday past. + I must speak to her before Compline." + Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. + The other nun sighed, + With her pleasure quite dried. + + Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: + "The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. + The little white cups bent over the ground, + And in among the light stems wound + A crested snake, + With his eyes awake. + + His body was green with a metal brightness + Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, + And all down his curling length were disks, + Evil vermilion asterisks, + They paled and flooded + As wounds fresh-blooded. + + His crest was amber glittered with blue, + And opaque so the sun came shining through. + It seemed a crown with fiery points. + When he quivered all down his scaly joints, + From every slot + The sparkles shot. + + The nuns huddled tightly together, fear + Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer + More closely at the beautiful snake, + She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make + Colours so rare, + The dress were there. + + The Abbess shook off her lethargy. + "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. + Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, + The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. + Only Clotilde + Was the last to yield. + + When the recreation hour was done + Each went in to her task. Alone + In the library, with its great north light, + Clotilde wrought at an exquisite + Wreath of flowers + For her Book of Hours. + + She twined the little crocus blooms + With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms + Of laurel leaves were interwoven + With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven + Fritillaries, + Whose colour varies. + + They framed the picture she had made, + Half-delighted and half-afraid. + In a courtyard with a lozenged floor + The Virgin watched, and through the arched door + The angel came + Like a springing flame. + + His wings were dipped in violet fire, + His limbs were strung to holy desire. + He lowered his head and passed under the arch, + And the air seemed beating a solemn march. + The Virgin waited + With eyes dilated. + + Her face was quiet and innocent, + And beautiful with her strange assent. + A silver thread about her head + Her halo was poised. But in the stead + Of her gown, there remained + The vellum, unstained. + + Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, + Lingering over each tint and dye. + She could spend great pains, now she had seen + That curious, unimagined green. + A colour so strange + It had seemed to change. + + She thought it had altered while she gazed. + At first it had been simple green; then glazed + All over with twisting flames, each spot + A molten colour, trembling and hot, + And every eye + Seemed to liquefy. + + She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. + After all, she had only glanced + At that wonderful snake, and she must know + Just what hues made the creature throw + Those splashes and sprays + Of prismed rays. + + When evening prayers were sung and said, + The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. + And soon in the convent there was no light, + For the moon did not rise until late that night, + Only the shine + Of the lamp at the shrine. + + Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. + Her heart shook her body with its beats. + She could not see till the moon should rise, + So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes + On the window-square + Till light should be there. + + The faintest shadow of a branch + Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch + With solemn purpose, softly rose + And fluttered down between the rows + Of sleeping nuns. + She almost runs. + + She must go out through the little side door + Lest the nuns who were always praying before + The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. + She pushed the bolts, and over the grass + The red moon's brim + Mounted its rim. + + Her shadow crept up the convent wall + As she swiftly left it, over all + The garden lay the level glow + Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. + The gravel glistened. + She stopped and listened. + + It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. + She laughed a little, but she felt queerer + Than ever before. The snowdrop bed + Was reached and she bent down her head. + On the striped ground + The snake was wound. + + For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, + Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. + She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. + She darted her hand out, and seized the thick + Wriggling slime, + Only just in time. + + The old gardener came muttering down the path, + And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, + And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. + He bit her, but what difference did that make! + The Virgin should dress + In his loveliness. + + The gardener was covering his new-set plants + For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts + Your lover of growing things. He spied + Something to do and turned aside, + And the moonlight streamed + On Clotilde, and gleamed. + + His business finished the gardener rose. + He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows + A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she + Grasping him, laughing, while quietly + Her eyes are weeping. + Is he sleeping? + + He thinks it is some holy vision, + Brushes that aside and with decision + Jumps—and hits the snake with his stick, + Crushes his spine, and then with quick, + Urgent command + Takes her hand. + + The gardener sucks the poison and spits, + Cursing and praying as befits + A poor old man half out of his wits. + "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's + Hatched of a devil + And very evil. + + It's one of them horrid basilisks + You read about. They say a man risks + His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it + Out by now. Lucky I chucked it + Away from you. + I guess you'll do." + + "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast + Was sent to me, to me the least + Worthy in all our convent, so I + Could finish my picture of the Most High + And Holy Queen, + In her dress of green. + + He is dead now, but his colours won't fade + At once, and by noon I shall have made + The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see + How kindly the moon shines down on me! + I can't die yet, + For the task was set." + + "You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," + Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. + If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,—" + "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." + So Clotilde vented + Her creed. He repented. + + "He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. + "Paint as much as you like." And gingerly + He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde + Thanked him, and begged that he would shield + Her secret, though itching + To talk in the kitchen. + + The gardener promised, not very pleased, + And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, + Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon + Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon + In her bed she lay + And waited for day. + + At dawn's first saffron-spired warning + Clotilde was up. And all that morning, + Except when she went to the chapel to pray, + She painted, and when the April day + Was hot with sun, + Clotilde had done. + + Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud + At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed + To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. + A lady, in excellence arrayed, + And wonder-souled. + Christ's Blessed Mould! + + From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, + But her eyes were starred like those of a saint + Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. + A sudden clamour hurled its rude + Force to break + Her vision awake. + + The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed + By the multitude of nuns. They hushed + When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, + Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. + And all the hive + Buzzed "She's alive!" + + Old Francois had told. He had found the strain + Of silence too great, and preferred the pain + Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, + And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. + For Francois, to spite them, + Had not seen fit to right them. + + The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, + Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, + Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, + To spare you while you imaged her face? + How could we have guessed + Our convent so blessed! + + A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! + To have you die! And I, who am + A hollow, living shell, the grave + Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave + To be taken, Dear Mother, + Instead of this other." + + She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, + With anguished hands and tears delayed + To a painful slowness. The minutes drew + To fractions. Then the west wind blew + The sound of a bell, + On a gusty swell. + + It came skipping over the slates of the roof, + And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof + To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. + The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. + And the sun lit the flowers + In Clotilde's Book of Hours. + + It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress + And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, + Pulse and start; and the violet wings + Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. + The book seemed a choir + Of rainbow fire. + + The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun + Did the same, then one by one, + They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers + Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. + Clotilde, the Inspired! + + She only felt tired. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The old chronicles say she did not die + Until heavy with years. And that is why + There hangs in the convent church a basket + Of osiered silver, a holy casket, + And treasured therein + A dried snake-skin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Exeter Road + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Panels of claret and blue which shine + Under the moon like lees of wine. + A coronet done in a golden scroll, + And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll + Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. + They daren't look back! + + They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! + What brutes men are when they think they're scored. + Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, + In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see + That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, + Hop about and slue. + + They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. + For my lord has a casket full of rolls + Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. + I laugh to think how he'll show his scars + In London to-morrow. He whines with rage + In his varnished cage. + + My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. + 'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. + But I shall relieve her of them yet, + When I see she limps in the minuet + I must beg to celebrate this night, + And the green moonlight. + + There's nothing to hurry about, the plain + Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. + My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, + In half an hour I'll bag the coins. + 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. + The chase is the thing! + + How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon + Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune + Is beating out of the curses and screams, + And the cracking all through the painted seams. + Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. + 'Tis a rare fine night! + + There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, + And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. + It seems a shame to break the air + In two with this pistol, but I've my share + Of drudgery like other men. + His hat? Amen! + + Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! + Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, + Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. + 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. + A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! + They'll get me, of course. + + The cursed coach will reach the town + And they'll all come out, every loafer grown + A lion to handcuff a man that's down. + What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! + I'll give it a head to fit it pat. + Thank you! No cravat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>They handcuffed the body just for style, + And they hung him in chains for the volatile + Wind to scour him flesh from bones. + Way out on the moor you can hear the groans + His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. + 'Tis a common tale.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Shadow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul Jannes was working very late, + For this watch must be done by eight + To-morrow or the Cardinal + Would certainly be vexed. Of all + His customers the old prelate + Was the most important, for his state + Descended to his watches and rings, + And he gave his mistresses many things + To make them forget his age and smile + When he paid visits, and they could while + The time away with a diamond locket + Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, + And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. + This watch was made to buy him blisses + From an Austrian countess on her way + Home, and she meant to start next day. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame + Of a tallow candle, and became + So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince + Striking the hour a moment since. + Its echo, only half apprehended, + Lingered about the room. He ended + Screwing the little rubies in, + Setting the wheels to lock and spin, + Curling the infinitesimal springs, + Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings + Of precious stones lay strewn about. + The table before him was a rout + Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. + There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite + A heap of emeralds, and steel. + Here was a gem, there was a wheel. + And glasses lay like limpid lakes + Shining and still, and there were flakes + Of silver, and shavings of pearl, + And little wires all awhirl + With the light of the candle. He took the watch + And wound its hands about to match + The time, then glanced up to take the hour + From the hanging clock. + Good, Merciful Power! + How came that shadow on the wall, + No woman was in the room! His tall + Chiffonier stood gaunt behind + His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, + Hung from a peg. The door was closed. + Just for a moment he must have dozed. + He looked again, and saw it plain. + The silhouette made a blue-black stain + On the opposite wall, and it never wavered + Even when the candle quavered + Under his panting breath. What made + That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade + Of something so lovely, so exquisite, + Cast from a substance which the sight + Had not been tutored to perceive? + Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve. + + Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall + Gleamed black, and never moved at all. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul's watches were like amulets, + Wrought into patterns and rosettes; + The cases were all set with stones, + And wreathing lines, and shining zones. + He knew the beauty in a curve, + And the Shadow tortured every nerve + With its perfect rhythm of outline + Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine + Was the neck he knew he could have spanned + It about with the fingers of one hand. + The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, + But could not see, the lips were pressed + Loosely together, the edges close, + And the proud and delicate line of the nose + Melted into a brow, and there + Broke into undulant waves of hair. + The lady was edged with the stamp of race. + A singular vision in such a place. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He moved the candle to the tall + Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. + He threw his cloak upon a chair, + And still the lady's face was there. + From every corner of the room + He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom + That was the lady. Her violet bloom + Was almost brighter than that which came + From his candle's tulip-flame. + He set the filigree hands; he laid + The watch in the case which he had made; + He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed + His candle out. The room seemed stuffed + With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, + And let himself out through the door. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sun was flashing from every pin + And wheel, when Paul let himself in. + The whitewashed walls were hot with light. + The room was the core of a chrysolite, + Burning and shimmering with fiery might. + The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall + From the furniture upon the wall. + Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space + Where a glare usurped the lady's place. + He settled himself to his work, but his mind + Wandered, and he would wake to find + His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, + And nothing advanced beyond the rim + Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay + For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. + But Paul could hardly touch the gold, + It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. + With the first twilight he struck a match + And watched the little blue stars hatch + Into an egg of perfect flame. + He lit his candle, and almost in shame + At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. + The Shadow was there, and its precise + Outline etched the cold, white wall. + The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, + There's something the matter with your brain. + Go home now and sleep off the strain." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The next day was a storm, the rain + Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. + A grey and shadowless morning filled + The little shop. The watches, chilled, + Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. + The gems lay on the table like shoals + Of stranded shells, their colours faded, + Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. + Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed + No orders, for his fancy strayed. + His work became a simple round + Of watches repaired and watches wound. + The slanting ribbons of the rain + Broke themselves on the window-pane, + But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. + Only when the candle was lit + And on the wall just opposite + He watched again the coming of <i>it</i>, + Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul + And over his hands regain control. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul lingered late in his shop that night + And the designs which his delight + Sketched on paper seemed to be + A tribute offered wistfully + To the beautiful shadow of her who came + And hovered over his candle flame. + In the morning he selected all + His perfect jacinths. One large opal + Hung like a milky, rainbow moon + In the centre, and blown in loose festoon + The red stones quivered on silver threads + To the outer edge, where a single, fine + Band of mother-of-pearl the line + Completed. On the other side, + The creamy porcelain of the face + Bore diamond hours, and no lace + Of cotton or silk could ever be + Tossed into being more airily + Than the filmy golden hands; the time + Seemed to tick away in rhyme. + When, at dusk, the Shadow grew + Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. + Holding the watch, he spoke to her: + "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir + Into one brief sign of being. + Turn your eyes this way, and seeing + This watch, made from those sweet curves + Where your hair from your forehead swerves, + Accept the gift which I have wrought + With your fairness in my thought. + Grant me this, and I shall be + Honoured overwhelmingly." + + The Shadow rested black and still, + And the wind sighed over the window-sill. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul put the despised watch away + And laid out before him his array + Of stones and metals, and when the morning + Struck the stones to their best adorning, + He chose the brightest, and this new watch + Was so light and thin it seemed to catch + The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. + Topazes ran in a foamy stream + Over the cover, the hands were studded + With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. + The face was of crystal, and engraved + Upon it the figures flashed and waved + With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. + It took a week to make, and his trysts + At night with the Shadow were his alone. + Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. + The night that the jewel was worthy to give. + Paul watched the long hours of daylight live + To the faintest streak; then lit his light, + And sharp against the wall's pure white + The outline of the Shadow started + Into form. His burning-hearted + Words so long imprisoned swelled + To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, + He told the lady all his love, + And holding out the watch above + His head, he knelt, imploring some + Littlest sign. + The Shadow was dumb. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, + And everything he made he placed + Before his lady. The Shadow kept + Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. + He wooed her with the work of his hands, + He waited for those dear commands + She never gave. No word, no motion, + Eased the ache of his devotion. + His days passed in a strain of toil, + His nights burnt up in a seething coil. + Seasons shot by, uncognisant + He worked. The Shadow came to haunt + Even his days. Sometimes quite plain + He saw on the wall the blackberry stain + Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright + Enough to dazzle that from his sight. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There were moments when he groaned to see + His life spilled out so uselessly, + Begging for boons the Shade refused, + His finest workmanship abused, + The iridescent bubbles he blew + Into lovely existence, poor and few + In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse + Himself and her! The Universe! + And more, the beauty he could not make, + And give her, for her comfort's sake! + He would beat his weary, empty hands + Upon the table, would hold up strands + Of silver and gold, and ask her why + She scorned the best which he could buy. + He would pray as to some high-niched saint, + That she would cure him of the taint + Of failure. He would clutch the wall + With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall + He could catch, and hold her, and make her live! + With sobs he would ask her to forgive + All he had done. And broken, spent, + He would call himself impertinent; + Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven + To madness by the sight of Heaven. + At other times he would take the things + He had made, and winding them on strings, + Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes, + Chanting strangely, while the fumes + Wreathed and blotted the shadow face, + As with a cloudy, nacreous lace. + There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed + In tenderness, spoke to his bride, + Urged her to patience, said his skill + Should break the spell. A man's sworn will + Could compass life, even that, he knew. + By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true! + + The edge of the Shadow never blurred. + The lips of the Shadow never stirred. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He would climb on chairs to reach her lips, + And pat her hair with his finger-tips. + But instead of young, warm flesh returning + His warmth, the wall was cold and burning + Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled, + Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed + At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick, + He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick + Phantasmagoria crowded his brain, + And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain. + The crisis passed, he would wake and smile + With a vacant joy, half-imbecile + And quite confused, not being certain + Why he was suffering; a curtain + Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled + His sorrow. Like a little child + He would play with his watches and gems, with glee + Calling the Shadow to look and see + How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily + When he flashed his stones. "Mother, the green + Has slid so cunningly in between + The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!" + Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown, + He would get up slowly from his play + And walk round the room, feeling his way + From table to chair, from chair to door, + Stepping over the cracks in the floor, + Till reaching the table again, her face + Would bring recollection, and no solace + Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness + Stifled him and his great distress. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One morning he threw the street door wide + On coming in, and his vigorous stride + Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. + In his hands he carried a new-burst clump + Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks + Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks + To the wife he left an hour ago, + Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know + To-day the calendar calls it Spring, + And I woke this morning gathering + Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. + So I rushed out to see what flowers blew + Their pink-and-purple-scented souls + Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, + And made the approach to the Market Square + A garden with smells and sunny air. + I feel so well and happy to-day, + I think I shall take a Holiday. + And to-night we will have a little treat. + I am going to bring you something to eat!" + He looked at the Shadow anxiously. + It was quite grave and silent. He + Shut the outer door and came + And leant against the window-frame. + "Dearest," he said, "we live apart + Although I bear you in my heart. + We look out each from a different world. + At any moment we may be hurled + Asunder. They follow their orbits, we + Obey their laws entirely. + Now you must come, or I go there, + Unless we are willing to live the flare + Of a lighted instant and have it gone." + + A bee in the laurels began to drone. + A loosened petal fluttered prone. + + "Man grows by eating, if you eat + You will be filled with our life, sweet + Will be our planet in your mouth. + If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth + Until I gain to where you are, + And give you myself in whatever star + May happen. O You Beloved of Me! + Is it not ordered cleverly?" + + The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, + Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul slipped away as the dusk began + To dim the little shop. He ran + To the nearest inn, and chose with care + As much as his thin purse could bear. + As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking + Of the sacred wafer, and through the making + Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers + That God will bless this labour of theirs; + So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, + Purchased the best which he could buy. + Returning, he brushed his tools aside, + And laid across the table a wide + Napkin. He put a glass and plate + On either side, in duplicate. + Over the lady's, excellent + With loveliness, the laurels bent. + In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, + And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood + Was the wine which should bring the lustihood + Of human life to his lady's veins. + When all was ready, all which pertains + To a simple meal was there, with eyes + Lit by the joy of his great emprise, + He reverently bade her come, + And forsake for him her distant home. + He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, + And waited what should come to pass. + + The Shadow lay quietly on the wall. + From the street outside came a watchman's call + "A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall." + + And still he waited. The clock's slow tick + Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick. + + He filled his own glass full of wine; + From his pocket he took a paper. The twine + Was knotted, and he searched a knife + From his jumbled tools. The cord of life + Snapped as he cut the little string. + He knew that he must do the thing + He feared. He shook powder into the wine, + And holding it up so the candle's shine + Sparked a ruby through its heart, + He drank it. "Dear, never apart + Again! You have said it was mine to do. + It is done, and I am come to you!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall, + And held out his arms. The insentient wall + Stared down at him with its cold, white glare + Unstained! The Shadow was not there! + Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat. + He felt the veins in his body bloat, + And the hot blood run like fire and stones + Along the sides of his cracking bones. + But he laughed as he staggered towards the door, + And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Coroner took the body away, + And the watches were sold that Saturday. + The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy + Such watches, and the prices were high. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Forsaken + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come + from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such + far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused. + I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear + be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped + it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame, + just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, + and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not + be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry. + Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child + alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face + the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled + for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did. + Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "whore", + and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have + the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman, + he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, + what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, + Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman + must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing. + I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign. + What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never + feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have. + Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good + a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school + in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, + so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, + out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, + I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, + I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, + take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came. + No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months. + To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother. + She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born + for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away! + Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl. + Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known + my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, + and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, + and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, + I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another. + I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart + where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be + quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me. + What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues + when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby, + when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, + his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, + and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels + to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings? + I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem + just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother. + He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, + but give me strength to bring him up to be a man. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Late September + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tang of fruitage in the air; + Red boughs bursting everywhere; + Shimmering of seeded grass; + Hooded gentians all a'mass. + + Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind + Tearing off the husky rind, + Blowing feathered seeds to fall + By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. + + Beech trees in a golden haze; + Hardy sumachs all ablaze, + Glowing through the silver birches. + How that pine tree shouts and lurches! + + From the sunny door-jamb high, + Swings the shell of a butterfly. + Scrape of insect violins + Through the stubble shrilly dins. + + Every blade's a minaret + Where a small muezzin's set, + Loudly calling us to pray + At the miracle of day. + + Then the purple-lidded night + Westering comes, her footsteps light + Guided by the radiant boon + Of a sickle-shaped new moon. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pike + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the brown water, + Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, + Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, + A pike dozed. + Lost among the shadows of stems + He lay unnoticed. + Suddenly he flicked his tail, + And a green-and-copper brightness + Ran under the water. + + Out from under the reeds + Came the olive-green light, + And orange flashed up + Through the sun-thickened water. + So the fish passed across the pool, + Green and copper, + A darkness and a gleam, + And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank + Received it. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Blue Scarf + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded + In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, + it lies there, + Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. + Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! + A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down + on my face, + And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim + in cool-tinted heavens. + Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. + Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. + A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied + Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, + Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf + On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. + She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath + her slight stirring. + Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel + Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to + a handful of cinders, + And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. + + How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + White and Green + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hey! My daffodil-crowned, + Slim and without sandals! + As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness + So my eyeballs are startled with you, + Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, + Light runner through tasselled orchards. + You are an almond flower unsheathed + Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Aubade + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I would free the white almond from the green husk + So would I strip your trappings off, + Beloved. + And fingering the smooth and polished kernel + I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Music + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute. + From my bed I can hear him, + And the round notes flutter and tap about the room, + And hit against each other, + Blurring to unexpected chords. + It is very beautiful, + With the little flute-notes all about me, + In the darkness. + + In the daytime, + The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand + And copies music with the other. + He is fat and has a bald head, + So I do not look at him, + But run quickly past his window. + There is always the sky to look at, + Or the water in the well! + + But when night comes and he plays his flute, + I think of him as a young man, + With gold seals hanging from his watch, + And a blue coat with silver buttons. + As I lie in my bed + The flute-notes push against my ears and lips, + And I go to sleep, dreaming. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Lady + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You are beautiful and faded + Like an old opera tune + Played upon a harpsichord; + Or like the sun-flooded silks + Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. + In your eyes + Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, + And the perfume of your soul + Is vague and suffusing, + With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. + Your half-tones delight me, + And I grow mad with gazing + At your blent colours. + + My vigour is a new-minted penny, + Which I cast at your feet. + Gather it up from the dust, + That its sparkle may amuse you. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In a Garden + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gushing from the mouths of stone men + To spread at ease under the sky + In granite-lipped basins, + Where iris dabble their feet + And rustle to a passing wind, + The water fills the garden with its rushing, + In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. + + Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, + Where trickle and plash the fountains, + Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. + + Splashing down moss-tarnished steps + It falls, the water; + And the air is throbbing with it. + With its gurgling and running. + With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. + + And I wished for night and you. + I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, + White and shining in the silver-flecked water. + While the moon rode over the garden, + High in the arch of night, + And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. + + Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Tulip Garden + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, + Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, + The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry + Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace + Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! + Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, + With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye + Of purple batteries, every gun in place. + Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, + With torches burning, stepping out in time + To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, + We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime + Parades that army. With our utmost powers + We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. +</pre> + <p> + [End of original text.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes: + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + Originally: After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók: + + A Blockhead: + "There are non, ever. As a monk who prays" + changed to: + "There are none, ever. As a monk who prays" + + A Tale of Starvation: + "And he neither eat nor drank." + changed to: + "And he neither ate nor drank." + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck: + Stanza headings were originally Roman Numerals. + + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde: + The following names are presented in this etext sans accents: + Marguérite, Angélique, Véronique, Franc,ois. +</pre> + <p> + The following unconnected lines in the etext are presented sans accents: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The factory of Sèvres had lent + Strange wingéd dragons writhe about + And rich perfuméd smells + A faëry moonshine washing pale the crowds + Our eyes will close to undisturbéd rest. + And terror-wingéd steps. His heart began + On the stripéd ground +</pre> + <p> + Some books by Amy Lowell: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poetry: + A Critical Fable + * A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912) + * Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) + * Men, Women and Ghosts (1916) + Can Grande's Castle (1918) + Pictures of the Floating World (1919) + Legends (1921) + What's O'Clock (1925) + East Wind + Ballads For Sale + + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese (1921) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Prose: + John Keats + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature (1915) + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917) +</pre> + <p> + * Now available online from Project Gutenberg. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + About the author: + </h2> + <p> + From the notes to "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), edited + by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. + </p> + <p> + Lowell, Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874. Educated at private + schools. Author of "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass", 1912; "Sword Blades + and Poppy Seed", 1914; "Men, Women and Ghosts", 1916; "Can Grande's + Castle", 1918; "Pictures of the Floating World", 1919. Editor of the three + successive collections of "Some Imagist Poets", 1915, '16, and '17, + containing the early work of the "Imagist School" of which Miss Lowell + became the leader. This movement,... originated in England, the idea have + been first conceived by a young poet named T. E. Hulme, but developed and + put forth by Ezra Pound in an article called "Don'ts by an Imagist", which + appeared in `Poetry; A Magazine of Verse'. ... A small group of poets + gathered about Mr. Pound, experimenting along the technical lines + suggested, and a cult of "Imagism" was formed, whose first + group-expression was in the little volume, "Des Imagistes", published in + New York in April, 1914. Miss Lowell did not come actively into the + movement until after that time, but once she had entered it, she became + its leader, and it was chiefly through her effort in America that the + movement attained so much prominence and so influenced the trend of poetry + for the years immediately succeeding. Miss Lowell many times, in admirable + articles, stated the principles upon which Imagism is based, notably in + the Preface to "Some Imagist Poets" and in the Preface to the second + series, in 1916. She also elaborated it much more fully in her volume, + "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry", 1917, in the articles pertaining + to the work of "H.D." and John Gould Fletcher. In her own creative work, + however, Miss Lowell did most to establish the possibilities of the + Imagistic idea and of its modes of presentation, and opened up many + interesting avenues of poetic form. Her volume, "Can Grande's Castle", is + devoted to work in the medium which she styled "Polyphonic Prose" and + contains some of her finest work, particularly "The Bronze Horses". + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED *** + +***** This file should be named 1020-h.htm or 1020-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1020/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and David Widger + +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. 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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: Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + +Author: Amy Lowell + +Posting Date: August 3, 2008 [EBook #1020] +Release Date: August, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + +by Amy Lowell + +[American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] + + +[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and +continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose +poem.] + + + + +SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED + + + _"Face invisible! je t'ai gravee en medailles + D'argent doux comme l'aube pale, + D'or ardent comme le soleil, + D'airain sombre comme la nuit; + Il y en a de tout metal, + Qui tintent clair comme la joie, + Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, + Comme l'amour, comme la mort; + Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile + Seche et fragile. + + "Une a une, vous les comptiez en souriant, + Et vous disiez: Il est habile; + Et vous passiez en souriant. + + "Aucun de vous n'a donc vu + Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, + Que tout le grand songe terrestre + Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux + Que je gravais aux metaux pieux, + Mes Dieux."_ + + Henri de Regnier, "Les Medailles d'Argile". + + + + + +Preface + + + +No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but +there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that +his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter +of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the +same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with +high thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his +reader by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a +poet. A workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments +to explain and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty +which cannot stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built +thing. + +In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should +not try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created +beauty, even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not +ask the trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army +feels it necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are +ridiculous, but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral +all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only +ridiculous, but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half +understand, and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we +are from "admitting the Universe"! The Universe, which flings down its +continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much a +function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of +Gravitation; and we insist upon considering it merely a little +scroll-work, of no great importance unless it be studded with nails +from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung! + +For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the +French, and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, +although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong +to it. High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to +produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. +Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an +inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has +a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These +clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. +Before the works of Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and Jose-Maria de +Heredia, or those of Henri de Regnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, +Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand +rebuked. Indeed--"They order this matter better in France." + +It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a +thing, that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a +vigorous tree has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with +originality and power is always seeking to give his readers the same +poignant feeling which he has himself. To do this he must constantly +find new and striking images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the +word "daybreak", for instance. What a remarkable picture it must once +have conjured up! The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty +egg, BREAKING through cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said +"daybreak" so often that we do not see the picture any more, it has +become only another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking +new pictures to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought. + +Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call +"Vers Libre", a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French +versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in "unrhymed +cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They +are built upon "organic rhythm", or the rhythm of the speaking voice +with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical +system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, +and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of +any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, +are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely +chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is +constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In +the preface to his "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in +which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do +in rhyme." The desire to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion +until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern +temper, and certainly "unrhymed cadence" is unique in its power of +expressing this. + +Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has +never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, +and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and +satisfactory. Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to +English. But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems +could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now +verse, and permitting a great variety of treatment. + +But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more +classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit +certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an +author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine +themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. + +In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many +questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these +poems in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling +criticism, nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the +beginning, solely with the question of technique. For the more +important part of the book, the poems must speak for themselves. + + Amy Lowell. +May 19, 1914. + + + + + +Contents + + + + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + + + Sword Blades + + The Captured Goddess + The Precinct. Rochester + The Cyclists + Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + Astigmatism + The Coal Picker + Storm-Racked + Convalescence + Patience + Apology + A Petition + A Blockhead + Stupidity + Irony + Happiness + The Last Quarter of the Moon + A Tale of Starvation + The Foreigner + Absence + A Gift + The Bungler + Fool's Money Bags + Miscast I + Miscast II + Anticipation + Vintage + The Tree of Scarlet Berries + Obligation + The Taxi + The Giver of Stars + The Temple + Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + In Answer to a Request + + + Poppy Seed + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok + Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + The Basket + In a Castle + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + The Exeter Road + The Shadow + The Forsaken + Late September + The Pike + The Blue Scarf + White and Green + Aubade + Music + A Lady + In a Garden + A Tulip Garden + + + + + +Sword Blades And Poppy Seed + + + A drifting, April, twilight sky, + A wind which blew the puddles dry, + And slapped the river into waves + That ran and hid among the staves + Of an old wharf. A watery light + Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white + Without the slightest tinge of gold, + The city shivered in the cold. + All day my thoughts had lain as dead, + Unborn and bursting in my head. + From time to time I wrote a word + Which lines and circles overscored. + My table seemed a graveyard, full + Of coffins waiting burial. + I seized these vile abortions, tore + Them into jagged bits, and swore + To be the dupe of hope no more. + Into the evening straight I went, + Starved of a day's accomplishment. + Unnoticing, I wandered where + The city gave a space for air, + And on the bridge's parapet + I leant, while pallidly there set + A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. + Behind me, where the tramways run, + Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, + When someone plucked me by the sleeve. + "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be + Most grateful could you lend to me + A carfare, I have lost my purse." + The voice was clear, concise, and terse. + I turned and met the quiet gaze + Of strange eyes flashing through the haze. + + The man was old and slightly bent, + Under his cloak some instrument + Disarranged its stately line, + He rested on his cane a fine + And nervous hand, an almandine + Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine + It burned in twisted gold, upon + His finger. Like some Spanish don, + Conferring favours even when + Asking an alms, he bowed again + And waited. But my pockets proved + Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, + No hidden penny lurking there + Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare + I have no money, pray forgive, + But let me take you where you live." + And so we plodded through the mire + Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. + I took no note of where we went, + His talk became the element + Wherein my being swam, content. + It flashed like rapiers in the night + Lit by uncertain candle-light, + When on some moon-forsaken sward + A quarrel dies upon a sword. + It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, + And the noise in the air the broad words made + Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane + On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. + Then it would run like a steady stream + Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, + Or lap the air like the lapping tide + Where a marble staircase lifts its wide + Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, + And a waning moon is sinking straight + Down to a black and ominous sea, + While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. + + I walked as though some opiate + Had stung and dulled my brain, a state + Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. + We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. + The old man scratched a match, the spark + Lit up the keyhole of a door, + We entered straight upon a floor + White with finest powdered sand + Carefully sifted, one might stand + Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace + Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. + From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, + And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. + My host threw pine-cones on the fire + And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre + Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. + The chamber opened like an eye, + As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky + The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy + It peered at the stranger warily. + A little shop with its various ware + Spread on shelves with nicest care. + Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, + Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots + Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, + Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. + Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, + Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. + In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned + Against the wall, like ships careened. + There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, + The carved, white figures fluttering there + Like leaves adrift upon the air. + Classic in touch, but emasculate, + The Greek soul grown effeminate. + The factory of Sevres had lent + Elegant boxes with ornament + Culled from gardens where fountains splashed + And golden carp in the shadows flashed, + Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, + Which ladies threw as the last of fads. + Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, + Hand on heart, and daintily spelt + Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, + Artificial and fragile, which told aright + The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. + The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs + Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs + Endlessly drank the foaming ale, + Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. + The glancing light of the burning wood + Played over a group of jars which stood + On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky + Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry + To paint these porcelains with unknown hues + Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, + Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen + Their colours are felt, but never seen. + Strange winged dragons writhe about + These vases, poisoned venoms spout, + Impregnate with old Chinese charms; + Sealed urns containing mortal harms, + They fill the mind with thoughts impure, + Pestilent drippings from the ure + Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," + Said I, "you deal in pottery." + The old man turned and looked at me. + Shook his head gently. "No," said he. + + Then from under his cloak he took the thing + Which I had wondered to see him bring + Guarded so carefully from sight. + As he laid it down it flashed in the light, + A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, + Damascened with arabesques of gilt, + Or rather gold, and tempered so + It could cut a floating thread at a blow. + The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, + 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath + My cloak, for a jostle to my arm + Would have resulted in serious harm. + But it was so fine, I could not wait, + So I brought it with me despite its state." + "An amateur of arms," I thought, + "Bringing home a prize which he has bought." + "You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" + "Not in the way which you infer. + I need them in business, that is all." + And he pointed his finger at the wall. + Then I saw what I had not noticed before. + The walls were hung with at least five score + Of swords and daggers of every size + Which nations of militant men could devise. + Poisoned spears from tropic seas, + That natives, under banana trees, + Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. + Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make + And tip with feathers, orange and green, + A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. + High up, a fan of glancing steel + Was formed of claymores in a wheel. + Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees + Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these + Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, + Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. + There were Samurai swords from old Japan, + And scimitars from Hindoostan, + While the blade of a Turkish yataghan + Made a waving streak of vitreous white + Upon the wall, in the firelight. + Foils with buttons broken or lost + Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed + The boarding-pike of a privateer. + Against the chimney leaned a queer + Two-handed weapon, with edges dull + As though from hacking on a skull. + The rusted blood corroded it still. + My host took up a paper spill + From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, + And lighted it at a burning coal. + At either end of the table, tall + Wax candles were placed, each in a small, + And slim, and burnished candlestick + Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, + And the room leapt more obviously + Upon my mind, and I could see + What the flickering fire had hid from me. + Above the chimney's yawning throat, + Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, + Was a mantelshelf of polished oak + Blackened with the pungent smoke + Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock + Of tarnished brass stood like a rock + In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea + Of every sort of cutlery. + There lay knives sharpened to any use, + The keenest lancet, and the obtuse + And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades + Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades + Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, + And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl + Of points and edges, and underneath + Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. + My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear + A battle-cry from somewhere near, + The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, + And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. + A smoky cloud had veiled the room, + Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom + Pounded with shouts and dying groans, + With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. + Sabres and lances in streaks of light + Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right + A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, + Glittered an instant, while it stung. + Streams, and points, and lines of fire! + The livid steel, which man's desire + Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. + Every blade which man could mould, + Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, + Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, + Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, + Or slice, or hack, they all were there. + Nerveless and shaking, round and round, + I stared at the walls and at the ground, + Till the room spun like a whipping top, + And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! + I sell no tools for murderers here. + Of what are you thinking! Please clear + Your mind of such imaginings. + Sit down. I will tell you of these things." + + He pushed me into a great chair + Of russet leather, poked a flare + Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, + Up the chimney; but said no word. + Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, + And brought back a crock of finest delf. + He rested a moment a blue-veined hand + Upon the cover, then cut a band + Of paper, pasted neatly round, + Opened and poured. A sliding sound + Came from beneath his old white hands, + And I saw a little heap of sands, + Black and smooth. What could they be: + "Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. + "What you see is poppy seed. + Lethean dreams for those in need." + He took up the grains with a gentle hand + And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. + On his old white finger the almandine + Shot out its rays, incarnadine. + "Visions for those too tired to sleep. + These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. + No single soul in the world could dwell, + Without these poppy-seeds I sell." + For a moment he played with the shining stuff, + Passing it through his fingers. Enough + At last, he poured it back into + The china jar of Holland blue, + Which he carefully carried to its place. + Then, with a smile on his aged face, + He drew up a chair to the open space + 'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, + Young man, I will say that what you see + Is not the puzzle you take it to be." + "But surely, Sir, there is something strange + In a shop with goods at so wide a range + Each from the other, as swords and seeds. + Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." + "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, + "Live everywhere from here to Pekin. + But you are wrong, my sort of goods + Is but one thing in all its moods." + He took a shagreen letter case + From his pocket, and with charming grace + Offered me a printed card. + I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. + Dealer in Words." And that was all. + I stared at the letters, whimsical + Indeed, or was it merely a jest. + He answered my unasked request: + "All books are either dreams or swords, + You can cut, or you can drug, with words. + My firm is a very ancient house, + The entries on my books would rouse + Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. + I inherited from an ancestry + Stretching remotely back and far, + This business, and my clients are + As were those of my grandfather's days, + Writers of books, and poems, and plays. + My swords are tempered for every speech, + For fencing wit, or to carve a breach + Through old abuses the world condones. + In another room are my grindstones and hones, + For whetting razors and putting a point + On daggers, sometimes I even anoint + The blades with a subtle poison, so + A twofold result may follow the blow. + These are purchased by men who feel + The need of stabbing society's heel, + Which egotism has brought them to think + Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink + An adversary to quaint reply, + And I have customers who buy + Scalpels with which to dissect the brains + And hearts of men. Ultramundanes + Even demand some finer kinds + To open their own souls and minds. + But the other half of my business deals + With visions and fancies. Under seals, + Sorted, and placed in vessels here, + I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. + Each jar contains a different kind + Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind + Come the purple flowers, opium filled, + From which the weirdest myths are distilled; + My orient porcelains contain them all. + Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall + Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; + And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat + On that lowest shelf beside the door, + Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". + Every castle of the air + Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there + Are seeds for every romance, or light + Whiff of a dream for a summer night. + I supply to every want and taste." + 'Twas slowly said, in no great haste + He seemed to push his wares, but I + Dumfounded listened. By and by + A log on the fire broke in two. + He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" + I groped for something I should say; + Amazement held me numb. "To-day + You sweated at a fruitless task." + He spoke for me, "What do you ask? + How can I serve you?" "My kind host, + My penniless state was not a boast; + I have no money with me." He smiled. + "Not for that money I beguiled + You here; you paid me in advance." + Again I felt as though a trance + Had dimmed my faculties. Again + He spoke, and this time to explain. + "The money I demand is Life, + Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" + What infamous proposal now + Was made me with so calm a brow? + Bursting through my lethargy, + Indignantly I hurled the cry: + "Is this a nightmare, or am I + Drunk with some infernal wine? + I am no Faust, and what is mine + Is what I call my soul! Old Man! + Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan + Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," + And the old tones were very mild, + "I have no wish to barter souls; + My traffic does not ask such tolls. + I am no devil; is there one? + Surely the age of fear is gone. + We live within a daylight world + Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled + Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, + And then blow back the sun again. + I sell my fancies, or my swords, + To those who care far more for words, + Ideas, of which they are the sign, + Than any other life-design. + Who buy of me must simply pay + Their whole existence quite away: + Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, + Their hours from morning till the time + When evening comes on tiptoe feet, + And losing life, think it complete; + Must miss what other men count being, + To gain the gift of deeper seeing; + Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, + All which could hold or bind; must prove + The farthest boundaries of thought, + And shun no end which these have brought; + Then die in satisfaction, knowing + That what was sown was worth the sowing. + I claim for all the goods I sell + That they will serve their purpose well, + And though you perish, they will live. + Full measure for your pay I give. + To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. + What since has happened is the train + Your toiling brought. I spoke to you + For my share of the bargain, due." + "My life! And is that all you crave + In pay? What even childhood gave! + I have been dedicate from youth. + Before my God I speak the truth!" + Fatigue, excitement of the past + Few hours broke me down at last. + All day I had forgot to eat, + My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. + I bowed my head and felt the storm + Plough shattering through my prostrate form. + The tearless sobs tore at my heart. + My host withdrew himself apart; + Busied among his crockery, + He paid no farther heed to me. + Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, + Within the arms of the old carved chair. + + A long half-hour dragged away, + And then I heard a kind voice say, + "The day will soon be dawning, when + You must begin to work again. + Here are the things which you require." + By the fading light of the dying fire, + And by the guttering candle's flare, + I saw the old man standing there. + He handed me a packet, tied + With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside + Are seeds of many differing flowers, + To occupy your utmost powers + Of storied vision, and these swords + Are the finest which my shop affords. + Go home and use them; do not spare + Yourself; let that be all your care. + Whatever you have means to buy + Be very sure I can supply." + He slowly walked to the window, flung + It open, and in the grey air rung + The sound of distant matin bells. + I took my parcels. Then, as tells + An ancient mumbling monk his beads, + I tried to thank for his courteous deeds + My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," + He urged me, "you have a long walk + Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" + And gently sped upon my way + I stumbled out in the morning hush, + As down the empty street a flush + Ran level from the rising sun. + Another day was just begun. + + + + + +SWORD BLADES + + + + +The Captured Goddess + + + + Over the housetops, + Above the rotating chimney-pots, + I have seen a shiver of amethyst, + And blue and cinnamon have flickered + A moment, + At the far end of a dusty street. + + Through sheeted rain + Has come a lustre of crimson, + And I have watched moonbeams + Hushed by a film of palest green. + + It was her wings, + Goddess! + Who stepped over the clouds, + And laid her rainbow feathers + Aslant on the currents of the air. + + I followed her for long, + With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. + I cared not where she led me, + My eyes were full of colours: + Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, + And the indigo-blue of quartz; + Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, + Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, + The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, + The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. + I followed, + And watched for the flashing of her wings. + + In the city I found her, + The narrow-streeted city. + In the market-place I came upon her, + Bound and trembling. + Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, + She was naked and cold, + For that day the wind blew + Without sunshine. + + Men chaffered for her, + They bargained in silver and gold, + In copper, in wheat, + And called their bids across the market-place. + + The Goddess wept. + + Hiding my face I fled, + And the grey wind hissed behind me, + Along the narrow streets. + + + + +The Precinct. Rochester + + + + The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, + Still and straight, + With their round blossoms spread open, + In the quiet sunshine. + And still is the old Roman wall, + Rough with jagged bits of flint, + And jutting stones, + Old and cragged, + Quite still in its antiquity. + The pear-trees press their branches against it, + And feeling it warm and kindly, + The little pears ripen to yellow and red. + They hang heavy, bursting with juice, + Against the wall. + So old, so still! + + The sky is still. + The clouds make no sound + As they slide away + Beyond the Cathedral Tower, + To the river, + And the sea. + It is very quiet, + Very sunny. + The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, + But make no sound. + The roses push their little tendrils up, + And climb higher and higher. + In spots they have climbed over the wall. + But they are very still, + They do not seem to move. + And the old wall carries them + Without effort, and quietly + Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms. + + A bird in a plane-tree + Sings a few notes, + Cadenced and perfect + They weave into the silence. + The Cathedral bell knocks, + One, two, three, and again, + And then again. + It is a quiet sound, + Calling to prayer, + Hardly scattering the stillness, + Only making it close in more densely. + The gardener picks ripe gooseberries + For the Dean's supper to-night. + It is very quiet, + Very regulated and mellow. + But the wall is old, + It has known many days. + It is a Roman wall, + Left-over and forgotten. + + Beyond the Cathedral Close + Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, + Not well-regulated. + People who care more for bread than for beauty, + Who would break the tombs of saints, + And give the painted windows of churches + To their children for toys. + People who say: + "They are dead, we live! + The world is for the living." + + Fools! It is always the dead who breed. + Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, + Yet its seeds shall fructify, + And trees rise where your huts were standing. + But the little people are ignorant, + They chaffer, and swarm. + They gnaw like rats, + And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. + + The Dean is in the Chapter House; + He is reading the architect's bill + For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. + He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, + And then he will walk up and down the path + By the wall, + And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, + Thinking how quiet and peaceful + The garden is. + The old wall will watch him, + Very quietly and patiently it will watch. + For the wall is old, + It is a Roman wall. + + + + +The Cyclists + + + + Spread on the roadway, + With open-blown jackets, + Like black, soaring pinions, + They swoop down the hillside, + The Cyclists. + + Seeming dark-plumaged + Birds, after carrion, + Careening and circling, + Over the dying + Of England. + + She lies with her bosom + Beneath them, no longer + The Dominant Mother, + The Virile--but rotting + Before time. + + The smell of her, tainted, + Has bitten their nostrils. + Exultant they hover, + And shadow the sun with + Foreboding. + + + + +Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + + + + What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, + Of outworn, childish mysteries, + Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! + And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream + Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. + + Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, + The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese + Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky + Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly + And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. + + Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk + From over-handling, by some anxious monk. + Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven + With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, + And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. + + They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung + By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung + In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, + Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen + Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. + + + + +A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + + + + They have watered the street, + It shines in the glare of lamps, + Cold, white lamps, + And lies + Like a slow-moving river, + Barred with silver and black. + Cabs go down it, + One, + And then another. + Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. + Tramps doze on the window-ledges, + Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. + The city is squalid and sinister, + With the silver-barred street in the midst, + Slow-moving, + A river leading nowhere. + + Opposite my window, + The moon cuts, + Clear and round, + Through the plum-coloured night. + She cannot light the city; + It is too bright. + It has white lamps, + And glitters coldly. + + I stand in the window and watch the moon. + She is thin and lustreless, + But I love her. + I know the moon, + And this is an alien city. + + + + +Astigmatism + + To Ezra Pound + + With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion + + + + The Poet took his walking-stick + Of fine and polished ebony. + Set in the close-grained wood + Were quaint devices; + Patterns in ambers, + And in the clouded green of jades. + The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, + And a tassel of tarnished gold + Hung by a faded cord from a hole + Pierced in the hard wood, + Circled with silver. + For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. + His wealth had gone to enrich it, + His experiences to pattern it, + His labour to fashion and burnish it. + To him it was perfect, + A work of art and a weapon, + A delight and a defence. + The Poet took his walking-stick + And walked abroad. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + + + The Poet came to a meadow. + Sifted through the grass were daisies, + Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. + The Poet struck them with his cane. + The little heads flew off, and they lay + Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, + On the hard ground. + "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. + + + The Poet came to a stream. + Purple and blue flags waded in the water; + In among them hopped the speckled frogs; + The wind slid through them, rustling. + The Poet lifted his cane, + And the iris heads fell into the water. + They floated away, torn and drowning. + "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, + "They are not roses." + + Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. + + + The Poet came to a garden. + Dahlias ripened against a wall, + Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, + And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour + With the red and gold of its blossoms. + Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. + The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, + And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. + Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. + Red and gold they lay scattered, + Red and gold, as on a battle field; + Red and gold, prone and dying. + "They were not roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. + But behind you is destruction, and waste places. + + + The Poet came home at evening, + And in the candle-light + He wiped and polished his cane. + The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, + And made the jades undulate like green pools. + It played along the bright ebony, + And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. + But these things were dead, + Only the candle-light made them seem to move. + "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. + + Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. + + + + +The Coal Picker + + + + He perches in the slime, inert, + Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. + The oil upon the puddles dries + To colours like a peacock's eyes, + And half-submerged tomato-cans + Shine scaly, as leviathans + Oozily crawling through the mud. + The ground is here and there bestud + With lumps of only part-burned coal. + His duty is to glean the whole, + To pick them from the filth, each one, + To hoard them for the hidden sun + Which glows within each fiery core + And waits to be made free once more. + Their sharp and glistening edges cut + His stiffened fingers. Through the smut + Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. + Wet through and shivering he kneels + And digs the slippery coals; like eels + They slide about. His force all spent, + He counts his small accomplishment. + A half-a-dozen clinker-coals + Which still have fire in their souls. + Fire! And in his thought there burns + The topaz fire of votive urns. + He sees it fling from hill to hill, + And still consumed, is burning still. + Higher and higher leaps the flame, + The smoke an ever-shifting frame. + He sees a Spanish Castle old, + With silver steps and paths of gold. + From myrtle bowers comes the plash + Of fountains, and the emerald flash + Of parrots in the orange trees, + Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. + He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke + Bears visions, that his master-stroke + Is out of dirt and misery + To light the fire of poesy. + He sees the glory, yet he knows + That others cannot see his shows. + To them his smoke is sightless, black, + His votive vessels but a pack + Of old discarded shards, his fire + A peddler's; still to him the pyre + Is incensed, an enduring goal! + He sighs and grubs another coal. + + + + +Storm-Racked + + + + How should I sing when buffeting salt waves + And stung with bitter surges, in whose might + I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night + Marshals its undefeated dark and raves + In brutal madness, reeling over graves + Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, + Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite + Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. + No parting cloud reveals a watery star, + My cries are washed away upon the wind, + My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, + My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. + But painted on the sky great visions burn, + My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! + + + + +Convalescence + + + + From out the dragging vastness of the sea, + Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, + He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands + One moment, white and dripping, silently, + Cut like a cameo in lazuli, + Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands + Prone in the jeering water, and his hands + Clutch for support where no support can be. + So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, + He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow + And sandflies dance their little lives away. + The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch + The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, + And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. + + + + +Patience + + + + Be patient with you? + When the stooping sky + Leans down upon the hills + And tenderly, as one who soothing stills + An anguish, gathers earth to lie + Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When the snow-girt earth + Cracks to let through a spurt + Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt + A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth + To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + When pain's iron bars + Their rivets tighten, stern + To bend and break their victims; as they turn, + Hopeless, there stand the purple jars + Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men + Feel patience then? + + Be patient with you? + You! My sun and moon! + My basketful of flowers! + My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, + Windless and still, of afternoon! + You are my world and I your citizen. + What meaning can have patience then? + + + + +Apology + + + + Be not angry with me that I bear + Your colours everywhere, + All through each crowded street, + And meet + The wonder-light in every eye, + As I go by. + + Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, + Blinded by rainbow haze, + The stuff of happiness, + No less, + Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds + Of peacock golds. + + Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way + Flushes beneath its gray. + My steps fall ringed with light, + So bright, + It seems a myriad suns are strown + About the town. + + Around me is the sound of steepled bells, + And rich perfumed smells + Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, + And shroud + Me from close contact with the world. + I dwell impearled. + + You blazon me with jewelled insignia. + A flaming nebula + Rims in my life. And yet + You set + The word upon me, unconfessed + To go unguessed. + + + + +A Petition + + + + I pray to be the tool which to your hand + Long use has shaped and moulded till it be + Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, + You take it for its service. I demand + To be forgotten in the woven strand + Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry + Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie + A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. + I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, + The railing to the stairway of the clouds, + To guard your steps securely up, where streams + A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby + You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. + + + + +A Blockhead + + + + Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, + Unseparated atoms, and I must + Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust + Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, + There are none, ever. As a monk who prays + The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust + Each tasteless particle aside, and just + Begin again the task which never stays. + And I have known a glory of great suns, + When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! + Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, + And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! + Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand + Threw down the cup, and did not understand. + + + + +Stupidity + + + + Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch + I broke and bruised your rose. + I hardly could suppose + It were a thing so fragile that my clutch + Could kill it, thus. + + It stood so proudly up upon its stem, + I knew no thought of fear, + And coming very near + Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, + Tearing it down. + + Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, + The crimson petals, all + Outspread about my fall. + They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone + Of memory. + + And with my words I carve a little jar + To keep their scented dust, + Which, opening, you must + Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far + More grieved than you. + + + + +Irony + + + + An arid daylight shines along the beach + Dried to a grey monotony of tone, + And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon + The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach + Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach + The skeletons of fishes, every bone + Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, + The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. + And they are dead while waiting for the sea, + The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. + Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. + Only the shells and stones can wait to be + Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, + May not endure till time can bring them ease. + + + + +Happiness + + + + Happiness, to some, elation; + Is, to others, mere stagnation. + Days of passive somnolence, + At its wildest, indolence. + Hours of empty quietness, + No delight, and no distress. + + Happiness to me is wine, + Effervescent, superfine. + Full of tang and fiery pleasure, + Far too hot to leave me leisure + For a single thought beyond it. + Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it + Means to give one's soul to gain + Life's quintessence. Even pain + Pricks to livelier living, then + Wakes the nerves to laugh again, + Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. + Although we must die to-morrow, + Losing every thought but this; + Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. + + Happiness: We rarely feel it. + I would buy it, beg it, steal it, + Pay in coins of dripping blood + For this one transcendent good. + + + + +The Last Quarter of the Moon + + + + How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, + A spatter of rust on its polished steel! + The seasons reel + Like a goaded wheel. + Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. + + The night is sliding towards the dawn, + And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. + A torn moon flees + Through the hemlock trees, + The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. + + Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing + A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. + Like dogs unleashed + After a beast, + They stream on the sky, an outflung string. + + A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, + Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, + And the fierce unrests + I keep as guests + Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. + + Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt + My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. + I have not quailed, + I was all unmailed + And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. + + The moon drops into the silver day + As waking out of her swoon she comes. + I hear the drums + Of millenniums + Beating the mornings I still must stay. + + The years I must watch go in and out, + While I build with water, and dig in air, + And the trumpets blare + Hollow despair, + The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. + + An atom tossed in a chaos made + Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. + Whence have I come? + What would be home? + I hear no answer. I am afraid! + + I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. + Pushed into nothingness by a breath, + And quench in a wreath + Of engulfing death + This fight for a God, or this devil's game. + + + + +A Tale of Starvation + + + + There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, + And a disagreeable man was he. + He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, + And he cursed eternally. + + He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, + And he blasted the winds in the sky. + He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, + And he raved at the birds as they fly. + + His oaths were many, and his range was wide, + He swore in fancy ways; + But his meaning was plain: that no created thing + Was other than a hurt to his gaze. + + He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, + And windows toward the hill there were none, + And on the other side they were white-washed thick, + To keep out every spark of the sun. + + When he went to market he walked all the way + Blaspheming at the path he trod. + He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, + By all the names he knew of God. + + For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, + And his hopes had curdled in his breast. + His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over + For the chinking money-bags she liked best. + + The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, + The deer had trampled on his corn, + His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, + And his sheep had died unshorn. + + His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, + And his old horse perished of a colic. + In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes + By little, glutton mice on a frolic. + + So he slowly lost all he ever had, + And the blood in his body dried. + Shrunken and mean he still lived on, + And cursed that future which had lied. + + One day he was digging, a spade or two, + As his aching back could lift, + When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, + And to get it out he made great shift. + + So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, + And the veins in his forehead stood taut. + At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, + He gathered up what he had sought. + + A dim old vase of crusted glass, + Prismed while it lay buried deep. + Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, + At the touch of the sun began to leap. + + It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; + Flashing like an opal-stone, + Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, + Where at first there had seemed to be none. + + It had handles on each side to bear it up, + And a belly for the gurgling wine. + Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, + And its lip was curled and fine. + + The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare + And the colours started up through the crust, + And he who had cursed at the yellow sun + Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. + + And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, + Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; + And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, + And the sun shone without his sneer. + + Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, + But it was only grey in the gloom. + So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, + And he went outside with a broom. + + And he washed his windows just to let the sun + Lie upon his new-found vase; + And when evening came, he moved it down + And put it on a table near the place + + Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. + The old man forgot to swear, + Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, + Dancing in the kitchen there. + + He forgot to revile the sun next morning + When he found his vase afire in its light. + And he carried it out of the house that day, + And kept it close beside him until night. + + And so it happened from day to day. + The old man fed his life + On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. + And his soul forgot its former strife. + + And the village-folk came and begged to see + The flagon which was dug from the ground. + And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy + At showing what he had found. + + One day the master of the village school + Passed him as he stooped at toil, + Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side + Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. + + "My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, + "That's a valuable thing you have there, + But it might get broken out of doors, + It should meet with the utmost care. + + What are you doing with it out here?" + "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, + "I like to have it about, do you see? + To be with it all I can." + + "You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, + "Mark my words and see!" + And he walked away, while the old man looked + At his treasure despondingly. + + Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! + He had toiled for it, and now he cared. + Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, + Which his own hard work had bared. + + He would carry it round with him everywhere, + As it gave him joy to do. + A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! + Who would dare to say so? Who? + + Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, + And he bent to his hoe again.... + A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, + And he lurched with a cry of pain. + + For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, + And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. + The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. + He did not curse, he had no words. + + He gathered the fragments, one by one, + And his fingers were cut and torn. + Then he made a hole in the very place + Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. + + He covered the hole, and he patted it down, + Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. + He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows + That no beam of light should cross the floor. + + He sat down in front of the empty hearth, + And he neither ate nor drank. + In three days they found him, dead and cold, + And they said: "What a queer old crank!" + + + + +The Foreigner + + + + Have at you, you Devils! + My back's to this tree, + For you're nothing so nice + That the hind-side of me + Would escape your assault. + Come on now, all three! + + Here's a dandified gentleman, + Rapier at point, + And a wrist which whirls round + Like a circular joint. + A spatter of blood, man! + That's just to anoint + + And make supple your limbs. + 'Tis a pity the silk + Of your waistcoat is stained. + Why! Your heart's full of milk, + And so full, it spills over! + I'm not of your ilk. + + You said so, and laughed + At my old-fashioned hose, + At the cut of my hair, + At the length of my nose. + To carve it to pattern + I think you propose. + + Your pardon, young Sir, + But my nose and my sword + Are proving themselves + In quite perfect accord. + I grieve to have spotted + Your shirt. On my word! + + And hullo! You Bully! + That blade's not a stick + To slash right and left, + And my skull is too thick + To be cleft with such cuffs + Of a sword. Now a lick + + Down the side of your face. + What a pretty, red line! + Tell the taverns that scar + Was an honour. Don't whine + That a stranger has marked you. + * * * * * + The tree's there, You Swine! + + Did you think to get in + At the back, while your friends + Made a little diversion + In front? So it ends, + With your sword clattering down + On the ground. 'Tis amends + + I make for your courteous + Reception of me, + A foreigner, landed + From over the sea. + Your welcome was fervent + I think you'll agree. + + My shoes are not buckled + With gold, nor my hair + Oiled and scented, my jacket's + Not satin, I wear + Corded breeches, wide hats, + And I make people stare! + + So I do, but my heart + Is the heart of a man, + And my thoughts cannot twirl + In the limited span + 'Twixt my head and my heels, + As some other men's can. + + I have business more strange + Than the shape of my boots, + And my interests range + From the sky, to the roots + Of this dung-hill you live in, + You half-rotted shoots + + Of a mouldering tree! + Here's at you, once more. + You Apes! You Jack-fools! + You can show me the door, + And jeer at my ways, + But you're pinked to the core. + + And before I have done, + I will prick my name in + With the front of my steel, + And your lily-white skin + Shall be printed with me. + For I've come here to win! + + + + +Absence + + + + My cup is empty to-night, + Cold and dry are its sides, + Chilled by the wind from the open window. + Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. + The room is filled with the strange scent + Of wistaria blossoms. + They sway in the moon's radiance + And tap against the wall. + But the cup of my heart is still, + And cold, and empty. + + When you come, it brims + Red and trembling with blood, + Heart's blood for your drinking; + To fill your mouth with love + And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. + + + + +A Gift + + + + See! I give myself to you, Beloved! + My words are little jars + For you to take and put upon a shelf. + Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, + And they have many pleasant colours and lustres + To recommend them. + Also the scent from them fills the room + With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. + + When I shall have given you the last one, + You will have the whole of me, + But I shall be dead. + + + + +The Bungler + + + + You glow in my heart + Like the flames of uncounted candles. + But when I go to warm my hands, + My clumsiness overturns the light, + And then I stumble + Against the tables and chairs. + + + + +Fool's Money Bags + + + + Outside the long window, + With his head on the stone sill, + The dog is lying, + Gazing at his Beloved. + His eyes are wet and urgent, + And his body is taut and shaking. + It is cold on the terrace; + A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, + But the dog gazes through the glass + And is content. + + The Beloved is writing a letter. + Occasionally she speaks to the dog, + But she is thinking of her writing. + Does she, too, give her devotion to one + Not worthy? + + + + +Miscast I + + + + I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, + So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, + So sharp that the air would turn its edge + Were it to be twisted in flight. + Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, + And the mark of them lies, in and out, + Worm-like, + With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. + My brain is curved like a scimitar, + And sighs at its cutting + Like a sickle mowing grass. + + But of what use is all this to me! + I, who am set to crack stones + In a country lane! + + + + +Miscast II + + + + My heart is like a cleft pomegranate + Bleeding crimson seeds + And dripping them on the ground. + My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, + And its seeds are bursting from it. + + But how is this other than a torment to me! + I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, + In a dark closet! + + + + +Anticipation + + + + I have been temperate always, + But I am like to be very drunk + With your coming. + There have been times + I feared to walk down the street + Lest I should reel with the wine of you, + And jerk against my neighbours + As they go by. + I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, + But my brain is noisy + With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. + + + + +Vintage + + + + I will mix me a drink of stars,-- + Large stars with polychrome needles, + Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, + Cool, quiet, green stars. + I will tear them out of the sky, + And squeeze them over an old silver cup, + And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, + So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. + + It will lap and scratch + As I swallow it down; + And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, + Coiling and twisting in my belly. + His snortings will rise to my head, + And I shall be hot, and laugh, + Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. + + + + +The Tree of Scarlet Berries + + + + The rain gullies the garden paths + And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. + A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. + Even so, I can see that it has red berries, + A scarlet fruit, + Filmed over with moisture. + It seems as though the rain, + Dripping from it, + Should be tinged with colour. + I desire the berries, + But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. + Probably, too, they are bitter. + + + + +Obligation + + + + Hold your apron wide + That I may pour my gifts into it, + So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them + From falling to the ground. + + I would pour them upon you + And cover you, + For greatly do I feel this need + Of giving you something, + Even these poor things. + + Dearest of my Heart! + + + + +The Taxi + + + + When I go away from you + The world beats dead + Like a slackened drum. + I call out for you against the jutted stars + And shout into the ridges of the wind. + Streets coming fast, + One after the other, + Wedge you away from me, + And the lamps of the city prick my eyes + So that I can no longer see your face. + Why should I leave you, + To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? + + + + +The Giver of Stars + + + + Hold your soul open for my welcoming. + Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me + With its clear and rippled coolness, + That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, + Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. + + Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, + That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, + The life and joy of tongues of flame, + And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, + I may rouse the blear-eyed world, + And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. + + + + +The Temple + + + + Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. + Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue + Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew + And vanished in the sunshine. How it came + We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. + From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew + Together into fire. But we knew + The winds would slap and quench it in their game. + And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks + To treasure it, and placed them round about. + With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, + And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks + Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, + The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole. + + + + +Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + + + + Beneath this sod lie the remains + Of one who died of growing pains. + + + + +In Answer to a Request + + + + You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, + Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? + Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June + And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? + For your sake, I would go and seek the year, + Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, + Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon + Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer + Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! + My shadow stretches forward, and the ground + Is dark in front because the light's behind. + It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, + In watching it and walking I have found + More than enough to occupy my mind. + + I cannot turn, the light would make me blind. + + + + +POPPY SEED + + + + +The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + + + + 1 + + A yellow band of light upon the street + Pours from an open door, and makes a wide + Pathway of bright gold across a sheet + Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside + Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch + Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, + The clip of tankards on a table top, + And stir of booted heels. Against the patch + Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth + Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. + + + 2 + + This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, + Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. + Within his cellar men can have to drink + The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed + To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art + Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. + Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, + Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart + A cap as ever in his wantonness + Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. + + + 3 + + Tall candles stand upon the table, where + Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, + Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were + Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. + The centre of the board is piled with pipes, + Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay + Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault + Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way + Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes + And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. + + + 4 + + "For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" + Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. + "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, + From that small barrel in the very roots + Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! + Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. + We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke + His best tobacco for a grand climax. + Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, + We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!" + + + 5 + + Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. + "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." + The host set down a jar; then to a vat + Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. + Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem + Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew + The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. + It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew + Into the silver night. At once there flung + Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: + + + 6 + + "Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, + Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? + My master sent me to inquire where + Such men do mostly be, but every door + Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. + I pray you tell me where I may now find + One versed in law, the matter will not wait." + "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind + Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. + I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. + + + 7 + + Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, + Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy + Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout + Within the tavern jeered at his employ. + Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, + Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, + Flooded the open spaces, and took flight + Before tall, serried houses in platoon, + Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House + They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. + + + 8 + + Before a door which fronted a canal + The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. + The water lapped the stones in musical + And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot + Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. + The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame + Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, + And through the open door Max went toward + Another door, whence sound of voices came. + He entered a large room where candelabra burned. + + + 9 + + An aged man in quilted dressing gown + Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent + Your messenger to seek throughout the town + A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, + But I am at your service, and my name + Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." + "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged + Am I, and count myself much privileged. + I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame + Is better known on distant oceans than on land. + + + 10 + + My ship has tasted water in strange seas, + And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. + She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, + And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." + "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, + "Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." + The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, + "My good friend, Grootver,--" he at once began. + "No introductions, let us have some wine, + And business, now that you at last have made your choice." + + + 11 + + A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, + This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. + Kurler explained, his old hands nervously + Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought + From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay + The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind + Had so delayed him that his cargo brought + But half its proper price, the very day + He came to port he stepped ashore to find + The market glutted and his counted profits naught. + + + 12 + + Little by little Max made out the way + That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. + His money he must have, too long delay + Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. + "But let me take my ship, with many bales + Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, + Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste + Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails + Open for home, such stores will I bring you + That all your former ventures will be counted waste. + + + 13 + + Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, + And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, + Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam + Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, + Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. + Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard + The deed to which the sailor gave his word. + He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed + The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, + He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. + + + 14 + + For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, + Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. + But on one black and most unfriendly day + Grootver had caught her as she passed between + The kitchen and the garden. She had run + In fear of him, his evil leering eye, + And when he came she, bolted in her room, + Refused to show, though gave no reason why. + The spinning of her future had begun, + On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. + + + 15 + + Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, + Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. + He felt his hands were building up the pyre + To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo + He staggered to his chair. Before him lay + White paper still unspotted by a crime. + "Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. + "`If in two years my vessel should yet stay + From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime + A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear." + + + 16 + + And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, + And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. + Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. + Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" + He shuffled from the room, and left the house. + His footsteps wore to silence down the street. + At last the aged man began to rouse. + With help he once more gained his trembling feet. + "My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. + Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow." + + + 17 + + Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, + "Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, + So to protect your daughter from all harm + As one man may." Thus sorrowful, forlorn, + The situation to Max Breuck appeared, + He gave his promise almost without thought, + Nor looked to see a difficulty. "Bred + Gently to watch a mother left alone; + Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared + The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; + + + 18 + + Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. + Last Winter she died also, and my days + Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, + And undo habits used to earn her praise. + My leisure I will gladly give to see + Your household and your daughter prosperous." + The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. + He could not brook that his humility, + So little wonted, and so tremulous, + Should first before a stranger make such great display. + + + 19 + + "Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, + I sail at the full sea, my daughter then + I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon + If after I have bid good-by, and when + Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, + You bring her home again. She lives with one + Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. + But that is no friend for so free a heart. + No head to match her questions. It is done. + And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. + + + 20 + + My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam + As home, so not a letter can you send. + I shall be back, before to where I am + Another ship could reach. Now your stipend--" + Quickly Breuck interposed. "When you once more + Tread on the stones which pave our streets.--Good night! + To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, + At the great wharf." Then hurrying, in spite + Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon + Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. + + + 21 + + 'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, + And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. + The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here + The sun sank deep into the waters cold. + And every clock and belfry in the town + Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, + To shake the sunny morning into life, + And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, + Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, + Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. + + + 22 + + The "Horn of Fortune" sails away to-day. + At highest tide she lets her anchor go, + And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! + Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, + And beckons to her boats to let her start. + Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. + The shining waves are quick to take her part. + They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, + Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize + And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. + + + 23 + + At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, + And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. + Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, + Bowing before them both. The brigantine + Bounces impatient at the long delay, + Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. + A heavy galliot unloads on the walls + Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls + Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more + Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. + + + 24 + + Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, + Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. + Max moved aside and let her be alone, + For grief exacts each penny of its toll. + The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. + A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, + Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again + Upon the other side. Now on the lee + It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight + Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. + + + 25 + + Then up above the eager brigantine, + Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, + Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine + Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight + Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, + Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. + They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, + The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw + She glided imperceptibly away, + Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. + + + 26 + + Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, + Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. + Before the iron gateway, clasped between + Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, + Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? + My father told me of your courtesy. + Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me + To show such hospitality as maiden may, + Without disdaining rules must not be broke. + Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today." + + + 27 + + She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. + Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones + Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, + It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones + Are budded with much peering at the rows, + And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. + Max started at the beauty, at the glare + Of tints. At either end was set a wide + Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows + Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! + + + 28 + + From side to side, midway each path, there ran + A longer one which cut the space in two. + And, like a tunnel some magician + Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, + Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers + Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came + The plump and heavy apples crowding stood + And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame + Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers + They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. + + + 29 + + Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, + Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun + From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes + Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one + Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. + Bordered along the wall, in beds between, + Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, + The pride of all the garden, there were more + Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. + They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. + + + 30 + + "Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring + Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best + Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring + Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest + To please her guest she flew. A moment more + She came again, with her old nurse behind. + Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, + She talked as someone with a noble store + Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, + Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. + + + 31 + + The little apple leaves above their heads + Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, + In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds + Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule + And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes + Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues + Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed + To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes + Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. + Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. + + + 32 + + Of every pattern and in every shade. + Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. + Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made + An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. + Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. + Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. + They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, + Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. + The shade within the arbour made a port + To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. + + + 33 + + Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, + This child matured to woman unaware, + The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked + Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. + Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, + And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich + And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died + Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, + She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch + At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. + + + 34 + + Two years was long! She loved her father well, + But fears she had not. He had always been + Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell + On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen + Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. + Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! + Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. + Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, + The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall. + When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. + + + 35 + + The next day, and the next, Max went to ask + The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: + Another tulip blown, or the great task + Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; + The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles + Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. + Such things were Christine's world, and his was she + Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. + Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, + Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. + + + 36 + + Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself + The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. + As one in charge of guineas on a shelf + Loose in a china teapot, may confess + His need, but may not borrow till his friend + Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said + No word of love or marriage; but the days + He clipped off on his almanac. The end + Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, + Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. + + + 37 + + Two years had made Christine a woman grown, + With dignity and gently certain pride. + But all her childhood fancies had not flown, + Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. + Max was her trusted friend, did she confess + A closer happiness? Max could not tell. + Two years were over and his life he found + Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness + He waited for the "Horn of Fortune". Well + Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. + + + 38 + + Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass + Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came + Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass + Was justified, for he had won the game. + Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, + And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship + Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank + To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent + For Max. "Come quickly," said her note, "I skip + The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank." + + + 39 + + Through the long sunshine of late afternoon + Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost + In bitter reverie, he found her soon. + And sitting down beside her, at the cost + Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing + So suddenly has happened?" Then, in tears, + She told that Grootver, on the following morn, + Would come to marry her, and shuddering: + "I will die rather, death has lesser fears." + Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. + + + 40 + + "My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! + I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. + In strictest honour I have played my part; + But all this misery has overthrown + My scruples. If you love me, marry me + Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. + You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, + Can eat his anger. My care it shall be + To pay your father's debt, by such degrees + As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. + + + 41 + + This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known + My love, and silence forced upon my lips. + I worship you with all the strength I've shown + In keeping faith." With pleading finger tips + He touched her arm. "Christine! Beloved! Think. + Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, + I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? + They've been in leash so long upon the brink." + She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. + Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. + + + 42 + + And they were married ere the westering sun + Had disappeared behind the garden trees. + The evening poured on them its benison, + And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, + Rose up around them from the beamy ground, + Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. + Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, + In such enraptured sweetness as they found + Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon + To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. + + + 43 + + At last Max spoke, "Dear Heart, this night is ours, + To watch it pale, together, into dawn, + Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers + Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, + Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, + Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. + For that desired thing I leave you now. + To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, + By telling Grootver that a bootless quest + Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow." + + + 44 + + But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, + Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. + And wound her arms about his knees and thighs + As he stood over her. With dread, begot + Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, + She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint + Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, + Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint + Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright + With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. + + + 45 + + But at the gate once more she held him close + And quenched her heart again upon his lips. + "My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose + But to be gone one hour! Evening slips + Away, this errand must be done." "Max! Max! + First goes my father, if I lose you now!" + She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. + Softly he laughed, "One hour through the town + By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. + Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. + + + 46 + + One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. + We front another day as man and wife. + I shall be back almost before I'm gone, + And midnight shall anoint and crown our life." + Then through the gate he passed. Along the street + She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. + He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. + Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. + Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, + Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. + + + 47 + + Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. + His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot + He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall + Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. + He dreaded no man, since he could protect + Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. + His starved life had not fitted him for joy. + It strained him to the utmost to reject + Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. + "Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!" + + + 48 + + He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol + To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. + In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. + And he would be returned, lifting the latch + Of his own gate, eager to take Christine + And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? + He broke into a run. In front, a line + Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. + Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day + Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. + + + 49 + + "Why, Max! Stop, Max!" And out they came pell-mell, + His old companions. "Max, where have you been? + Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! + How many months is it since we have seen + You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! + Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, + Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. + Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; + Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. + Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!" + + + 50 + + They forced him to a seat, and held him there, + Despite his anger, while the hideous joke + Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care + A brimming glass of whiskey. "Here, we've broke + Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! + Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? + Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! + Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think." + Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, + Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. + + + 51 + + Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried + To quell the uproar, told them what he dared + Of his own life and circumstance. Implied + Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. + In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, + And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more + Goaded and bursting;--"Cowards! Is no one loth + To mock at duty--" Here they called for ale, + And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath + He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. + + + 52 + + Sobered a little by his violence, + And by the host who begged them to be still, + Nor injure his good name, "Max, no offence," + They blurted, "you may leave now if you will." + "One moment, Max," said Franz. "We've gone too far. + I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. + It started in a wager ere you came. + The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar + I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, + Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. + + + 53 + + Its properties are to induce a sleep + Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time + Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep + Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime + Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream + Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock + Are but so many seconds. We agreed + That the next man who came should prove the scheme; + And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. + Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed." + + + 54 + + "It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!" + Max Breuck was maddened now. "Another jest + Of your befuddled wits. I know not why + I am to be your butt. At my request + You'll choose among you one who'll answer for + Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night + And good-by,--gentlemen. You'll hear from me." + But Franz had caught him at the very door, + "It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight + I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. + + + 55 + + You have no business, that is why we laughed, + Since you had none a few minutes ago. + As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, + Knowing the length of time it takes to do + A simple thing like that in this slow world. + Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. + I'll burn the drug if you prefer." But Breuck + Muttered and stared,--"A lie." And then he hurled, + Distraught, this word at Franz: "Prove it. And when + It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. + + + 56 + + I'll give you just one week to make your case. + On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, + I shall require your proof." With wondering face + Franz cried, "A week to August, and fourteen + The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. + April, and eighteen-twelve." Max staggered, caught + A chair,--"April two years ago! Indeed, + Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how + Either could blunder so." Hilverdink brought + "The Amsterdam Gazette", and Max was forced to read. + + + 57 + + "Eighteen hundred and twelve," in largest print; + And next to it, "April the twenty-first." + The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint + Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, + He read it, and into his pounding brain + Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea + Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: + "This is two years ago! What of Christine?" + He fled the cellar, in his agony + Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. + + + 58 + + The darkened buildings echoed to his feet + Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. + Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet + And terror-winged steps. His heart began + To labour at the speed. And still no sign, + No flutter of a leaf against the sky. + And this should be the garden wall, and round + The corner, the old gate. No even line + Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry + Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. + + + 59 + + Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, + They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones + To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine + Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones + Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, + Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, + The twisted iron of the garden gate, + Was there. The houses touched and left no space + Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves + Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. + + + 60 + + Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. + His slobbering lips could only cry, "Christine! + My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? + What future is our past? What saturnine, + Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live + Two years together in a puff of smoke? + It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, + Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give + Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke + Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are." + + + 61 + + His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. + The moon had long been set. And still he cried: + "Christine! My Love! Christine!" A sudden spark + Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied + With his uncertain vision, so within + Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, + A latticed window where a crimson gleam + Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, + An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth + Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. + + + 62 + + Softly he knocked against the casement, wide + It flew, and a cracked voice his business there + Demanded. The door opened, and inside + Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air + Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. + "Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve + You?" "Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? + I want a pistol." Quick the old man grew + Livid. "Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve + You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms--" + + + 63 + + "Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose + My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been + Blest above others. You have many rows + Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen + Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts + Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' + Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! + 'Twill serve my turn though--" Hastily he counts + The florins down upon the table. "Well, + Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast." + + + 64 + + Into the night again he hurried, now + Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town + He set his goal. And then he wondered how + Poor C. D. L. had come to die. "It's grown + Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, + And will work punctually." His sorrow fell + Upon his senses, shutting out all else. + Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought + The heavy miles away. "Christine. I'm well. + I'm coming. My Own Wife!" He lurched with failing pulse. + + + 65 + + Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, + And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. + The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts + Long stealthy fingers up some way to find + And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here + The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. + No lights were burning in the distant thorps. + Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, + Babbled "Christine!" A shot split through the breeze. + The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. + + + + +Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + + + + Dear Virgin Mary, far away, + Look down from Heaven while I pray. + Open your golden casement high, + And lean way out beyond the sky. + I am so little, it may be + A task for you to harken me. + + O Lady Mary, I have bought + A candle, as the good priest taught. + I only had one penny, so + Old Goody Jenkins let it go. + It is a little bent, you see. + But Oh, be merciful to me! + + I have not anything to give, + Yet I so long for him to live. + A year ago he sailed away + And not a word unto today. + I've strained my eyes from the sea-wall + But never does he come at all. + + Other ships have entered port + Their voyages finished, long or short, + And other sailors have received + Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved. + My heart is bursting for his hail, + O Virgin, let me spy his sail. + + _Hull down on the edge of a sun-soaked sea + Sparkle the bellying sails for me. + Taut to the push of a rousing wind + Shaking the sea till it foams behind, + The tightened rigging is shrill with the song: + "We are back again who were gone so long."_ + + One afternoon I bumped my head. + I sat on a post and wished I were dead + Like father and mother, for no one cared + Whither I went or how I fared. + A man's voice said, "My little lad, + Here's a bit of a toy to make you glad." + + Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, + With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain + Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail + Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail + Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, + Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen. + + He held out his hand and gave to me + The most marvellous top which could ever be. + It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, + And a red stone carved into little wings, + All joined by a twisted golden line, + And set in the brown wood, even and fine. + + Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought + My treasure to you as I ought, + But he said to keep it for his sake + And comfort myself with it, and take + Joy in its spinning, and so I do. + It couldn't mean quite the same to you. + + Every day I met him there, + Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. + He told me stories of courts and kings, + Of storms at sea, of lots of things. + The top he said was a sort of sign + That something in the big world was mine. + + _Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. + Against the horizon a glint in motion. + Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, + Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, + Singing and shouting to port she races, + A flying harp, with her sheets and braces._ + + O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, + I am in very utmost need. + He loved me, he was all I had, + And when he came it made the sad + Thoughts disappear. This very day + Send his ship home to me I pray. + + I'll be a priest, if you want it so, + I'll work till I have enough to go + And study Latin to say the prayers + On the rosary our old priest wears. + I wished to be a sailor too, + But I will give myself to you. + + I'll never even spin my top, + But put it away in a box. I'll stop + Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. + I'll save my pennies till I have bought + A silver heart in the market square, + I've seen some beautiful, white ones there. + + I'll give up all I want to do + And do whatever you tell me to. + Heavenly Lady, take away + All the games I like to play, + Take my life to fill the score, + Only bring him back once more! + + _The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, + And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. + The gray dust whirls in the market square, + And the silver hearts are covered with care + By thick tarpaulins. Once again + The bay is black under heavy rain._ + + The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. + A little boy weeps and prays no more. + + + + +After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok + + + + But why did I kill him? Why? Why? + In the small, gilded room, near the stair? + My ears rack and throb with his cry, + And his eyes goggle under his hair, + As my fingers sink into the fair + White skin of his throat. It was I! + + I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? + I shook him until his red tongue + Hung flapping out through the black, queer, + Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung + With my nails drawing blood, while I flung + The loose, heavy body in fear. + + Fear lest he should still not be dead. + I was drunk with the lust of his life. + The blood-drops oozed slow from his head + And dabbled a chair. And our strife + Lasted one reeling second, his knife + Lay and winked in the lights overhead. + + And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, + When I called him a low, sneaking cur. + And the wail of the violins stirred + My brute anger with visions of her. + As I throttled his windpipe, the purr + Of his breath with the waltz became blurred. + + I have ridden ten miles through the dark, + With that music, an infernal din, + Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! + One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in + To his flesh when the violins, thin + And straining with passion, grow stark. + + One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! + While she danced I was crushing his throat. + He had tasted the joy of her, wound + Round her body, and I heard him gloat + On the favour. That instant I smote. + One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round! + + He is here in the room, in my arm, + His limp body hangs on the spin + Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm + Of blood-drops is hemming us in! + Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin + Is red like his tongue lolling warm. + + One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. + He is heavy, his feet beat the floor + As I drag him about in the swell + Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, + The trumpets crash in through the door. + One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell. + + One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space + Rolls the earth to the hideous glee + Of death! And so cramped is this place, + I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! + Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! + He has covered my mouth with his face! + + And his blood has dripped into my heart! + And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! + Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part + Of my body in tentacles. Through + My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue + His dead body holds me athwart. + + One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! + One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! + One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, + Beats me into a jelly! The chime, + One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. + Air! Give me air! Air! My God! + + + + +Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + + + + The fountain bent and straightened itself + In the night wind, + Blowing like a flower. + It gleamed and glittered, + A tall white lily, + Under the eye of the golden moon. + From a stone seat, + Beneath a blossoming lime, + The man watched it. + And the spray pattered + On the dim grass at his feet. + + The fountain tossed its water, + Up and up, like silver marbles. + Is that an arm he sees? + And for one moment + Does he catch the moving curve + Of a thigh? + The fountain gurgled and splashed, + And the man's face was wet. + + Is it singing that he hears? + A song of playing at ball? + The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, + And through it he sees a woman, + Tossing the water-balls. + Her breasts point outwards, + And the nipples are like buds of peonies. + Her flanks ripple as she plays, + And the water is not more undulating + Than the lines of her body. + + "Come," she sings, "Poet! + Am I not more worth than your day ladies, + Covered with awkward stuffs, + Unreal, unbeautiful? + What do you fear in taking me? + Is not the night for poets? + I am your dream, + Recurrent as water, + Gemmed with the moon!" + + She steps to the edge of the pool + And the water runs, rustling, down her sides. + She stretches out her arms, + And the fountain streams behind her + Like an opened veil. + + * * * * * + + In the morning the gardeners came to their work. + "There is something in the fountain," said one. + They shuddered as they laid their dead master + On the grass. + "I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, + "It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun." + + + + +The Basket + + + + I + + The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, + in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into + the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air + is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + + See how the roof glitters, like ice! + + Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand + two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. + + + See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. + She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, + between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper + as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", + what a title for a book! + + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. + + + He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating + his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits + on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. + And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, + and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. + + "It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. + How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters + like ice. + + + II + + Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. + The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter + to pay his morning's work with a holiday. + + "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" + + Peter jumps through the window. + + "Dear, are you alone?" + + "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread + is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have + seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" + + The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, + at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, + and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with + so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds + new-opened on their stems. + + + Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. + + "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. + My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little + pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. + The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes + are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do + any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down + and amuse me while I rest." + + The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb + the opposite wall. + + + Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, + and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, + where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. + + The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. + + + He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. + His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room + is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands + the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour + on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs + his name. + + "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." + + And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. + + There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. + + + III + + "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." + + "How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, + I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write + `No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, + that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage + strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied + the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, + you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. + Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot + feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." + + "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will + crush your heart and squeeze the love out." + + He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." + + "Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must + have sight! I _must_!" + + The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, + the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman + by a silver thread. + + + They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there + are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased + in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket + is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. + They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce + over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting + on the window-sill, eating human eyes. + + The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines + like ice. + + + IV + + How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, + and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, + and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them + burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". + + The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? + Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" + + The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, + bounces over and disappears. + + The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. + + + V + + The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow + the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. + + A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, + and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. + + + Annette! + + + + +In a Castle + + + + I + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- + fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, + and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops. + + + The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim, + in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinks + the rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes + the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewise + out from the wall, and then falls back again. + + + It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly. + He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling. + The fire flutters and drops. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops. + He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor. + Outside, the wind goes wailing. + + + The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above, + in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shivers + in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame. + She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her. + + How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips! + + + It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet, + and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms, + and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms + her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself + beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble. + + Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, + terribly abhorred? + + + He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinks + on the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pure + and whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him, + for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes her + by the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord, + and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn, + shriven by her great love. + + Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. + The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall. + + + The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters. + Will the lady lose courage and not come? + + The rain claps on a loosened rafter. + + Is that laughter? + + + The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters. + One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rain + which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries + which chatters? + + The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall + the arras is blown! + + + Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds. + By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and + clasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form + and flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire, + which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noise + never stops. + + Drip--hiss--the rain drops. + + + He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door. + + + II + + The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. + For the storm never stops. + + On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, + grey air. Drip--hiss--fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. + The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. + A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along + the rush mat. + + A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. + It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life + for the high favour." + + Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, + "Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded + necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, + she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, + you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, + they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, + I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck + to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." + The end was a splashed flourish of ink. + + Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. + The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering + in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair. + + + Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- + fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops. + + The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. + Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. + Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold. + + + III + + In the castle church you may see them stand, + Two sumptuous tombs on either hand + Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand + In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, + A crusader, come from the Holy Land, + Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. + The page's name became a brand + For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, + After having been burnt by royal command. + + + + +The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + + + + The Bell in the convent tower swung. + High overhead the great sun hung, + A navel for the curving sky. + The air was a blue clarity. + Swallows flew, + And a cock crew. + + The iron clanging sank through the light air, + Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare + Of spotted green, and a snake had gone + Into the bed where the snowdrops shone + In green new-started, + Their white bells parted. + + Two by two, in a long brown line, + The nuns were walking to breathe the fine + Bright April air. They must go in soon + And work at their tasks all the afternoon. + But this time is theirs! + They walk in pairs. + + First comes the Abbess, preoccupied + And slow, as a woman often tried, + With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. + Then younger and younger, until the last one + Has a laugh on her lips, + And fairly skips. + + They wind about the gravel walks + And all the long line buzzes and talks. + They step in time to the ringing bell, + With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well + In the core of a sky + Domed silverly. + + Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." + Sister Angelique said she must get her spud + And free the earth round the jasmine roots. + Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! + There's a crocus up, + With a purple cup." + + But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, + She looked up and down the old grey wall + To see if a lizard were basking there. + She looked across the garden to where + A sycamore + Flanked the garden door. + + She was restless, although her little feet danced, + And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced + Her morning's work had hung in her mind + And would not take form. She could not find + The beautifulness + For the Virgin's dress. + + Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? + Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? + Should it be banded with yellow and white + Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? + Or a crimson sheen + Over some sort of green? + + But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new + In all the garden, no single hue + So lovely or so marvellous + That its use would not seem impious. + So on she walked, + And the others talked. + + Sister Elisabeth edged away + From what her companion had to say, + For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, + She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. + She did plain stitching + And worked in the kitchen. + + "Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, + I told her so this Friday past. + I must speak to her before Compline." + Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. + The other nun sighed, + With her pleasure quite dried. + + Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: + "The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. + The little white cups bent over the ground, + And in among the light stems wound + A crested snake, + With his eyes awake. + + His body was green with a metal brightness + Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, + And all down his curling length were disks, + Evil vermilion asterisks, + They paled and flooded + As wounds fresh-blooded. + + His crest was amber glittered with blue, + And opaque so the sun came shining through. + It seemed a crown with fiery points. + When he quivered all down his scaly joints, + From every slot + The sparkles shot. + + The nuns huddled tightly together, fear + Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer + More closely at the beautiful snake, + She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make + Colours so rare, + The dress were there. + + The Abbess shook off her lethargy. + "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. + Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, + The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. + Only Clotilde + Was the last to yield. + + When the recreation hour was done + Each went in to her task. Alone + In the library, with its great north light, + Clotilde wrought at an exquisite + Wreath of flowers + For her Book of Hours. + + She twined the little crocus blooms + With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms + Of laurel leaves were interwoven + With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven + Fritillaries, + Whose colour varies. + + They framed the picture she had made, + Half-delighted and half-afraid. + In a courtyard with a lozenged floor + The Virgin watched, and through the arched door + The angel came + Like a springing flame. + + His wings were dipped in violet fire, + His limbs were strung to holy desire. + He lowered his head and passed under the arch, + And the air seemed beating a solemn march. + The Virgin waited + With eyes dilated. + + Her face was quiet and innocent, + And beautiful with her strange assent. + A silver thread about her head + Her halo was poised. But in the stead + Of her gown, there remained + The vellum, unstained. + + Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, + Lingering over each tint and dye. + She could spend great pains, now she had seen + That curious, unimagined green. + A colour so strange + It had seemed to change. + + She thought it had altered while she gazed. + At first it had been simple green; then glazed + All over with twisting flames, each spot + A molten colour, trembling and hot, + And every eye + Seemed to liquefy. + + She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. + After all, she had only glanced + At that wonderful snake, and she must know + Just what hues made the creature throw + Those splashes and sprays + Of prismed rays. + + When evening prayers were sung and said, + The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. + And soon in the convent there was no light, + For the moon did not rise until late that night, + Only the shine + Of the lamp at the shrine. + + Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. + Her heart shook her body with its beats. + She could not see till the moon should rise, + So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes + On the window-square + Till light should be there. + + The faintest shadow of a branch + Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch + With solemn purpose, softly rose + And fluttered down between the rows + Of sleeping nuns. + She almost runs. + + She must go out through the little side door + Lest the nuns who were always praying before + The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. + She pushed the bolts, and over the grass + The red moon's brim + Mounted its rim. + + Her shadow crept up the convent wall + As she swiftly left it, over all + The garden lay the level glow + Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. + The gravel glistened. + She stopped and listened. + + It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. + She laughed a little, but she felt queerer + Than ever before. The snowdrop bed + Was reached and she bent down her head. + On the striped ground + The snake was wound. + + For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, + Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. + She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. + She darted her hand out, and seized the thick + Wriggling slime, + Only just in time. + + The old gardener came muttering down the path, + And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, + And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. + He bit her, but what difference did that make! + The Virgin should dress + In his loveliness. + + The gardener was covering his new-set plants + For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts + Your lover of growing things. He spied + Something to do and turned aside, + And the moonlight streamed + On Clotilde, and gleamed. + + His business finished the gardener rose. + He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows + A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she + Grasping him, laughing, while quietly + Her eyes are weeping. + Is he sleeping? + + He thinks it is some holy vision, + Brushes that aside and with decision + Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, + Crushes his spine, and then with quick, + Urgent command + Takes her hand. + + The gardener sucks the poison and spits, + Cursing and praying as befits + A poor old man half out of his wits. + "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's + Hatched of a devil + And very evil. + + It's one of them horrid basilisks + You read about. They say a man risks + His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it + Out by now. Lucky I chucked it + Away from you. + I guess you'll do." + + "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast + Was sent to me, to me the least + Worthy in all our convent, so I + Could finish my picture of the Most High + And Holy Queen, + In her dress of green. + + He is dead now, but his colours won't fade + At once, and by noon I shall have made + The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see + How kindly the moon shines down on me! + I can't die yet, + For the task was set." + + "You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," + Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. + If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,--" + "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." + So Clotilde vented + Her creed. He repented. + + "He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. + "Paint as much as you like." And gingerly + He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde + Thanked him, and begged that he would shield + Her secret, though itching + To talk in the kitchen. + + The gardener promised, not very pleased, + And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, + Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon + Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon + In her bed she lay + And waited for day. + + At dawn's first saffron-spired warning + Clotilde was up. And all that morning, + Except when she went to the chapel to pray, + She painted, and when the April day + Was hot with sun, + Clotilde had done. + + Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud + At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed + To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. + A lady, in excellence arrayed, + And wonder-souled. + Christ's Blessed Mould! + + From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, + But her eyes were starred like those of a saint + Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. + A sudden clamour hurled its rude + Force to break + Her vision awake. + + The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed + By the multitude of nuns. They hushed + When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, + Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. + And all the hive + Buzzed "She's alive!" + + Old Francois had told. He had found the strain + Of silence too great, and preferred the pain + Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, + And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. + For Francois, to spite them, + Had not seen fit to right them. + + The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, + Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, + Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, + To spare you while you imaged her face? + How could we have guessed + Our convent so blessed! + + A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! + To have you die! And I, who am + A hollow, living shell, the grave + Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave + To be taken, Dear Mother, + Instead of this other." + + She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, + With anguished hands and tears delayed + To a painful slowness. The minutes drew + To fractions. Then the west wind blew + The sound of a bell, + On a gusty swell. + + It came skipping over the slates of the roof, + And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof + To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. + The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. + And the sun lit the flowers + In Clotilde's Book of Hours. + + It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress + And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, + Pulse and start; and the violet wings + Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. + The book seemed a choir + Of rainbow fire. + + The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun + Did the same, then one by one, + They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers + Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. + Clotilde, the Inspired! + + She only felt tired. + + * * * * * + + The old chronicles say she did not die + Until heavy with years. And that is why + There hangs in the convent church a basket + Of osiered silver, a holy casket, + And treasured therein + A dried snake-skin. + + + + +The Exeter Road + + + + Panels of claret and blue which shine + Under the moon like lees of wine. + A coronet done in a golden scroll, + And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll + Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. + They daren't look back! + + They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! + What brutes men are when they think they're scored. + Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, + In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see + That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, + Hop about and slue. + + They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. + For my lord has a casket full of rolls + Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. + I laugh to think how he'll show his scars + In London to-morrow. He whines with rage + In his varnished cage. + + My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. + 'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. + But I shall relieve her of them yet, + When I see she limps in the minuet + I must beg to celebrate this night, + And the green moonlight. + + There's nothing to hurry about, the plain + Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. + My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, + In half an hour I'll bag the coins. + 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. + The chase is the thing! + + How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon + Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune + Is beating out of the curses and screams, + And the cracking all through the painted seams. + Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. + 'Tis a rare fine night! + + There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, + And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. + It seems a shame to break the air + In two with this pistol, but I've my share + Of drudgery like other men. + His hat? Amen! + + Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! + Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, + Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. + 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. + A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! + They'll get me, of course. + + The cursed coach will reach the town + And they'll all come out, every loafer grown + A lion to handcuff a man that's down. + What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! + I'll give it a head to fit it pat. + Thank you! No cravat. + + + _They handcuffed the body just for style, + And they hung him in chains for the volatile + Wind to scour him flesh from bones. + Way out on the moor you can hear the groans + His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. + 'Tis a common tale._ + + + + +The Shadow + + + + Paul Jannes was working very late, + For this watch must be done by eight + To-morrow or the Cardinal + Would certainly be vexed. Of all + His customers the old prelate + Was the most important, for his state + Descended to his watches and rings, + And he gave his mistresses many things + To make them forget his age and smile + When he paid visits, and they could while + The time away with a diamond locket + Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, + And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. + This watch was made to buy him blisses + From an Austrian countess on her way + Home, and she meant to start next day. + + + Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame + Of a tallow candle, and became + So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince + Striking the hour a moment since. + Its echo, only half apprehended, + Lingered about the room. He ended + Screwing the little rubies in, + Setting the wheels to lock and spin, + Curling the infinitesimal springs, + Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings + Of precious stones lay strewn about. + The table before him was a rout + Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. + There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite + A heap of emeralds, and steel. + Here was a gem, there was a wheel. + And glasses lay like limpid lakes + Shining and still, and there were flakes + Of silver, and shavings of pearl, + And little wires all awhirl + With the light of the candle. He took the watch + And wound its hands about to match + The time, then glanced up to take the hour + From the hanging clock. + Good, Merciful Power! + How came that shadow on the wall, + No woman was in the room! His tall + Chiffonier stood gaunt behind + His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, + Hung from a peg. The door was closed. + Just for a moment he must have dozed. + He looked again, and saw it plain. + The silhouette made a blue-black stain + On the opposite wall, and it never wavered + Even when the candle quavered + Under his panting breath. What made + That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade + Of something so lovely, so exquisite, + Cast from a substance which the sight + Had not been tutored to perceive? + Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve. + + Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall + Gleamed black, and never moved at all. + + + Paul's watches were like amulets, + Wrought into patterns and rosettes; + The cases were all set with stones, + And wreathing lines, and shining zones. + He knew the beauty in a curve, + And the Shadow tortured every nerve + With its perfect rhythm of outline + Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine + Was the neck he knew he could have spanned + It about with the fingers of one hand. + The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, + But could not see, the lips were pressed + Loosely together, the edges close, + And the proud and delicate line of the nose + Melted into a brow, and there + Broke into undulant waves of hair. + The lady was edged with the stamp of race. + A singular vision in such a place. + + + He moved the candle to the tall + Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. + He threw his cloak upon a chair, + And still the lady's face was there. + From every corner of the room + He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom + That was the lady. Her violet bloom + Was almost brighter than that which came + From his candle's tulip-flame. + He set the filigree hands; he laid + The watch in the case which he had made; + He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed + His candle out. The room seemed stuffed + With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, + And let himself out through the door. + + + The sun was flashing from every pin + And wheel, when Paul let himself in. + The whitewashed walls were hot with light. + The room was the core of a chrysolite, + Burning and shimmering with fiery might. + The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall + From the furniture upon the wall. + Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space + Where a glare usurped the lady's place. + He settled himself to his work, but his mind + Wandered, and he would wake to find + His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, + And nothing advanced beyond the rim + Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay + For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. + But Paul could hardly touch the gold, + It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. + With the first twilight he struck a match + And watched the little blue stars hatch + Into an egg of perfect flame. + He lit his candle, and almost in shame + At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. + The Shadow was there, and its precise + Outline etched the cold, white wall. + The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, + There's something the matter with your brain. + Go home now and sleep off the strain." + + + The next day was a storm, the rain + Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. + A grey and shadowless morning filled + The little shop. The watches, chilled, + Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. + The gems lay on the table like shoals + Of stranded shells, their colours faded, + Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. + Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed + No orders, for his fancy strayed. + His work became a simple round + Of watches repaired and watches wound. + The slanting ribbons of the rain + Broke themselves on the window-pane, + But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. + Only when the candle was lit + And on the wall just opposite + He watched again the coming of _it_, + Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul + And over his hands regain control. + + + Paul lingered late in his shop that night + And the designs which his delight + Sketched on paper seemed to be + A tribute offered wistfully + To the beautiful shadow of her who came + And hovered over his candle flame. + In the morning he selected all + His perfect jacinths. One large opal + Hung like a milky, rainbow moon + In the centre, and blown in loose festoon + The red stones quivered on silver threads + To the outer edge, where a single, fine + Band of mother-of-pearl the line + Completed. On the other side, + The creamy porcelain of the face + Bore diamond hours, and no lace + Of cotton or silk could ever be + Tossed into being more airily + Than the filmy golden hands; the time + Seemed to tick away in rhyme. + When, at dusk, the Shadow grew + Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. + Holding the watch, he spoke to her: + "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir + Into one brief sign of being. + Turn your eyes this way, and seeing + This watch, made from those sweet curves + Where your hair from your forehead swerves, + Accept the gift which I have wrought + With your fairness in my thought. + Grant me this, and I shall be + Honoured overwhelmingly." + + The Shadow rested black and still, + And the wind sighed over the window-sill. + + + Paul put the despised watch away + And laid out before him his array + Of stones and metals, and when the morning + Struck the stones to their best adorning, + He chose the brightest, and this new watch + Was so light and thin it seemed to catch + The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. + Topazes ran in a foamy stream + Over the cover, the hands were studded + With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. + The face was of crystal, and engraved + Upon it the figures flashed and waved + With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. + It took a week to make, and his trysts + At night with the Shadow were his alone. + Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. + The night that the jewel was worthy to give. + Paul watched the long hours of daylight live + To the faintest streak; then lit his light, + And sharp against the wall's pure white + The outline of the Shadow started + Into form. His burning-hearted + Words so long imprisoned swelled + To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, + He told the lady all his love, + And holding out the watch above + His head, he knelt, imploring some + Littlest sign. + The Shadow was dumb. + + + Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, + And everything he made he placed + Before his lady. The Shadow kept + Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. + He wooed her with the work of his hands, + He waited for those dear commands + She never gave. No word, no motion, + Eased the ache of his devotion. + His days passed in a strain of toil, + His nights burnt up in a seething coil. + Seasons shot by, uncognisant + He worked. The Shadow came to haunt + Even his days. Sometimes quite plain + He saw on the wall the blackberry stain + Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright + Enough to dazzle that from his sight. + + + There were moments when he groaned to see + His life spilled out so uselessly, + Begging for boons the Shade refused, + His finest workmanship abused, + The iridescent bubbles he blew + Into lovely existence, poor and few + In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse + Himself and her! The Universe! + And more, the beauty he could not make, + And give her, for her comfort's sake! + He would beat his weary, empty hands + Upon the table, would hold up strands + Of silver and gold, and ask her why + She scorned the best which he could buy. + He would pray as to some high-niched saint, + That she would cure him of the taint + Of failure. He would clutch the wall + With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall + He could catch, and hold her, and make her live! + With sobs he would ask her to forgive + All he had done. And broken, spent, + He would call himself impertinent; + Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven + To madness by the sight of Heaven. + At other times he would take the things + He had made, and winding them on strings, + Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes, + Chanting strangely, while the fumes + Wreathed and blotted the shadow face, + As with a cloudy, nacreous lace. + There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed + In tenderness, spoke to his bride, + Urged her to patience, said his skill + Should break the spell. A man's sworn will + Could compass life, even that, he knew. + By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true! + + The edge of the Shadow never blurred. + The lips of the Shadow never stirred. + + + He would climb on chairs to reach her lips, + And pat her hair with his finger-tips. + But instead of young, warm flesh returning + His warmth, the wall was cold and burning + Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled, + Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed + At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick, + He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick + Phantasmagoria crowded his brain, + And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain. + The crisis passed, he would wake and smile + With a vacant joy, half-imbecile + And quite confused, not being certain + Why he was suffering; a curtain + Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled + His sorrow. Like a little child + He would play with his watches and gems, with glee + Calling the Shadow to look and see + How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily + When he flashed his stones. "Mother, the green + Has slid so cunningly in between + The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!" + Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown, + He would get up slowly from his play + And walk round the room, feeling his way + From table to chair, from chair to door, + Stepping over the cracks in the floor, + Till reaching the table again, her face + Would bring recollection, and no solace + Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness + Stifled him and his great distress. + + + One morning he threw the street door wide + On coming in, and his vigorous stride + Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. + In his hands he carried a new-burst clump + Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks + Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks + To the wife he left an hour ago, + Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know + To-day the calendar calls it Spring, + And I woke this morning gathering + Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. + So I rushed out to see what flowers blew + Their pink-and-purple-scented souls + Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, + And made the approach to the Market Square + A garden with smells and sunny air. + I feel so well and happy to-day, + I think I shall take a Holiday. + And to-night we will have a little treat. + I am going to bring you something to eat!" + He looked at the Shadow anxiously. + It was quite grave and silent. He + Shut the outer door and came + And leant against the window-frame. + "Dearest," he said, "we live apart + Although I bear you in my heart. + We look out each from a different world. + At any moment we may be hurled + Asunder. They follow their orbits, we + Obey their laws entirely. + Now you must come, or I go there, + Unless we are willing to live the flare + Of a lighted instant and have it gone." + + A bee in the laurels began to drone. + A loosened petal fluttered prone. + + "Man grows by eating, if you eat + You will be filled with our life, sweet + Will be our planet in your mouth. + If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth + Until I gain to where you are, + And give you myself in whatever star + May happen. O You Beloved of Me! + Is it not ordered cleverly?" + + The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, + Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. + + + Paul slipped away as the dusk began + To dim the little shop. He ran + To the nearest inn, and chose with care + As much as his thin purse could bear. + As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking + Of the sacred wafer, and through the making + Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers + That God will bless this labour of theirs; + So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, + Purchased the best which he could buy. + Returning, he brushed his tools aside, + And laid across the table a wide + Napkin. He put a glass and plate + On either side, in duplicate. + Over the lady's, excellent + With loveliness, the laurels bent. + In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, + And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood + Was the wine which should bring the lustihood + Of human life to his lady's veins. + When all was ready, all which pertains + To a simple meal was there, with eyes + Lit by the joy of his great emprise, + He reverently bade her come, + And forsake for him her distant home. + He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, + And waited what should come to pass. + + The Shadow lay quietly on the wall. + From the street outside came a watchman's call + "A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall." + + And still he waited. The clock's slow tick + Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick. + + He filled his own glass full of wine; + From his pocket he took a paper. The twine + Was knotted, and he searched a knife + From his jumbled tools. The cord of life + Snapped as he cut the little string. + He knew that he must do the thing + He feared. He shook powder into the wine, + And holding it up so the candle's shine + Sparked a ruby through its heart, + He drank it. "Dear, never apart + Again! You have said it was mine to do. + It is done, and I am come to you!" + + + Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall, + And held out his arms. The insentient wall + Stared down at him with its cold, white glare + Unstained! The Shadow was not there! + Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat. + He felt the veins in his body bloat, + And the hot blood run like fire and stones + Along the sides of his cracking bones. + But he laughed as he staggered towards the door, + And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor. + + + + The Coroner took the body away, + And the watches were sold that Saturday. + The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy + Such watches, and the prices were high. + + + + +The Forsaken + + + + Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come + from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such + far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused. + I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause! + + + Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear + be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped + it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame, + just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, + and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die? + + + That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not + be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry. + Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child + alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face + the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled + for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did. + Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me! + + + I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "whore", + and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have + the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman, + he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, + what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, + Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman + must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing. + I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign. + What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never + feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have. + Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! + + + He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good + a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school + in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, + so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, + out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, + I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, + I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, + take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came. + No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months. + To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother. + She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born + for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away! + Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! + + + And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl. + Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known + my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, + and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, + and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, + I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another. + I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! + + + So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart + where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be + quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me. + What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues + when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby, + when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, + his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, + and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels + to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings? + I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem + just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother. + He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, + but give me strength to bring him up to be a man. + + + + +Late September + + + + Tang of fruitage in the air; + Red boughs bursting everywhere; + Shimmering of seeded grass; + Hooded gentians all a'mass. + + Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind + Tearing off the husky rind, + Blowing feathered seeds to fall + By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. + + Beech trees in a golden haze; + Hardy sumachs all ablaze, + Glowing through the silver birches. + How that pine tree shouts and lurches! + + From the sunny door-jamb high, + Swings the shell of a butterfly. + Scrape of insect violins + Through the stubble shrilly dins. + + Every blade's a minaret + Where a small muezzin's set, + Loudly calling us to pray + At the miracle of day. + + Then the purple-lidded night + Westering comes, her footsteps light + Guided by the radiant boon + Of a sickle-shaped new moon. + + + + +The Pike + + + + In the brown water, + Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, + Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, + A pike dozed. + Lost among the shadows of stems + He lay unnoticed. + Suddenly he flicked his tail, + And a green-and-copper brightness + Ran under the water. + + Out from under the reeds + Came the olive-green light, + And orange flashed up + Through the sun-thickened water. + So the fish passed across the pool, + Green and copper, + A darkness and a gleam, + And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank + Received it. + + + + +The Blue Scarf + + + + Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded + In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, + it lies there, + Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. + Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! + A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down + on my face, + And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim + in cool-tinted heavens. + Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. + Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. + A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied + Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, + Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf + On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. + She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath + her slight stirring. + Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel + Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to + a handful of cinders, + And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. + + How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone! + + + + +White and Green + + + + Hey! My daffodil-crowned, + Slim and without sandals! + As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness + So my eyeballs are startled with you, + Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, + Light runner through tasselled orchards. + You are an almond flower unsheathed + Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. + + + + +Aubade + + + + As I would free the white almond from the green husk + So would I strip your trappings off, + Beloved. + And fingering the smooth and polished kernel + I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. + + + + +Music + + + + The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute. + From my bed I can hear him, + And the round notes flutter and tap about the room, + And hit against each other, + Blurring to unexpected chords. + It is very beautiful, + With the little flute-notes all about me, + In the darkness. + + In the daytime, + The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand + And copies music with the other. + He is fat and has a bald head, + So I do not look at him, + But run quickly past his window. + There is always the sky to look at, + Or the water in the well! + + But when night comes and he plays his flute, + I think of him as a young man, + With gold seals hanging from his watch, + And a blue coat with silver buttons. + As I lie in my bed + The flute-notes push against my ears and lips, + And I go to sleep, dreaming. + + + + +A Lady + + + + You are beautiful and faded + Like an old opera tune + Played upon a harpsichord; + Or like the sun-flooded silks + Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. + In your eyes + Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, + And the perfume of your soul + Is vague and suffusing, + With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. + Your half-tones delight me, + And I grow mad with gazing + At your blent colours. + + My vigour is a new-minted penny, + Which I cast at your feet. + Gather it up from the dust, + That its sparkle may amuse you. + + + + +In a Garden + + + + Gushing from the mouths of stone men + To spread at ease under the sky + In granite-lipped basins, + Where iris dabble their feet + And rustle to a passing wind, + The water fills the garden with its rushing, + In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. + + Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, + Where trickle and plash the fountains, + Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. + + Splashing down moss-tarnished steps + It falls, the water; + And the air is throbbing with it. + With its gurgling and running. + With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. + + And I wished for night and you. + I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, + White and shining in the silver-flecked water. + While the moon rode over the garden, + High in the arch of night, + And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. + + Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! + + + + +A Tulip Garden + + + + Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, + Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, + The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry + Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace + Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! + Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, + With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye + Of purple batteries, every gun in place. + Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, + With torches burning, stepping out in time + To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, + We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime + Parades that army. With our utmost powers + We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +Notes: + + + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + Originally: After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + + A Blockhead: + "There are non, ever. As a monk who prays" + changed to: + "There are none, ever. As a monk who prays" + + A Tale of Starvation: + "And he neither eat nor drank." + changed to: + "And he neither ate nor drank." + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck: + Stanza headings were originally Roman Numerals. + + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde: + The following names are presented in this etext sans accents: + Marguerite, Angelique, Veronique, Franc,ois. + +The following unconnected lines in the etext are presented sans accents: + + The factory of Sevres had lent + Strange winged dragons writhe about + And rich perfumed smells + A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. + And terror-winged steps. His heart began + On the striped ground + + +Some books by Amy Lowell: + + + Poetry: + A Critical Fable + * A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912) + * Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) + * Men, Women and Ghosts (1916) + Can Grande's Castle (1918) + Pictures of the Floating World (1919) + Legends (1921) + What's O'Clock (1925) + East Wind + Ballads For Sale + + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese (1921) + + + Prose: + John Keats + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature (1915) + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917) + +* Now available online from Project Gutenberg. + + + + +About the author: + +From the notes to "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), +edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. + + +Lowell, Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874. Educated at +private schools. Author of "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass", 1912; +"Sword Blades and Poppy Seed", 1914; "Men, Women and Ghosts", 1916; "Can +Grande's Castle", 1918; "Pictures of the Floating World", 1919. Editor +of the three successive collections of "Some Imagist Poets", 1915, '16, +and '17, containing the early work of the "Imagist School" of which Miss +Lowell became the leader. This movement,... originated in England, +the idea have been first conceived by a young poet named T. E. Hulme, +but developed and put forth by Ezra Pound in an article called "Don'ts +by an Imagist", which appeared in `Poetry; A Magazine of Verse'. ... +A small group of poets gathered about Mr. Pound, experimenting along the +technical lines suggested, and a cult of "Imagism" was formed, whose +first group-expression was in the little volume, "Des Imagistes", +published in New York in April, 1914. Miss Lowell did not come actively +into the movement until after that time, but once she had entered it, +she became its leader, and it was chiefly through her effort in America +that the movement attained so much prominence and so influenced the +trend of poetry for the years immediately succeeding. Miss Lowell many +times, in admirable articles, stated the principles upon which Imagism +is based, notably in the Preface to "Some Imagist Poets" and in the +Preface to the second series, in 1916. She also elaborated it much more +fully in her volume, "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry", 1917, in +the articles pertaining to the work of "H.D." and John Gould Fletcher. +In her own creative work, however, Miss Lowell did most to establish the +possibilities of the Imagistic idea and of its modes of presentation, +and opened up many interesting avenues of poetic form. Her volume, "Can +Grande's Castle", is devoted to work in the medium which she styled +"Polyphonic Prose" and contains some of her finest work, particularly +"The Bronze Horses". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED *** + +***** This file should be named 1020.txt or 1020.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1020/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light + +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. 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Light (alight@mercury.interpath.net). +The original text was entered (manually) twice, and electronically compared +to ensure as clean a copy as practicable. + + + + +Sword Blades and Poppy Seed +by Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas or sections are marked by tildes (~). +Other italics are capitalized. Lines longer than 78 characters +have been cut and continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces +unless in a prose poem.] + + + + +Sword Blades and Poppy Seed +by Amy Lowell + + + + + +~"Face invisible! je t'ai grave/e en me/dailles +D'argent doux comme l'aube pa^le, +D'or ardent comme le soleil, +D'airain sombre comme la nuit; +Il y en a de tout me/tal, +Qui tintent clair comme la joie, +Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, +Comme l'amour, comme la mort; +Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile +Se\che et fragile. + +"Une a\ une, vous les comptiez en souriant, +Et vous disiez: Il est habile; +Et vous passiez en souriant. + +"Aucun de vous n'a donc vu +Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, +Que tout le grand songe terrestre +Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux +Que je gravais aux me/taux pieux, +Mes Dieux."~ + + Henri de Re/gnier, "Les Me/dailles d'Argile". + + + + + +Preface + + + +No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, +but there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, +and that his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. +As a matter of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, +and with the same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. +His heart may overflow with high thoughts and sparkling fancies, +but if he cannot convey them to his reader by means of the written word +he has no claim to be considered a poet. A workman may be pardoned, +therefore, for spending a few moments to explain and describe +the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot stand +an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing. + +In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not +try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty, +even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not ask the trees +to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army feels it necessary +to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are ridiculous, +but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral +all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only ridiculous, +but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half understand, +and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we are +from "admitting the Universe"! The Universe, which flings down +its continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much +a function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of Gravitation; +and we insist upon considering it merely a little scroll-work, +of no great importance unless it be studded with nails from which +pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung! + +For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the French, +and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, +although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong to it. +High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains +to produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. +Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once +an inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day +has a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. +These clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. +Before the works of Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, +and Jose/-Maria de Heredia, or those of Henri de Re/gnier, Albert Samain, +Francis Jammes, Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, +we stand rebuked. Indeed -- "They order this matter better in France." + +It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a thing, +that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a vigorous tree has +the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with originality and power +is always seeking to give his readers the same poignant feeling which +he has himself. To do this he must constantly find new and striking images, +delightful and unexpected forms. Take the word "daybreak", for instance. +What a remarkable picture it must once have conjured up! +The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty egg, BREAKING through +cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said "daybreak" so often +that we do not see the picture any more, it has become only +another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking new pictures +to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought. + +Many of the poems in this volume are written in what +the French call "Vers Libre", a nomenclature more suited +to French use and to French versification than to ours. I prefer to call them +poems in "unrhymed cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning +to an English ear. They are built upon "organic rhythm", +or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its necessity for breathing, +rather than upon a strict metrical system. They differ from +ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, and containing more stress. +The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular metre +is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more subtle, +but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping +prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is constructed upon +mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface +to his "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in which +I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme." +The desire to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion +until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, +and certainly "unrhymed cadence" is unique in its power of expressing this. + +Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, +has never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, +and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and satisfactory. +Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to English. +But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems +could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now verse, +and permitting a great variety of treatment. + +But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned +the more classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners +suit certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative +for an author to employ no others. Schools are for those +who can confine themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me +that I cannot. + +In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many questions +asked me by people who have happened to read some of these poems +in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling criticism, +nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the beginning, solely with +the question of technique. For the more important part of the book, +the poems must speak for themselves. + + Amy Lowell. +May 19, 1914. + + + + + +Contents + + + + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + +Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + + + Sword Blades + +The Captured Goddess +The Precinct. Rochester +The Cyclists +Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window +A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. +Astigmatism +The Coal Picker +Storm-Racked +Convalescence +Patience +Apology +A Petition +A Blockhead +Stupidity +Irony +Happiness +The Last Quarter of the Moon +A Tale of Starvation +The Foreigner +Absence +A Gift +The Bungler +Fool's Money Bags +Miscast I +Miscast II +Anticipation +Vintage +The Tree of Scarlet Berries +Obligation +The Taxi +The Giver of Stars +The Temple +Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success +In Answer to a Request + + + Poppy Seed + +The Great Adventure of Max Breuck +Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris +After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok +Clear, with Light, Variable Winds +The Basket +In a Castle +The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde +The Exeter Road +The Shadow +The Forsaken +Late September +The Pike +The Blue Scarf +White and Green +Aubade +Music +A Lady +In a Garden +A Tulip Garden + + + + + + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + --------------------------- + + + + + +Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + + + +A drifting, April, twilight sky, +A wind which blew the puddles dry, +And slapped the river into waves +That ran and hid among the staves +Of an old wharf. A watery light +Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white +Without the slightest tinge of gold, +The city shivered in the cold. +All day my thoughts had lain as dead, +Unborn and bursting in my head. +From time to time I wrote a word +Which lines and circles overscored. +My table seemed a graveyard, full +Of coffins waiting burial. +I seized these vile abortions, tore +Them into jagged bits, and swore +To be the dupe of hope no more. +Into the evening straight I went, +Starved of a day's accomplishment. +Unnoticing, I wandered where +The city gave a space for air, +And on the bridge's parapet +I leant, while pallidly there set +A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. +Behind me, where the tramways run, +Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, +When someone plucked me by the sleeve. +"Your pardon, Sir, but I should be +Most grateful could you lend to me +A carfare, I have lost my purse." +The voice was clear, concise, and terse. +I turned and met the quiet gaze +Of strange eyes flashing through the haze. + +The man was old and slightly bent, +Under his cloak some instrument +Disarranged its stately line, +He rested on his cane a fine +And nervous hand, an almandine +Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine +It burned in twisted gold, upon +His finger. Like some Spanish don, +Conferring favours even when +Asking an alms, he bowed again +And waited. But my pockets proved +Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, +No hidden penny lurking there +Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare +I have no money, pray forgive, +But let me take you where you live." +And so we plodded through the mire +Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. +I took no note of where we went, +His talk became the element +Wherein my being swam, content. +It flashed like rapiers in the night +Lit by uncertain candle-light, +When on some moon-forsaken sward +A quarrel dies upon a sword. +It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, +And the noise in the air the broad words made +Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane +On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. +Then it would run like a steady stream +Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, +Or lap the air like the lapping tide +Where a marble staircase lifts its wide +Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, +And a waning moon is sinking straight +Down to a black and ominous sea, +While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. + +I walked as though some opiate +Had stung and dulled my brain, a state +Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. +We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. +The old man scratched a match, the spark +Lit up the keyhole of a door, +We entered straight upon a floor +White with finest powdered sand +Carefully sifted, one might stand +Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace +Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. +From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, +And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. +My host threw pine-cones on the fire +And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre +Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. +The chamber opened like an eye, +As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky +The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy +It peered at the stranger warily. +A little shop with its various ware +Spread on shelves with nicest care. +Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, +Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots +Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, +Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. +Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, +Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. +In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned +Against the wall, like ships careened. +There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, +The carved, white figures fluttering there +Like leaves adrift upon the air. +Classic in touch, but emasculate, +The Greek soul grown effeminate. +The factory of Sevres had lent +Elegant boxes with ornament +Culled from gardens where fountains splashed +And golden carp in the shadows flashed, +Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, +Which ladies threw as the last of fads. +Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, +Hand on heart, and daintily spelt +Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, +Artificial and fragile, which told aright +The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. +The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs +Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs +Endlessly drank the foaming ale, +Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. +The glancing light of the burning wood +Played over a group of jars which stood +On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky +Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry +To paint these porcelains with unknown hues +Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, +Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen +Their colours are felt, but never seen. +Strange winged dragons writhe about +These vases, poisoned venoms spout, +Impregnate with old Chinese charms; +Sealed urns containing mortal harms, +They fill the mind with thoughts impure, +Pestilent drippings from the ure +Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," +Said I, "you deal in pottery." +The old man turned and looked at me. +Shook his head gently. "No," said he. + +Then from under his cloak he took the thing +Which I had wondered to see him bring +Guarded so carefully from sight. +As he laid it down it flashed in the light, +A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, +Damascened with arabesques of gilt, +Or rather gold, and tempered so +It could cut a floating thread at a blow. +The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, +'Twas a little careless to have it beneath +My cloak, for a jostle to my arm +Would have resulted in serious harm. +But it was so fine, I could not wait, +So I brought it with me despite its state." +"An amateur of arms," I thought, +"Bringing home a prize which he has bought." +"You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" +"Not in the way which you infer. +I need them in business, that is all." +And he pointed his finger at the wall. +Then I saw what I had not noticed before. +The walls were hung with at least five score +Of swords and daggers of every size +Which nations of militant men could devise. +Poisoned spears from tropic seas, +That natives, under banana trees, +Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. +Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make +And tip with feathers, orange and green, +A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. +High up, a fan of glancing steel +Was formed of claymores in a wheel. +Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees +Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these +Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, +Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. +There were Samurai swords from old Japan, +And scimitars from Hindoostan, +While the blade of a Turkish yataghan +Made a waving streak of vitreous white +Upon the wall, in the firelight. +Foils with buttons broken or lost +Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed +The boarding-pike of a privateer. +Against the chimney leaned a queer +Two-handed weapon, with edges dull +As though from hacking on a skull. +The rusted blood corroded it still. +My host took up a paper spill +From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, +And lighted it at a burning coal. +At either end of the table, tall +Wax candles were placed, each in a small, +And slim, and burnished candlestick +Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, +And the room leapt more obviously +Upon my mind, and I could see +What the flickering fire had hid from me. +Above the chimney's yawning throat, +Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, +Was a mantelshelf of polished oak +Blackened with the pungent smoke +Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock +Of tarnished brass stood like a rock +In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea +Of every sort of cutlery. +There lay knives sharpened to any use, +The keenest lancet, and the obtuse +And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades +Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades +Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, +And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl +Of points and edges, and underneath +Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. +My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear +A battle-cry from somewhere near, +The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, +And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. +A smoky cloud had veiled the room, +Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom +Pounded with shouts and dying groans, +With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. +Sabres and lances in streaks of light +Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right +A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, +Glittered an instant, while it stung. +Streams, and points, and lines of fire! +The livid steel, which man's desire +Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. +Every blade which man could mould, +Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, +Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, +Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, +Or slice, or hack, they all were there. +Nerveless and shaking, round and round, +I stared at the walls and at the ground, +Till the room spun like a whipping top, +And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! +I sell no tools for murderers here. +Of what are you thinking! Please clear +Your mind of such imaginings. +Sit down. I will tell you of these things." + +He pushed me into a great chair +Of russet leather, poked a flare +Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, +Up the chimney; but said no word. +Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, +And brought back a crock of finest delf. +He rested a moment a blue-veined hand +Upon the cover, then cut a band +Of paper, pasted neatly round, +Opened and poured. A sliding sound +Came from beneath his old white hands, +And I saw a little heap of sands, +Black and smooth. What could they be: +"Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. +"What you see is poppy seed. +Lethean dreams for those in need." +He took up the grains with a gentle hand +And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. +On his old white finger the almandine +Shot out its rays, incarnadine. +"Visions for those too tired to sleep. +These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. +No single soul in the world could dwell, +Without these poppy-seeds I sell." +For a moment he played with the shining stuff, +Passing it through his fingers. Enough +At last, he poured it back into +The china jar of Holland blue, +Which he carefully carried to its place. +Then, with a smile on his aged face, +He drew up a chair to the open space +'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, +Young man, I will say that what you see +Is not the puzzle you take it to be." +"But surely, Sir, there is something strange +In a shop with goods at so wide a range +Each from the other, as swords and seeds. +Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." +"My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, +"Live everywhere from here to Pekin. +But you are wrong, my sort of goods +Is but one thing in all its moods." +He took a shagreen letter case +From his pocket, and with charming grace +Offered me a printed card. +I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. +Dealer in Words." And that was all. +I stared at the letters, whimsical +Indeed, or was it merely a jest. +He answered my unasked request: +"All books are either dreams or swords, +You can cut, or you can drug, with words. +My firm is a very ancient house, +The entries on my books would rouse +Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. +I inherited from an ancestry +Stretching remotely back and far, +This business, and my clients are +As were those of my grandfather's days, +Writers of books, and poems, and plays. +My swords are tempered for every speech, +For fencing wit, or to carve a breach +Through old abuses the world condones. +In another room are my grindstones and hones, +For whetting razors and putting a point +On daggers, sometimes I even anoint +The blades with a subtle poison, so +A twofold result may follow the blow. +These are purchased by men who feel +The need of stabbing society's heel, +Which egotism has brought them to think +Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink +An adversary to quaint reply, +And I have customers who buy +Scalpels with which to dissect the brains +And hearts of men. Ultramundanes +Even demand some finer kinds +To open their own souls and minds. +But the other half of my business deals +With visions and fancies. Under seals, +Sorted, and placed in vessels here, +I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. +Each jar contains a different kind +Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind +Come the purple flowers, opium filled, +From which the weirdest myths are distilled; +My orient porcelains contain them all. +Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall +Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; +And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat +On that lowest shelf beside the door, +Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". +Every castle of the air +Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there +Are seeds for every romance, or light +Whiff of a dream for a summer night. +I supply to every want and taste." +'Twas slowly said, in no great haste +He seemed to push his wares, but I +Dumfounded listened. By and by +A log on the fire broke in two. +He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" +I groped for something I should say; +Amazement held me numb. "To-day +You sweated at a fruitless task." +He spoke for me, "What do you ask? +How can I serve you?" "My kind host, +My penniless state was not a boast; +I have no money with me." He smiled. +"Not for that money I beguiled +You here; you paid me in advance." +Again I felt as though a trance +Had dimmed my faculties. Again +He spoke, and this time to explain. +"The money I demand is Life, +Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" +What infamous proposal now +Was made me with so calm a brow? +Bursting through my lethargy, +Indignantly I hurled the cry: +"Is this a nightmare, or am I +Drunk with some infernal wine? +I am no Faust, and what is mine +Is what I call my soul! Old Man! +Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan +Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," +And the old tones were very mild, +"I have no wish to barter souls; +My traffic does not ask such tolls. +I am no devil; is there one? +Surely the age of fear is gone. +We live within a daylight world +Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled +Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, +And then blow back the sun again. +I sell my fancies, or my swords, +To those who care far more for words, +Ideas, of which they are the sign, +Than any other life-design. +Who buy of me must simply pay +Their whole existence quite away: +Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, +Their hours from morning till the time +When evening comes on tiptoe feet, +And losing life, think it complete; +Must miss what other men count being, +To gain the gift of deeper seeing; +Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, +All which could hold or bind; must prove +The farthest boundaries of thought, +And shun no end which these have brought; +Then die in satisfaction, knowing +That what was sown was worth the sowing. +I claim for all the goods I sell +That they will serve their purpose well, +And though you perish, they will live. +Full measure for your pay I give. +To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. +What since has happened is the train +Your toiling brought. I spoke to you +For my share of the bargain, due." +"My life! And is that all you crave +In pay? What even childhood gave! +I have been dedicate from youth. +Before my God I speak the truth!" +Fatigue, excitement of the past +Few hours broke me down at last. +All day I had forgot to eat, +My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. +I bowed my head and felt the storm +Plough shattering through my prostrate form. +The tearless sobs tore at my heart. +My host withdrew himself apart; +Busied among his crockery, +He paid no farther heed to me. +Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, +Within the arms of the old carved chair. + +A long half-hour dragged away, +And then I heard a kind voice say, +"The day will soon be dawning, when +You must begin to work again. +Here are the things which you require." +By the fading light of the dying fire, +And by the guttering candle's flare, +I saw the old man standing there. +He handed me a packet, tied +With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside +Are seeds of many differing flowers, +To occupy your utmost powers +Of storied vision, and these swords +Are the finest which my shop affords. +Go home and use them; do not spare +Yourself; let that be all your care. +Whatever you have means to buy +Be very sure I can supply." +He slowly walked to the window, flung +It open, and in the grey air rung +The sound of distant matin bells. +I took my parcels. Then, as tells +An ancient mumbling monk his beads, +I tried to thank for his courteous deeds +My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," +He urged me, "you have a long walk +Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" +And gently sped upon my way +I stumbled out in the morning hush, +As down the empty street a flush +Ran level from the rising sun. +Another day was just begun. + + + + + + Sword Blades + ------------ + + + + + +The Captured Goddess + + + +Over the housetops, +Above the rotating chimney-pots, +I have seen a shiver of amethyst, +And blue and cinnamon have flickered +A moment, +At the far end of a dusty street. + +Through sheeted rain +Has come a lustre of crimson, +And I have watched moonbeams +Hushed by a film of palest green. + +It was her wings, +Goddess! +Who stepped over the clouds, +And laid her rainbow feathers +Aslant on the currents of the air. + +I followed her for long, +With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. +I cared not where she led me, +My eyes were full of colours: +Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, +And the indigo-blue of quartz; +Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, +Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, +The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, +The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. +I followed, +And watched for the flashing of her wings. + +In the city I found her, +The narrow-streeted city. +In the market-place I came upon her, +Bound and trembling. +Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, +She was naked and cold, +For that day the wind blew +Without sunshine. + +Men chaffered for her, +They bargained in silver and gold, +In copper, in wheat, +And called their bids across the market-place. + +The Goddess wept. + +Hiding my face I fled, +And the grey wind hissed behind me, +Along the narrow streets. + + + + +The Precinct. Rochester + + + +The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, +Still and straight, +With their round blossoms spread open, +In the quiet sunshine. +And still is the old Roman wall, +Rough with jagged bits of flint, +And jutting stones, +Old and cragged, +Quite still in its antiquity. +The pear-trees press their branches against it, +And feeling it warm and kindly, +The little pears ripen to yellow and red. +They hang heavy, bursting with juice, +Against the wall. +So old, so still! + +The sky is still. +The clouds make no sound +As they slide away +Beyond the Cathedral Tower, +To the river, +And the sea. +It is very quiet, +Very sunny. +The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, +But make no sound. +The roses push their little tendrils up, +And climb higher and higher. +In spots they have climbed over the wall. +But they are very still, +They do not seem to move. +And the old wall carries them +Without effort, and quietly +Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms. + +A bird in a plane-tree +Sings a few notes, +Cadenced and perfect +They weave into the silence. +The Cathedral bell knocks, +One, two, three, and again, +And then again. +It is a quiet sound, +Calling to prayer, +Hardly scattering the stillness, +Only making it close in more densely. +The gardener picks ripe gooseberries +For the Dean's supper to-night. +It is very quiet, +Very regulated and mellow. +But the wall is old, +It has known many days. +It is a Roman wall, +Left-over and forgotten. + +Beyond the Cathedral Close +Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, +Not well-regulated. +People who care more for bread than for beauty, +Who would break the tombs of saints, +And give the painted windows of churches +To their children for toys. +People who say: +"They are dead, we live! +The world is for the living." + +Fools! It is always the dead who breed. +Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, +Yet its seeds shall fructify, +And trees rise where your huts were standing. +But the little people are ignorant, +They chaffer, and swarm. +They gnaw like rats, +And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. + +The Dean is in the Chapter House; +He is reading the architect's bill +For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. +He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, +And then he will walk up and down the path +By the wall, +And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, +Thinking how quiet and peaceful +The garden is. +The old wall will watch him, +Very quietly and patiently it will watch. +For the wall is old, +It is a Roman wall. + + + + +The Cyclists + + + +Spread on the roadway, +With open-blown jackets, +Like black, soaring pinions, +They swoop down the hillside, + The Cyclists. + +Seeming dark-plumaged +Birds, after carrion, +Careening and circling, +Over the dying + Of England. + +She lies with her bosom +Beneath them, no longer +The Dominant Mother, +The Virile -- but rotting + Before time. + +The smell of her, tainted, +Has bitten their nostrils. +Exultant they hover, +And shadow the sun with + Foreboding. + + + + +Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window + + + +What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, +Of outworn, childish mysteries, + Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! + And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream +Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. + +Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, +The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese + Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky + Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly +And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. + +Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk +From over-handling, by some anxious monk. + Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven + With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, +And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. + +They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung +By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung + In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, + Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen +Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. + + + + +A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. + + + +They have watered the street, +It shines in the glare of lamps, +Cold, white lamps, +And lies +Like a slow-moving river, +Barred with silver and black. +Cabs go down it, +One, +And then another. +Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. +Tramps doze on the window-ledges, +Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. +The city is squalid and sinister, +With the silver-barred street in the midst, +Slow-moving, +A river leading nowhere. + +Opposite my window, +The moon cuts, +Clear and round, +Through the plum-coloured night. +She cannot light the city; +It is too bright. +It has white lamps, +And glitters coldly. + +I stand in the window and watch the moon. +She is thin and lustreless, +But I love her. +I know the moon, +And this is an alien city. + + + + +Astigmatism + + To Ezra Pound + + With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion + + + +The Poet took his walking-stick +Of fine and polished ebony. +Set in the close-grained wood +Were quaint devices; +Patterns in ambers, +And in the clouded green of jades. +The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, +And a tassel of tarnished gold +Hung by a faded cord from a hole +Pierced in the hard wood, +Circled with silver. +For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. +His wealth had gone to enrich it, +His experiences to pattern it, +His labour to fashion and burnish it. +To him it was perfect, +A work of art and a weapon, +A delight and a defence. +The Poet took his walking-stick +And walked abroad. + +Peace be with you, Brother. + + +The Poet came to a meadow. +Sifted through the grass were daisies, +Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. +The Poet struck them with his cane. +The little heads flew off, and they lay +Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, +On the hard ground. +"They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. + +Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. + + +The Poet came to a stream. +Purple and blue flags waded in the water; +In among them hopped the speckled frogs; +The wind slid through them, rustling. +The Poet lifted his cane, +And the iris heads fell into the water. +They floated away, torn and drowning. +"Wretched flowers," said the Poet, +"They are not roses." + +Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. + + +The Poet came to a garden. +Dahlias ripened against a wall, +Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, +And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour +With the red and gold of its blossoms. +Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. +The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, +And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. +Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. +Red and gold they lay scattered, +Red and gold, as on a battle field; +Red and gold, prone and dying. +"They were not roses," said the Poet. + +Peace be with you, Brother. +But behind you is destruction, and waste places. + + +The Poet came home at evening, +And in the candle-light +He wiped and polished his cane. +The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, +And made the jades undulate like green pools. +It played along the bright ebony, +And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. +But these things were dead, +Only the candle-light made them seem to move. +"It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. + +Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. + + + + +The Coal Picker + + + +He perches in the slime, inert, +Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. +The oil upon the puddles dries +To colours like a peacock's eyes, +And half-submerged tomato-cans +Shine scaly, as leviathans +Oozily crawling through the mud. +The ground is here and there bestud +With lumps of only part-burned coal. +His duty is to glean the whole, +To pick them from the filth, each one, +To hoard them for the hidden sun +Which glows within each fiery core +And waits to be made free once more. +Their sharp and glistening edges cut +His stiffened fingers. Through the smut +Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. +Wet through and shivering he kneels +And digs the slippery coals; like eels +They slide about. His force all spent, +He counts his small accomplishment. +A half-a-dozen clinker-coals +Which still have fire in their souls. +Fire! And in his thought there burns +The topaz fire of votive urns. +He sees it fling from hill to hill, +And still consumed, is burning still. +Higher and higher leaps the flame, +The smoke an ever-shifting frame. +He sees a Spanish Castle old, +With silver steps and paths of gold. +From myrtle bowers comes the plash +Of fountains, and the emerald flash +Of parrots in the orange trees, +Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. +He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke +Bears visions, that his master-stroke +Is out of dirt and misery +To light the fire of poesy. +He sees the glory, yet he knows +That others cannot see his shows. +To them his smoke is sightless, black, +His votive vessels but a pack +Of old discarded shards, his fire +A peddler's; still to him the pyre +Is incensed, an enduring goal! +He sighs and grubs another coal. + + + + +Storm-Racked + + + +How should I sing when buffeting salt waves + And stung with bitter surges, in whose might + I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night +Marshals its undefeated dark and raves +In brutal madness, reeling over graves + Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, + Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite +Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. + No parting cloud reveals a watery star, +My cries are washed away upon the wind, + My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, +My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. + But painted on the sky great visions burn, + My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! + + + + +Convalescence + + + +From out the dragging vastness of the sea, + Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, + He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands +One moment, white and dripping, silently, +Cut like a cameo in lazuli, + Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands + Prone in the jeering water, and his hands +Clutch for support where no support can be. + So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, +He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow +And sandflies dance their little lives away. + The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch +The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, +And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. + + + + +Patience + + + +Be patient with you? + When the stooping sky +Leans down upon the hills +And tenderly, as one who soothing stills + An anguish, gathers earth to lie +Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men + Feel patience then? + +Be patient with you? + When the snow-girt earth +Cracks to let through a spurt +Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt + A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth +To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men + Feel patience then? + +Be patient with you? + When pain's iron bars +Their rivets tighten, stern +To bend and break their victims; as they turn, + Hopeless, there stand the purple jars +Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men + Feel patience then? + +Be patient with you? + You! My sun and moon! +My basketful of flowers! +My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, + Windless and still, of afternoon! +You are my world and I your citizen. + What meaning can have patience then? + + + + +Apology + + + +Be not angry with me that I bear + Your colours everywhere, + All through each crowded street, + And meet + The wonder-light in every eye, + As I go by. + +Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, + Blinded by rainbow haze, + The stuff of happiness, + No less, + Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds + Of peacock golds. + +Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way + Flushes beneath its gray. + My steps fall ringed with light, + So bright, + It seems a myriad suns are strown + About the town. + +Around me is the sound of steepled bells, + And rich perfumed smells + Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, + And shroud + Me from close contact with the world. + I dwell impearled. + +You blazon me with jewelled insignia. + A flaming nebula + Rims in my life. And yet + You set + The word upon me, unconfessed + To go unguessed. + + + + +A Petition + + + +I pray to be the tool which to your hand + Long use has shaped and moulded till it be + Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, +You take it for its service. I demand +To be forgotten in the woven strand + Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry + Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie +A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. + I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, +The railing to the stairway of the clouds, + To guard your steps securely up, where streams +A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds + Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby + You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. + + + + +A Blockhead + + + +Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, + Unseparated atoms, and I must + Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust +Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, +There are none, ever. As a monk who prays + The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust + Each tasteless particle aside, and just +Begin again the task which never stays. + And I have known a glory of great suns, +When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! +Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, + And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! +Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand +Threw down the cup, and did not understand. + + + + +Stupidity + + + +Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch + I broke and bruised your rose. + I hardly could suppose +It were a thing so fragile that my clutch + Could kill it, thus. + +It stood so proudly up upon its stem, + I knew no thought of fear, + And coming very near +Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, + Tearing it down. + +Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, + The crimson petals, all + Outspread about my fall. +They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone + Of memory. + +And with my words I carve a little jar + To keep their scented dust, + Which, opening, you must +Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far + More grieved than you. + + + + +Irony + + + +An arid daylight shines along the beach + Dried to a grey monotony of tone, + And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon +The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach +Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach + The skeletons of fishes, every bone + Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, +The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. + And they are dead while waiting for the sea, + The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. +Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. + Only the shells and stones can wait to be + Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, +May not endure till time can bring them ease. + + + + +Happiness + + + +Happiness, to some, elation; +Is, to others, mere stagnation. +Days of passive somnolence, +At its wildest, indolence. +Hours of empty quietness, +No delight, and no distress. + +Happiness to me is wine, +Effervescent, superfine. +Full of tang and fiery pleasure, +Far too hot to leave me leisure +For a single thought beyond it. +Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it +Means to give one's soul to gain +Life's quintessence. Even pain +Pricks to livelier living, then +Wakes the nerves to laugh again, +Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. +Although we must die to-morrow, +Losing every thought but this; +Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. + +Happiness: We rarely feel it. +I would buy it, beg it, steal it, +Pay in coins of dripping blood +For this one transcendent good. + + + + +The Last Quarter of the Moon + + + +How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, +A spatter of rust on its polished steel! + The seasons reel + Like a goaded wheel. +Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. + +The night is sliding towards the dawn, +And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. + A torn moon flees + Through the hemlock trees, +The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. + +Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing +A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. + Like dogs unleashed + After a beast, +They stream on the sky, an outflung string. + +A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, +Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, + And the fierce unrests + I keep as guests +Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. + +Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt +My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. + I have not quailed, + I was all unmailed +And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. + +The moon drops into the silver day +As waking out of her swoon she comes. + I hear the drums + Of millenniums +Beating the mornings I still must stay. + +The years I must watch go in and out, +While I build with water, and dig in air, + And the trumpets blare + Hollow despair, +The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. + +An atom tossed in a chaos made +Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. + Whence have I come? + What would be home? +I hear no answer. I am afraid! + +I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. +Pushed into nothingness by a breath, + And quench in a wreath + Of engulfing death +This fight for a God, or this devil's game. + + + + +A Tale of Starvation + + + +There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, + And a disagreeable man was he. +He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, + And he cursed eternally. + +He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, + And he blasted the winds in the sky. +He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, + And he raved at the birds as they fly. + +His oaths were many, and his range was wide, + He swore in fancy ways; +But his meaning was plain: that no created thing + Was other than a hurt to his gaze. + +He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, + And windows toward the hill there were none, +And on the other side they were white-washed thick, + To keep out every spark of the sun. + +When he went to market he walked all the way + Blaspheming at the path he trod. +He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, + By all the names he knew of God. + +For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, + And his hopes had curdled in his breast. +His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over + For the chinking money-bags she liked best. + +The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, + The deer had trampled on his corn, +His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, + And his sheep had died unshorn. + +His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, + And his old horse perished of a colic. +In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes + By little, glutton mice on a frolic. + +So he slowly lost all he ever had, + And the blood in his body dried. +Shrunken and mean he still lived on, + And cursed that future which had lied. + +One day he was digging, a spade or two, + As his aching back could lift, +When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, + And to get it out he made great shift. + +So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, + And the veins in his forehead stood taut. +At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, + He gathered up what he had sought. + +A dim old vase of crusted glass, + Prismed while it lay buried deep. +Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, + At the touch of the sun began to leap. + +It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; + Flashing like an opal-stone, +Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, + Where at first there had seemed to be none. + +It had handles on each side to bear it up, + And a belly for the gurgling wine. +Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, + And its lip was curled and fine. + +The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare + And the colours started up through the crust, +And he who had cursed at the yellow sun + Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. + +And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, + Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; +And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, + And the sun shone without his sneer. + +Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, + But it was only grey in the gloom. +So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, + And he went outside with a broom. + +And he washed his windows just to let the sun + Lie upon his new-found vase; +And when evening came, he moved it down + And put it on a table near the place + +Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. + The old man forgot to swear, +Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, + Dancing in the kitchen there. + +He forgot to revile the sun next morning + When he found his vase afire in its light. +And he carried it out of the house that day, + And kept it close beside him until night. + +And so it happened from day to day. + The old man fed his life +On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. + And his soul forgot its former strife. + +And the village-folk came and begged to see + The flagon which was dug from the ground. +And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy + At showing what he had found. + +One day the master of the village school + Passed him as he stooped at toil, +Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side + Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. + +"My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, + "That's a valuable thing you have there, +But it might get broken out of doors, + It should meet with the utmost care. + +What are you doing with it out here?" + "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, +"I like to have it about, do you see? + To be with it all I can." + +"You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, + "Mark my words and see!" +And he walked away, while the old man looked + At his treasure despondingly. + +Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! + He had toiled for it, and now he cared. +Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, + Which his own hard work had bared. + +He would carry it round with him everywhere, + As it gave him joy to do. +A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! + Who would dare to say so? Who? + +Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, + And he bent to his hoe again. . . . +A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, + And he lurched with a cry of pain. + +For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, + And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. +The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. + He did not curse, he had no words. + +He gathered the fragments, one by one, + And his fingers were cut and torn. +Then he made a hole in the very place + Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. + +He covered the hole, and he patted it down, + Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. +He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows + That no beam of light should cross the floor. + +He sat down in front of the empty hearth, + And he neither ate nor drank. +In three days they found him, dead and cold, + And they said: "What a queer old crank!" + + + + +The Foreigner + + + +Have at you, you Devils! + My back's to this tree, +For you're nothing so nice + That the hind-side of me +Would escape your assault. + Come on now, all three! + +Here's a dandified gentleman, + Rapier at point, +And a wrist which whirls round + Like a circular joint. +A spatter of blood, man! + That's just to anoint + +And make supple your limbs. + 'Tis a pity the silk +Of your waistcoat is stained. + Why! Your heart's full of milk, +And so full, it spills over! + I'm not of your ilk. + +You said so, and laughed + At my old-fashioned hose, +At the cut of my hair, + At the length of my nose. +To carve it to pattern + I think you propose. + +Your pardon, young Sir, + But my nose and my sword +Are proving themselves + In quite perfect accord. +I grieve to have spotted + Your shirt. On my word! + +And hullo! You Bully! + That blade's not a stick +To slash right and left, + And my skull is too thick +To be cleft with such cuffs + Of a sword. Now a lick + +Down the side of your face. + What a pretty, red line! +Tell the taverns that scar + Was an honour. Don't whine +That a stranger has marked you. + * * * * * + The tree's there, You Swine! + +Did you think to get in + At the back, while your friends +Made a little diversion + In front? So it ends, +With your sword clattering down + On the ground. 'Tis amends + +I make for your courteous + Reception of me, +A foreigner, landed + From over the sea. +Your welcome was fervent + I think you'll agree. + +My shoes are not buckled + With gold, nor my hair +Oiled and scented, my jacket's + Not satin, I wear +Corded breeches, wide hats, + And I make people stare! + +So I do, but my heart + Is the heart of a man, +And my thoughts cannot twirl + In the limited span +'Twixt my head and my heels, + As some other men's can. + +I have business more strange + Than the shape of my boots, +And my interests range + From the sky, to the roots +Of this dung-hill you live in, + You half-rotted shoots + +Of a mouldering tree! + Here's at you, once more. +You Apes! You Jack-fools! + You can show me the door, +And jeer at my ways, + But you're pinked to the core. + +And before I have done, + I will prick my name in +With the front of my steel, + And your lily-white skin +Shall be printed with me. + For I've come here to win! + + + + +Absence + + + +My cup is empty to-night, +Cold and dry are its sides, +Chilled by the wind from the open window. +Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. +The room is filled with the strange scent +Of wistaria blossoms. +They sway in the moon's radiance +And tap against the wall. +But the cup of my heart is still, +And cold, and empty. + +When you come, it brims +Red and trembling with blood, +Heart's blood for your drinking; +To fill your mouth with love +And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. + + + + +A Gift + + + +See! I give myself to you, Beloved! +My words are little jars +For you to take and put upon a shelf. +Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, +And they have many pleasant colours and lustres +To recommend them. +Also the scent from them fills the room +With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. + +When I shall have given you the last one, +You will have the whole of me, +But I shall be dead. + + + + +The Bungler + + + +You glow in my heart +Like the flames of uncounted candles. +But when I go to warm my hands, +My clumsiness overturns the light, +And then I stumble +Against the tables and chairs. + + + + +Fool's Money Bags + + + +Outside the long window, +With his head on the stone sill, +The dog is lying, +Gazing at his Beloved. +His eyes are wet and urgent, +And his body is taut and shaking. +It is cold on the terrace; +A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, +But the dog gazes through the glass +And is content. + +The Beloved is writing a letter. +Occasionally she speaks to the dog, +But she is thinking of her writing. +Does she, too, give her devotion to one +Not worthy? + + + + +Miscast I + + + +I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, +So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, +So sharp that the air would turn its edge +Were it to be twisted in flight. +Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, +And the mark of them lies, in and out, +Worm-like, +With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. +My brain is curved like a scimitar, +And sighs at its cutting +Like a sickle mowing grass. + +But of what use is all this to me! +I, who am set to crack stones +In a country lane! + + + + +Miscast II + + + +My heart is like a cleft pomegranate +Bleeding crimson seeds +And dripping them on the ground. +My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, +And its seeds are bursting from it. + +But how is this other than a torment to me! +I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, +In a dark closet! + + + + +Anticipation + + + +I have been temperate always, +But I am like to be very drunk +With your coming. +There have been times +I feared to walk down the street +Lest I should reel with the wine of you, +And jerk against my neighbours +As they go by. +I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, +But my brain is noisy +With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. + + + + +Vintage + + + +I will mix me a drink of stars, -- +Large stars with polychrome needles, +Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, +Cool, quiet, green stars. +I will tear them out of the sky, +And squeeze them over an old silver cup, +And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, +So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. + +It will lap and scratch +As I swallow it down; +And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, +Coiling and twisting in my belly. +His snortings will rise to my head, +And I shall be hot, and laugh, +Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. + + + + +The Tree of Scarlet Berries + + + +The rain gullies the garden paths +And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. +A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. +Even so, I can see that it has red berries, +A scarlet fruit, +Filmed over with moisture. +It seems as though the rain, +Dripping from it, +Should be tinged with colour. +I desire the berries, +But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. +Probably, too, they are bitter. + + + + +Obligation + + + +Hold your apron wide +That I may pour my gifts into it, +So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them +From falling to the ground. + +I would pour them upon you +And cover you, +For greatly do I feel this need +Of giving you something, +Even these poor things. + +Dearest of my Heart! + + + + +The Taxi + + + +When I go away from you +The world beats dead +Like a slackened drum. +I call out for you against the jutted stars +And shout into the ridges of the wind. +Streets coming fast, +One after the other, +Wedge you away from me, +And the lamps of the city prick my eyes +So that I can no longer see your face. +Why should I leave you, +To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? + + + + +The Giver of Stars + + + +Hold your soul open for my welcoming. +Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me +With its clear and rippled coolness, +That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, +Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. + +Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, +That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, +The life and joy of tongues of flame, +And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, +I may rouse the blear-eyed world, +And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. + + + + +The Temple + + + +Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. + Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue + Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew +And vanished in the sunshine. How it came +We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. + From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew + Together into fire. But we knew +The winds would slap and quench it in their game. + And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks +To treasure it, and placed them round about. +With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, + And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks +Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, +The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole. + + + + +Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success + + + +Beneath this sod lie the remains +Of one who died of growing pains. + + + + +In Answer to a Request + + + +You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, + Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? + Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June +And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? +For your sake, I would go and seek the year, + Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, + Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon +Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer + Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! + My shadow stretches forward, and the ground +Is dark in front because the light's behind. + It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, + In watching it and walking I have found +More than enough to occupy my mind. + +I cannot turn, the light would make me blind. + + + + + + Poppy Seed + ---------- + + + + + +The Great Adventure of Max Breuck + + + + 1 + +A yellow band of light upon the street +Pours from an open door, and makes a wide +Pathway of bright gold across a sheet +Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside +Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch +Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, +The clip of tankards on a table top, +And stir of booted heels. Against the patch +Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth +Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. + + + 2 + +This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, +Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. +Within his cellar men can have to drink +The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed +To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art +Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. +Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, +Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart +A cap as ever in his wantonness +Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. + + + 3 + +Tall candles stand upon the table, where +Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, +Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were +Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. +The centre of the board is piled with pipes, +Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay +Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault +Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way +Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes +And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. + + + 4 + +"For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" +Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. +"Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, +From that small barrel in the very roots +Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! +Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. +We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke +His best tobacco for a grand climax. +Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, +We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!" + + + 5 + +Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. +"Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." +The host set down a jar; then to a vat +Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. +Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem +Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew +The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. +It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew +Into the silver night. At once there flung +Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: + + + 6 + +"Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, +Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? +My master sent me to inquire where +Such men do mostly be, but every door +Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. +I pray you tell me where I may now find +One versed in law, the matter will not wait." +"I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind +Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. +I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. + + + 7 + +Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, +Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy +Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout +Within the tavern jeered at his employ. +Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, +Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, +Flooded the open spaces, and took flight +Before tall, serried houses in platoon, +Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House +They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. + + + 8 + +Before a door which fronted a canal +The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. +The water lapped the stones in musical +And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot +Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. +The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame +Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, +And through the open door Max went toward +Another door, whence sound of voices came. +He entered a large room where candelabra burned. + + + 9 + +An aged man in quilted dressing gown +Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent +Your messenger to seek throughout the town +A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, +But I am at your service, and my name +Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." +"Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged +Am I, and count myself much privileged. +I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame +Is better known on distant oceans than on land. + + + 10 + +My ship has tasted water in strange seas, +And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. +She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, +And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." +"Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, +"Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." +The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, +"My good friend, Grootver, --" he at once began. +"No introductions, let us have some wine, +And business, now that you at last have made your choice." + + + 11 + +A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, +This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. +Kurler explained, his old hands nervously +Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought +From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay +The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind +Had so delayed him that his cargo brought +But half its proper price, the very day +He came to port he stepped ashore to find +The market glutted and his counted profits naught. + + + 12 + +Little by little Max made out the way +That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. +His money he must have, too long delay +Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. +"But let me take my ship, with many bales +Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, +Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste +Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails +Open for home, such stores will I bring you +That all your former ventures will be counted waste. + + + 13 + +Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, +And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, +Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam +Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, +Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. +Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard +The deed to which the sailor gave his word. +He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed +The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, +He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. + + + 14 + +For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, +Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. +But on one black and most unfriendly day +Grootver had caught her as she passed between +The kitchen and the garden. She had run +In fear of him, his evil leering eye, +And when he came she, bolted in her room, +Refused to show, though gave no reason why. +The spinning of her future had begun, +On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. + + + 15 + +Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, +Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. +He felt his hands were building up the pyre +To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo +He staggered to his chair. Before him lay +White paper still unspotted by a crime. +"Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. +"`If in two years my vessel should yet stay +From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime +A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear." + + + 16 + +And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, +And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. +Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. +Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" +He shuffled from the room, and left the house. +His footsteps wore to silence down the street. +At last the aged man began to rouse. +With help he once more gained his trembling feet. +"My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. +Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow." + + + 17 + +Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, +"Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, +So to protect your daughter from all harm +As one man may." Thus sorrowful, forlorn, +The situation to Max Breuck appeared, +He gave his promise almost without thought, +Nor looked to see a difficulty. "Bred +Gently to watch a mother left alone; +Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared +The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; + + + 18 + +Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. +Last Winter she died also, and my days +Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, +And undo habits used to earn her praise. +My leisure I will gladly give to see +Your household and your daughter prosperous." +The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. +He could not brook that his humility, +So little wonted, and so tremulous, +Should first before a stranger make such great display. + + + 19 + +"Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, +I sail at the full sea, my daughter then +I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon +If after I have bid good-by, and when +Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, +You bring her home again. She lives with one +Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. +But that is no friend for so free a heart. +No head to match her questions. It is done. +And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. + + + 20 + +My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam +As home, so not a letter can you send. +I shall be back, before to where I am +Another ship could reach. Now your stipend --" +Quickly Breuck interposed. "When you once more +Tread on the stones which pave our streets. -- Good night! +To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, +At the great wharf." Then hurrying, in spite +Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon +Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. + + + 21 + +'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, +And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. +The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here +The sun sank deep into the waters cold. +And every clock and belfry in the town +Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, +To shake the sunny morning into life, +And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, +Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, +Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. + + + 22 + +The "Horn of Fortune" sails away to-day. +At highest tide she lets her anchor go, +And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! +Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, +And beckons to her boats to let her start. +Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. +The shining waves are quick to take her part. +They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, +Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize +And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. + + + 23 + +At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, +And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. +Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, +Bowing before them both. The brigantine +Bounces impatient at the long delay, +Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. +A heavy galliot unloads on the walls +Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls +Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more +Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. + + + 24 + +Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, +Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. +Max moved aside and let her be alone, +For grief exacts each penny of its toll. +The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. +A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, +Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again +Upon the other side. Now on the lee +It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight +Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. + + + 25 + +Then up above the eager brigantine, +Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, +Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine +Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight +Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, +Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. +They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, +The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw +She glided imperceptibly away, +Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. + + + 26 + +Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, +Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. +Before the iron gateway, clasped between +Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, +Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? +My father told me of your courtesy. +Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me +To show such hospitality as maiden may, +Without disdaining rules must not be broke. +Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today." + + + 27 + +She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. +Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones +Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, +It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones +Are budded with much peering at the rows, +And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. +Max started at the beauty, at the glare +Of tints. At either end was set a wide +Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows +Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! + + + 28 + +From side to side, midway each path, there ran +A longer one which cut the space in two. +And, like a tunnel some magician +Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, +Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers +Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came +The plump and heavy apples crowding stood +And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame +Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers +They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. + + + 29 + +Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, +Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun +From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes +Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one +Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. +Bordered along the wall, in beds between, +Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, +The pride of all the garden, there were more +Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. +They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. + + + 30 + +"Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring +Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best +Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring +Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest +To please her guest she flew. A moment more +She came again, with her old nurse behind. +Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, +She talked as someone with a noble store +Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, +Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. + + + 31 + +The little apple leaves above their heads +Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, +In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds +Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule +And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes +Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues +Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed +To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes +Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. +Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. + + + 32 + +Of every pattern and in every shade. +Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. +Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made +An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. +Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. +Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. +They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, +Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. +The shade within the arbour made a port +To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. + + + 33 + +Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, +This child matured to woman unaware, +The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked +Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. +Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, +And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich +And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died +Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, +She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch +At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. + + + 34 + +Two years was long! She loved her father well, +But fears she had not. He had always been +Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell +On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen +Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. +Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! +Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. +Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, +The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall. +When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. + + + 35 + +The next day, and the next, Max went to ask +The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: +Another tulip blown, or the great task +Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; +The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles +Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. +Such things were Christine's world, and his was she +Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. +Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, +Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. + + + 36 + +Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself +The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. +As one in charge of guineas on a shelf +Loose in a china teapot, may confess +His need, but may not borrow till his friend +Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said +No word of love or marriage; but the days +He clipped off on his almanac. The end +Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, +Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. + + + 37 + +Two years had made Christine a woman grown, +With dignity and gently certain pride. +But all her childhood fancies had not flown, +Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. +Max was her trusted friend, did she confess +A closer happiness? Max could not tell. +Two years were over and his life he found +Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness +He waited for the "Horn of Fortune". Well +Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. + + + 38 + +Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass +Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came +Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass +Was justified, for he had won the game. +Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, +And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship +Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank +To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent +For Max. "Come quickly," said her note, "I skip +The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank." + + + 39 + +Through the long sunshine of late afternoon +Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost +In bitter reverie, he found her soon. +And sitting down beside her, at the cost +Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing +So suddenly has happened?" Then, in tears, +She told that Grootver, on the following morn, +Would come to marry her, and shuddering: +"I will die rather, death has lesser fears." +Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. + + + 40 + +"My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! +I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. +In strictest honour I have played my part; +But all this misery has overthrown +My scruples. If you love me, marry me +Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. +You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, +Can eat his anger. My care it shall be +To pay your father's debt, by such degrees +As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. + + + 41 + +This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known +My love, and silence forced upon my lips. +I worship you with all the strength I've shown +In keeping faith." With pleading finger tips +He touched her arm. "Christine! Beloved! Think. +Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, +I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? +They've been in leash so long upon the brink." +She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. +Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. + + + 42 + +And they were married ere the westering sun +Had disappeared behind the garden trees. +The evening poured on them its benison, +And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, +Rose up around them from the beamy ground, +Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. +Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, +In such enraptured sweetness as they found +Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon +To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. + + + 43 + +At last Max spoke, "Dear Heart, this night is ours, +To watch it pale, together, into dawn, +Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers +Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, +Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, +Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. +For that desired thing I leave you now. +To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, +By telling Grootver that a bootless quest +Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow." + + + 44 + +But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, +Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. +And wound her arms about his knees and thighs +As he stood over her. With dread, begot +Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, +She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint +Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, +Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint +Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright +With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. + + + 45 + +But at the gate once more she held him close +And quenched her heart again upon his lips. +"My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose +But to be gone one hour! Evening slips +Away, this errand must be done." "Max! Max! +First goes my father, if I lose you now!" +She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. +Softly he laughed, "One hour through the town +By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. +Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. + + + 46 + +One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. +We front another day as man and wife. +I shall be back almost before I'm gone, +And midnight shall anoint and crown our life." +Then through the gate he passed. Along the street +She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. +He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. +Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. +Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, +Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. + + + 47 + +Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. +His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot +He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall +Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. +He dreaded no man, since he could protect +Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. +His starved life had not fitted him for joy. +It strained him to the utmost to reject +Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. +"Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!" + + + 48 + +He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol +To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. +In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. +And he would be returned, lifting the latch +Of his own gate, eager to take Christine +And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? +He broke into a run. In front, a line +Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. +Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day +Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. + + + 49 + +"Why, Max! Stop, Max!" And out they came pell-mell, +His old companions. "Max, where have you been? +Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! +How many months is it since we have seen +You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! +Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, +Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. +Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; +Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. +Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!" + + + 50 + +They forced him to a seat, and held him there, +Despite his anger, while the hideous joke +Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care +A brimming glass of whiskey. "Here, we've broke +Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! +Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? +Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! +Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think." +Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, +Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. + + + 51 + +Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried +To quell the uproar, told them what he dared +Of his own life and circumstance. Implied +Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. +In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, +And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more +Goaded and bursting; -- "Cowards! Is no one loth +To mock at duty --" Here they called for ale, +And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath +He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. + + + 52 + +Sobered a little by his violence, +And by the host who begged them to be still, +Nor injure his good name, "Max, no offence," +They blurted, "you may leave now if you will." +"One moment, Max," said Franz. "We've gone too far. +I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. +It started in a wager ere you came. +The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar +I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, +Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. + + + 53 + +Its properties are to induce a sleep +Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time +Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep +Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime +Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream +Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock +Are but so many seconds. We agreed +That the next man who came should prove the scheme; +And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. +Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed." + + + 54 + +"It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!" +Max Breuck was maddened now. "Another jest +Of your befuddled wits. I know not why +I am to be your butt. At my request +You'll choose among you one who'll answer for +Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night +And good-by, -- gentlemen. You'll hear from me." +But Franz had caught him at the very door, +"It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight +I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. + + + 55 + +You have no business, that is why we laughed, +Since you had none a few minutes ago. +As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, +Knowing the length of time it takes to do +A simple thing like that in this slow world. +Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. +I'll burn the drug if you prefer." But Breuck +Muttered and stared, -- "A lie." And then he hurled, +Distraught, this word at Franz: "Prove it. And when +It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. + + + 56 + +I'll give you just one week to make your case. +On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, +I shall require your proof." With wondering face +Franz cried, "A week to August, and fourteen +The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. +April, and eighteen-twelve." Max staggered, caught +A chair, -- "April two years ago! Indeed, +Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how +Either could blunder so." Hilverdink brought +"The Amsterdam Gazette", and Max was forced to read. + + + 57 + +"Eighteen hundred and twelve," in largest print; +And next to it, "April the twenty-first." +The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint +Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, +He read it, and into his pounding brain +Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea +Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: +"This is two years ago! What of Christine?" +He fled the cellar, in his agony +Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. + + + 58 + +The darkened buildings echoed to his feet +Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. +Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet +And terror-winged steps. His heart began +To labour at the speed. And still no sign, +No flutter of a leaf against the sky. +And this should be the garden wall, and round +The corner, the old gate. No even line +Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry +Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. + + + 59 + +Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, +They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones +To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine +Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones +Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, +Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, +The twisted iron of the garden gate, +Was there. The houses touched and left no space +Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves +Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. + + + 60 + +Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. +His slobbering lips could only cry, "Christine! +My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? +What future is our past? What saturnine, +Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live +Two years together in a puff of smoke? +It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, +Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give +Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke +Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are." + + + 61 + +His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. +The moon had long been set. And still he cried: +"Christine! My Love! Christine!" A sudden spark +Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied +With his uncertain vision, so within +Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, +A latticed window where a crimson gleam +Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, +An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth +Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. + + + 62 + +Softly he knocked against the casement, wide +It flew, and a cracked voice his business there +Demanded. The door opened, and inside +Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air +Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. +"Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve +You?" "Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? +I want a pistol." Quick the old man grew +Livid. "Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve +You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms --" + + + 63 + +"Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose +My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been +Blest above others. You have many rows +Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen +Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts +Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' +Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! +'Twill serve my turn though --" Hastily he counts +The florins down upon the table. "Well, +Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast." + + + 64 + +Into the night again he hurried, now +Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town +He set his goal. And then he wondered how +Poor C. D. L. had come to die. "It's grown +Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, +And will work punctually." His sorrow fell +Upon his senses, shutting out all else. +Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought +The heavy miles away. "Christine. I'm well. +I'm coming. My Own Wife!" He lurched with failing pulse. + + + 65 + +Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, +And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. +The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts +Long stealthy fingers up some way to find +And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here +The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. +No lights were burning in the distant thorps. +Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, +Babbled "Christine!" A shot split through the breeze. +The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. + + + + +Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris + + + +Dear Virgin Mary, far away, +Look down from Heaven while I pray. +Open your golden casement high, +And lean way out beyond the sky. +I am so little, it may be +A task for you to harken me. + +O Lady Mary, I have bought +A candle, as the good priest taught. +I only had one penny, so +Old Goody Jenkins let it go. +It is a little bent, you see. +But Oh, be merciful to me! + +I have not anything to give, +Yet I so long for him to live. +A year ago he sailed away +And not a word unto today. +I've strained my eyes from the sea-wall +But never does he come at all. + +Other ships have entered port +Their voyages finished, long or short, +And other sailors have received +Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved. +My heart is bursting for his hail, +O Virgin, let me spy his sail. + + ~Hull down on the edge of a sun-soaked sea + Sparkle the bellying sails for me. + Taut to the push of a rousing wind + Shaking the sea till it foams behind, + The tightened rigging is shrill with the song: + "We are back again who were gone so long."~ + +One afternoon I bumped my head. +I sat on a post and wished I were dead +Like father and mother, for no one cared +Whither I went or how I fared. +A man's voice said, "My little lad, +Here's a bit of a toy to make you glad." + +Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, +With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain +Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail +Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail +Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, +Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen. + +He held out his hand and gave to me +The most marvellous top which could ever be. +It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, +And a red stone carved into little wings, +All joined by a twisted golden line, +And set in the brown wood, even and fine. + +Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought +My treasure to you as I ought, +But he said to keep it for his sake +And comfort myself with it, and take +Joy in its spinning, and so I do. +It couldn't mean quite the same to you. + +Every day I met him there, +Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. +He told me stories of courts and kings, +Of storms at sea, of lots of things. +The top he said was a sort of sign +That something in the big world was mine. + + ~Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. + Against the horizon a glint in motion. + Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, + Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, + Singing and shouting to port she races, + A flying harp, with her sheets and braces.~ + +O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, +I am in very utmost need. +He loved me, he was all I had, +And when he came it made the sad +Thoughts disappear. This very day +Send his ship home to me I pray. + +I'll be a priest, if you want it so, +I'll work till I have enough to go +And study Latin to say the prayers +On the rosary our old priest wears. +I wished to be a sailor too, +But I will give myself to you. + +I'll never even spin my top, +But put it away in a box. I'll stop +Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. +I'll save my pennies till I have bought +A silver heart in the market square, +I've seen some beautiful, white ones there. + +I'll give up all I want to do +And do whatever you tell me to. +Heavenly Lady, take away +All the games I like to play, +Take my life to fill the score, +Only bring him back once more! + + ~The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, + And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. + The gray dust whirls in the market square, + And the silver hearts are covered with care + By thick tarpaulins. Once again + The bay is black under heavy rain.~ + +The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. +A little boy weeps and prays no more. + + + + +After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok + + + +But why did I kill him? Why? Why? + In the small, gilded room, near the stair? +My ears rack and throb with his cry, + And his eyes goggle under his hair, + As my fingers sink into the fair +White skin of his throat. It was I! + +I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? + I shook him until his red tongue +Hung flapping out through the black, queer, + Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung + With my nails drawing blood, while I flung +The loose, heavy body in fear. + +Fear lest he should still not be dead. + I was drunk with the lust of his life. +The blood-drops oozed slow from his head + And dabbled a chair. And our strife + Lasted one reeling second, his knife +Lay and winked in the lights overhead. + +And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, + When I called him a low, sneaking cur. +And the wail of the violins stirred + My brute anger with visions of her. + As I throttled his windpipe, the purr +Of his breath with the waltz became blurred. + +I have ridden ten miles through the dark, + With that music, an infernal din, +Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! + One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in + To his flesh when the violins, thin +And straining with passion, grow stark. + +One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! + While she danced I was crushing his throat. +He had tasted the joy of her, wound + Round her body, and I heard him gloat + On the favour. That instant I smote. +One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round! + +He is here in the room, in my arm, + His limp body hangs on the spin +Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm + Of blood-drops is hemming us in! + Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin +Is red like his tongue lolling warm. + +One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. + He is heavy, his feet beat the floor +As I drag him about in the swell + Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, + The trumpets crash in through the door. +One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell. + +One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space + Rolls the earth to the hideous glee +Of death! And so cramped is this place, + I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! + Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! +He has covered my mouth with his face! + +And his blood has dripped into my heart! + And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! +Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part + Of my body in tentacles. Through + My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue +His dead body holds me athwart. + +One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! + One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! +One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, + Beats me into a jelly! The chime, + One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. +Air! Give me air! Air! My God! + + + + +Clear, with Light, Variable Winds + + + +The fountain bent and straightened itself +In the night wind, +Blowing like a flower. +It gleamed and glittered, +A tall white lily, +Under the eye of the golden moon. +From a stone seat, +Beneath a blossoming lime, +The man watched it. +And the spray pattered +On the dim grass at his feet. + +The fountain tossed its water, +Up and up, like silver marbles. +Is that an arm he sees? +And for one moment +Does he catch the moving curve +Of a thigh? +The fountain gurgled and splashed, +And the man's face was wet. + +Is it singing that he hears? +A song of playing at ball? +The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, +And through it he sees a woman, +Tossing the water-balls. +Her breasts point outwards, +And the nipples are like buds of peonies. +Her flanks ripple as she plays, +And the water is not more undulating +Than the lines of her body. + +"Come," she sings, "Poet! +Am I not more worth than your day ladies, +Covered with awkward stuffs, +Unreal, unbeautiful? +What do you fear in taking me? +Is not the night for poets? +I am your dream, +Recurrent as water, +Gemmed with the moon!" + +She steps to the edge of the pool +And the water runs, rustling, down her sides. +She stretches out her arms, +And the fountain streams behind her +Like an opened veil. + + * * * * * + +In the morning the gardeners came to their work. +"There is something in the fountain," said one. +They shuddered as they laid their dead master +On the grass. +"I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, +"It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun." + + + + +The Basket + + + + I + +The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, +in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into +the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air +is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. + +See how the roof glitters, like ice! + +Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand +two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. + + +See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. +She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, +between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper +as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", +what a title for a book! + +The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. + + +He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating +his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits +on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. +And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, +and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. + +"It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. +How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" + +The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters +like ice. + + + II + +Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. +The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter +to pay his morning's work with a holiday. + +"Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" + +Peter jumps through the window. + +"Dear, are you alone?" + +"Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread +is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have +seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" + +The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, +at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, +and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with +so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds +new-opened on their stems. + + +Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. + +"No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. +My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little +pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. +The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes +are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do +any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down +and amuse me while I rest." + +The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb +the opposite wall. + + +Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, +and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, +where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. + +The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. + + +He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. +His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room +is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands +the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour +on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs +his name. + +"Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." + +And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. + +There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. + + + III + +"Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." + +"How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, +I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write +`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, +that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage +strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied +the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, +you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. +Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot +feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." + +"As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will +crush your heart and squeeze the love out." + +He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." + +"Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must +have sight! I MUST!" + +The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, +the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman +by a silver thread. + + +They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there +are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased +in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket +is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. +They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce +over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting +on the window-sill, eating human eyes. + +The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines +like ice. + + + IV + +How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, +and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, +and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them +burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". + +The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? +Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" + +The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, +bounces over and disappears. + +The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. + + + V + +The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. +How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow +the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. + +A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, +and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. + + +Annette! + + + + +In a Castle + + + + I + +Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip -- hiss -- drip -- hiss -- +fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, +and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip -- hiss -- the rain never stops. + + +The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim, +in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinks +the rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes +the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewise +out from the wall, and then falls back again. + + +It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly. +He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling. +The fire flutters and drops. Drip -- hiss -- the rain never stops. +He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor. +Outside, the wind goes wailing. + + +The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above, +in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shivers +in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame. +She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her. + +How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips! + + +It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet, +and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms, +and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms +her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself +beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble. + +Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, +terribly abhorred? + + +He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinks +on the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pure +and whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him, +for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes her +by the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord, +and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn, +shriven by her great love. + +Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip -- hiss -- fall the raindrops. +The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall. + + +The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters. +Will the lady lose courage and not come? + +The rain claps on a loosened rafter. + +Is that laughter? + + +The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters. +One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rain +which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries +which chatters? + +The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall +the arras is blown! + + +Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds. +By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and +clasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form +and flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire, +which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noise +never stops. + +Drip -- hiss -- the rain drops. + + +He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door. + + + II + +The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip -- hiss -- fall the raindrops. +For the storm never stops. + +On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, +grey air. Drip -- hiss -- fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. +The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. +A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along +the rush mat. + +A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. +It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life +for the high favour." + +Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, +"Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded +necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, +she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, +you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, +they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, +I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck +to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." +The end was a splashed flourish of ink. + +Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. +The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering +in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair. + + +Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip -- hiss -- drip -- hiss -- +fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops. + +The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. +Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. +Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold. + + + III + +In the castle church you may see them stand, +Two sumptuous tombs on either hand +Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand +In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, +A crusader, come from the Holy Land, +Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. +The page's name became a brand +For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, +After having been burnt by royal command. + + + + +The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde + + + +The Bell in the convent tower swung. +High overhead the great sun hung, +A navel for the curving sky. +The air was a blue clarity. + Swallows flew, + And a cock crew. + +The iron clanging sank through the light air, +Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare +Of spotted green, and a snake had gone +Into the bed where the snowdrops shone + In green new-started, + Their white bells parted. + +Two by two, in a long brown line, +The nuns were walking to breathe the fine +Bright April air. They must go in soon +And work at their tasks all the afternoon. + But this time is theirs! + They walk in pairs. + +First comes the Abbess, preoccupied +And slow, as a woman often tried, +With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. +Then younger and younger, until the last one + Has a laugh on her lips, + And fairly skips. + +They wind about the gravel walks +And all the long line buzzes and talks. +They step in time to the ringing bell, +With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well + In the core of a sky + Domed silverly. + +Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." +Sister Angelique said she must get her spud +And free the earth round the jasmine roots. +Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! + There's a crocus up, + With a purple cup." + +But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, +She looked up and down the old grey wall +To see if a lizard were basking there. +She looked across the garden to where + A sycamore + Flanked the garden door. + +She was restless, although her little feet danced, +And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced +Her morning's work had hung in her mind +And would not take form. She could not find + The beautifulness + For the Virgin's dress. + +Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? +Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? +Should it be banded with yellow and white +Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? + Or a crimson sheen + Over some sort of green? + +But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new +In all the garden, no single hue +So lovely or so marvellous +That its use would not seem impious. + So on she walked, + And the others talked. + +Sister Elisabeth edged away +From what her companion had to say, +For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, +She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. + She did plain stitching + And worked in the kitchen. + +"Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, +I told her so this Friday past. +I must speak to her before Compline." +Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. + The other nun sighed, + With her pleasure quite dried. + +Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: +"The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. +The little white cups bent over the ground, +And in among the light stems wound + A crested snake, + With his eyes awake. + +His body was green with a metal brightness +Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, +And all down his curling length were disks, +Evil vermilion asterisks, + They paled and flooded + As wounds fresh-blooded. + +His crest was amber glittered with blue, +And opaque so the sun came shining through. +It seemed a crown with fiery points. +When he quivered all down his scaly joints, + From every slot + The sparkles shot. + +The nuns huddled tightly together, fear +Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer +More closely at the beautiful snake, +She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make + Colours so rare, + The dress were there. + +The Abbess shook off her lethargy. +"Sisters, we will walk on," said she. +Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, +The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. + Only Clotilde + Was the last to yield. + +When the recreation hour was done +Each went in to her task. Alone +In the library, with its great north light, +Clotilde wrought at an exquisite + Wreath of flowers + For her Book of Hours. + +She twined the little crocus blooms +With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms +Of laurel leaves were interwoven +With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven + Fritillaries, + Whose colour varies. + +They framed the picture she had made, +Half-delighted and half-afraid. +In a courtyard with a lozenged floor +The Virgin watched, and through the arched door + The angel came + Like a springing flame. + +His wings were dipped in violet fire, +His limbs were strung to holy desire. +He lowered his head and passed under the arch, +And the air seemed beating a solemn march. + The Virgin waited + With eyes dilated. + +Her face was quiet and innocent, +And beautiful with her strange assent. +A silver thread about her head +Her halo was poised. But in the stead + Of her gown, there remained + The vellum, unstained. + +Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, +Lingering over each tint and dye. +She could spend great pains, now she had seen +That curious, unimagined green. + A colour so strange + It had seemed to change. + +She thought it had altered while she gazed. +At first it had been simple green; then glazed +All over with twisting flames, each spot +A molten colour, trembling and hot, + And every eye + Seemed to liquefy. + +She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. +After all, she had only glanced +At that wonderful snake, and she must know +Just what hues made the creature throw + Those splashes and sprays + Of prismed rays. + +When evening prayers were sung and said, +The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. +And soon in the convent there was no light, +For the moon did not rise until late that night, + Only the shine + Of the lamp at the shrine. + +Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. +Her heart shook her body with its beats. +She could not see till the moon should rise, +So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes + On the window-square + Till light should be there. + +The faintest shadow of a branch +Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch +With solemn purpose, softly rose +And fluttered down between the rows + Of sleeping nuns. + She almost runs. + +She must go out through the little side door +Lest the nuns who were always praying before +The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. +She pushed the bolts, and over the grass + The red moon's brim + Mounted its rim. + +Her shadow crept up the convent wall +As she swiftly left it, over all +The garden lay the level glow +Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. + The gravel glistened. + She stopped and listened. + +It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. +She laughed a little, but she felt queerer +Than ever before. The snowdrop bed +Was reached and she bent down her head. + On the striped ground + The snake was wound. + +For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, +Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. +She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. +She darted her hand out, and seized the thick + Wriggling slime, + Only just in time. + +The old gardener came muttering down the path, +And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, +And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. +He bit her, but what difference did that make! + The Virgin should dress + In his loveliness. + +The gardener was covering his new-set plants +For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts +Your lover of growing things. He spied +Something to do and turned aside, + And the moonlight streamed + On Clotilde, and gleamed. + +His business finished the gardener rose. +He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows +A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she +Grasping him, laughing, while quietly + Her eyes are weeping. + Is he sleeping? + +He thinks it is some holy vision, +Brushes that aside and with decision +Jumps -- and hits the snake with his stick, +Crushes his spine, and then with quick, + Urgent command + Takes her hand. + +The gardener sucks the poison and spits, +Cursing and praying as befits +A poor old man half out of his wits. +"Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's + Hatched of a devil + And very evil. + +It's one of them horrid basilisks +You read about. They say a man risks +His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it +Out by now. Lucky I chucked it + Away from you. + I guess you'll do." + +"Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast +Was sent to me, to me the least +Worthy in all our convent, so I +Could finish my picture of the Most High + And Holy Queen, + In her dress of green. + +He is dead now, but his colours won't fade +At once, and by noon I shall have made +The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see +How kindly the moon shines down on me! + I can't die yet, + For the task was set." + +"You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," +Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. +If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong, --" +"Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." + So Clotilde vented + Her creed. He repented. + +"He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. +"Paint as much as you like." And gingerly +He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde +Thanked him, and begged that he would shield + Her secret, though itching + To talk in the kitchen. + +The gardener promised, not very pleased, +And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, +Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon +Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon + In her bed she lay + And waited for day. + +At dawn's first saffron-spired warning +Clotilde was up. And all that morning, +Except when she went to the chapel to pray, +She painted, and when the April day + Was hot with sun, + Clotilde had done. + +Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud +At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed +To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. +A lady, in excellence arrayed, + And wonder-souled. + Christ's Blessed Mould! + +From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, +But her eyes were starred like those of a saint +Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. +A sudden clamour hurled its rude + Force to break + Her vision awake. + +The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed +By the multitude of nuns. They hushed +When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, +Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. + And all the hive + Buzzed "She's alive!" + +Old Francois had told. He had found the strain +Of silence too great, and preferred the pain +Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, +And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. + For Francois, to spite them, + Had not seen fit to right them. + +The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, +Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, +Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, +To spare you while you imaged her face? + How could we have guessed + Our convent so blessed! + +A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! +To have you die! And I, who am +A hollow, living shell, the grave +Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave + To be taken, Dear Mother, + Instead of this other." + +She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, +With anguished hands and tears delayed +To a painful slowness. The minutes drew +To fractions. Then the west wind blew + The sound of a bell, + On a gusty swell. + +It came skipping over the slates of the roof, +And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof +To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. +The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. + And the sun lit the flowers + In Clotilde's Book of Hours. + +It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress +And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, +Pulse and start; and the violet wings +Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. + The book seemed a choir + Of rainbow fire. + +The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun +Did the same, then one by one, +They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers +Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. + Clotilde, the Inspired! + + She only felt tired. + + * * * * * + +The old chronicles say she did not die +Until heavy with years. And that is why +There hangs in the convent church a basket +Of osiered silver, a holy casket, + And treasured therein + A dried snake-skin. + + + + +The Exeter Road + + + +Panels of claret and blue which shine +Under the moon like lees of wine. +A coronet done in a golden scroll, +And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll +Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. + They daren't look back! + +They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! +What brutes men are when they think they're scored. +Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, +In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see +That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, + Hop about and slue. + +They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. +For my lord has a casket full of rolls +Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. +I laugh to think how he'll show his scars +In London to-morrow. He whines with rage + In his varnished cage. + +My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. +'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. +But I shall relieve her of them yet, +When I see she limps in the minuet +I must beg to celebrate this night, + And the green moonlight. + +There's nothing to hurry about, the plain +Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. +My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, +In half an hour I'll bag the coins. +'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. + The chase is the thing! + +How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon +Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune +Is beating out of the curses and screams, +And the cracking all through the painted seams. +Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. + 'Tis a rare fine night! + +There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, +And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. +It seems a shame to break the air +In two with this pistol, but I've my share +Of drudgery like other men. + His hat? Amen! + +Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! +Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, +Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. +'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. +A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! + They'll get me, of course. + +The cursed coach will reach the town +And they'll all come out, every loafer grown +A lion to handcuff a man that's down. +What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! +I'll give it a head to fit it pat. + Thank you! No cravat. + + +~They handcuffed the body just for style, +And they hung him in chains for the volatile +Wind to scour him flesh from bones. +Way out on the moor you can hear the groans +His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. + 'Tis a common tale.~ + + + + +The Shadow + + + +Paul Jannes was working very late, +For this watch must be done by eight +To-morrow or the Cardinal +Would certainly be vexed. Of all +His customers the old prelate +Was the most important, for his state +Descended to his watches and rings, +And he gave his mistresses many things +To make them forget his age and smile +When he paid visits, and they could while +The time away with a diamond locket +Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, +And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. +This watch was made to buy him blisses +From an Austrian countess on her way +Home, and she meant to start next day. + + +Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame +Of a tallow candle, and became +So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince +Striking the hour a moment since. +Its echo, only half apprehended, +Lingered about the room. He ended +Screwing the little rubies in, +Setting the wheels to lock and spin, +Curling the infinitesimal springs, +Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings +Of precious stones lay strewn about. +The table before him was a rout +Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. +There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite +A heap of emeralds, and steel. +Here was a gem, there was a wheel. +And glasses lay like limpid lakes +Shining and still, and there were flakes +Of silver, and shavings of pearl, +And little wires all awhirl +With the light of the candle. He took the watch +And wound its hands about to match +The time, then glanced up to take the hour +From the hanging clock. + Good, Merciful Power! +How came that shadow on the wall, +No woman was in the room! His tall +Chiffonier stood gaunt behind +His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, +Hung from a peg. The door was closed. +Just for a moment he must have dozed. +He looked again, and saw it plain. +The silhouette made a blue-black stain +On the opposite wall, and it never wavered +Even when the candle quavered +Under his panting breath. What made +That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade +Of something so lovely, so exquisite, +Cast from a substance which the sight +Had not been tutored to perceive? +Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve. + +Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall +Gleamed black, and never moved at all. + + +Paul's watches were like amulets, +Wrought into patterns and rosettes; +The cases were all set with stones, +And wreathing lines, and shining zones. +He knew the beauty in a curve, +And the Shadow tortured every nerve +With its perfect rhythm of outline +Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine +Was the neck he knew he could have spanned +It about with the fingers of one hand. +The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, +But could not see, the lips were pressed +Loosely together, the edges close, +And the proud and delicate line of the nose +Melted into a brow, and there +Broke into undulant waves of hair. +The lady was edged with the stamp of race. +A singular vision in such a place. + + +He moved the candle to the tall +Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. +He threw his cloak upon a chair, +And still the lady's face was there. +From every corner of the room +He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom +That was the lady. Her violet bloom +Was almost brighter than that which came +From his candle's tulip-flame. +He set the filigree hands; he laid +The watch in the case which he had made; +He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed +His candle out. The room seemed stuffed +With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, +And let himself out through the door. + + +The sun was flashing from every pin +And wheel, when Paul let himself in. +The whitewashed walls were hot with light. +The room was the core of a chrysolite, +Burning and shimmering with fiery might. +The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall +From the furniture upon the wall. +Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space +Where a glare usurped the lady's place. +He settled himself to his work, but his mind +Wandered, and he would wake to find +His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, +And nothing advanced beyond the rim +Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay +For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. +But Paul could hardly touch the gold, +It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. +With the first twilight he struck a match +And watched the little blue stars hatch +Into an egg of perfect flame. +He lit his candle, and almost in shame +At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. +The Shadow was there, and its precise +Outline etched the cold, white wall. +The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, +There's something the matter with your brain. +Go home now and sleep off the strain." + + +The next day was a storm, the rain +Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. +A grey and shadowless morning filled +The little shop. The watches, chilled, +Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. +The gems lay on the table like shoals +Of stranded shells, their colours faded, +Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. +Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed +No orders, for his fancy strayed. +His work became a simple round +Of watches repaired and watches wound. +The slanting ribbons of the rain +Broke themselves on the window-pane, +But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. +Only when the candle was lit +And on the wall just opposite +He watched again the coming of IT, +Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul +And over his hands regain control. + + +Paul lingered late in his shop that night +And the designs which his delight +Sketched on paper seemed to be +A tribute offered wistfully +To the beautiful shadow of her who came +And hovered over his candle flame. +In the morning he selected all +His perfect jacinths. One large opal +Hung like a milky, rainbow moon +In the centre, and blown in loose festoon +The red stones quivered on silver threads +To the outer edge, where a single, fine +Band of mother-of-pearl the line +Completed. On the other side, +The creamy porcelain of the face +Bore diamond hours, and no lace +Of cotton or silk could ever be +Tossed into being more airily +Than the filmy golden hands; the time +Seemed to tick away in rhyme. +When, at dusk, the Shadow grew +Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. +Holding the watch, he spoke to her: +"Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir +Into one brief sign of being. +Turn your eyes this way, and seeing +This watch, made from those sweet curves +Where your hair from your forehead swerves, +Accept the gift which I have wrought +With your fairness in my thought. +Grant me this, and I shall be +Honoured overwhelmingly." + +The Shadow rested black and still, +And the wind sighed over the window-sill. + + +Paul put the despised watch away +And laid out before him his array +Of stones and metals, and when the morning +Struck the stones to their best adorning, +He chose the brightest, and this new watch +Was so light and thin it seemed to catch +The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. +Topazes ran in a foamy stream +Over the cover, the hands were studded +With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. +The face was of crystal, and engraved +Upon it the figures flashed and waved +With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. +It took a week to make, and his trysts +At night with the Shadow were his alone. +Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. +The night that the jewel was worthy to give. +Paul watched the long hours of daylight live +To the faintest streak; then lit his light, +And sharp against the wall's pure white +The outline of the Shadow started +Into form. His burning-hearted +Words so long imprisoned swelled +To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, +He told the lady all his love, +And holding out the watch above +His head, he knelt, imploring some +Littlest sign. + The Shadow was dumb. + + +Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, +And everything he made he placed +Before his lady. The Shadow kept +Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. +He wooed her with the work of his hands, +He waited for those dear commands +She never gave. No word, no motion, +Eased the ache of his devotion. +His days passed in a strain of toil, +His nights burnt up in a seething coil. +Seasons shot by, uncognisant +He worked. The Shadow came to haunt +Even his days. Sometimes quite plain +He saw on the wall the blackberry stain +Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright +Enough to dazzle that from his sight. + + +There were moments when he groaned to see +His life spilled out so uselessly, +Begging for boons the Shade refused, +His finest workmanship abused, +The iridescent bubbles he blew +Into lovely existence, poor and few +In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse +Himself and her! The Universe! +And more, the beauty he could not make, +And give her, for her comfort's sake! +He would beat his weary, empty hands +Upon the table, would hold up strands +Of silver and gold, and ask her why +She scorned the best which he could buy. +He would pray as to some high-niched saint, +That she would cure him of the taint +Of failure. He would clutch the wall +With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall +He could catch, and hold her, and make her live! +With sobs he would ask her to forgive +All he had done. And broken, spent, +He would call himself impertinent; +Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven +To madness by the sight of Heaven. +At other times he would take the things +He had made, and winding them on strings, +Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes, +Chanting strangely, while the fumes +Wreathed and blotted the shadow face, +As with a cloudy, nacreous lace. +There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed +In tenderness, spoke to his bride, +Urged her to patience, said his skill +Should break the spell. A man's sworn will +Could compass life, even that, he knew. +By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true! + +The edge of the Shadow never blurred. +The lips of the Shadow never stirred. + + +He would climb on chairs to reach her lips, +And pat her hair with his finger-tips. +But instead of young, warm flesh returning +His warmth, the wall was cold and burning +Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled, +Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed +At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick, +He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick +Phantasmagoria crowded his brain, +And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain. +The crisis passed, he would wake and smile +With a vacant joy, half-imbecile +And quite confused, not being certain +Why he was suffering; a curtain +Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled +His sorrow. Like a little child +He would play with his watches and gems, with glee +Calling the Shadow to look and see +How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily +When he flashed his stones. "Mother, the green +Has slid so cunningly in between +The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!" +Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown, +He would get up slowly from his play +And walk round the room, feeling his way +From table to chair, from chair to door, +Stepping over the cracks in the floor, +Till reaching the table again, her face +Would bring recollection, and no solace +Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness +Stifled him and his great distress. + + +One morning he threw the street door wide +On coming in, and his vigorous stride +Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. +In his hands he carried a new-burst clump +Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks +Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks +To the wife he left an hour ago, +Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know +To-day the calendar calls it Spring, +And I woke this morning gathering +Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. +So I rushed out to see what flowers blew +Their pink-and-purple-scented souls +Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, +And made the approach to the Market Square +A garden with smells and sunny air. +I feel so well and happy to-day, +I think I shall take a Holiday. +And to-night we will have a little treat. +I am going to bring you something to eat!" +He looked at the Shadow anxiously. +It was quite grave and silent. He +Shut the outer door and came +And leant against the window-frame. +"Dearest," he said, "we live apart +Although I bear you in my heart. +We look out each from a different world. +At any moment we may be hurled +Asunder. They follow their orbits, we +Obey their laws entirely. +Now you must come, or I go there, +Unless we are willing to live the flare +Of a lighted instant and have it gone." + +A bee in the laurels began to drone. +A loosened petal fluttered prone. + +"Man grows by eating, if you eat +You will be filled with our life, sweet +Will be our planet in your mouth. +If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth +Until I gain to where you are, +And give you myself in whatever star +May happen. O You Beloved of Me! +Is it not ordered cleverly?" + +The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, +Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. + + +Paul slipped away as the dusk began +To dim the little shop. He ran +To the nearest inn, and chose with care +As much as his thin purse could bear. +As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking +Of the sacred wafer, and through the making +Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers +That God will bless this labour of theirs; +So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, +Purchased the best which he could buy. +Returning, he brushed his tools aside, +And laid across the table a wide +Napkin. He put a glass and plate +On either side, in duplicate. +Over the lady's, excellent +With loveliness, the laurels bent. +In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, +And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood +Was the wine which should bring the lustihood +Of human life to his lady's veins. +When all was ready, all which pertains +To a simple meal was there, with eyes +Lit by the joy of his great emprise, +He reverently bade her come, +And forsake for him her distant home. +He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, +And waited what should come to pass. + +The Shadow lay quietly on the wall. +From the street outside came a watchman's call +"A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall." + +And still he waited. The clock's slow tick +Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick. + +He filled his own glass full of wine; +From his pocket he took a paper. The twine +Was knotted, and he searched a knife +From his jumbled tools. The cord of life +Snapped as he cut the little string. +He knew that he must do the thing +He feared. He shook powder into the wine, +And holding it up so the candle's shine +Sparked a ruby through its heart, +He drank it. "Dear, never apart +Again! You have said it was mine to do. +It is done, and I am come to you!" + + +Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall, +And held out his arms. The insentient wall +Stared down at him with its cold, white glare +Unstained! The Shadow was not there! +Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat. +He felt the veins in his body bloat, +And the hot blood run like fire and stones +Along the sides of his cracking bones. +But he laughed as he staggered towards the door, +And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor. + + + +The Coroner took the body away, +And the watches were sold that Saturday. +The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy +Such watches, and the prices were high. + + + + +The Forsaken + + + +Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come +from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such +far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused. +I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause! + + +Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear +be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped +it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame, +just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, +and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die? + + +That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not +be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry. +Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child +alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face +the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled +for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did. +Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me! + + +I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "whore", +and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have +the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman, +he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, +what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, +Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman +must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing. +I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign. +What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never +feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have. +Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! + + +He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good +a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school +in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, +so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, +out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, +I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, +I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, +take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came. +No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months. +To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother. +She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born +for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away! +Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! + + +And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl. +Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known +my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, +and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, +and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, +I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another. +I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! + + +So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart +where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be +quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me. +What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues +when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby, +when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, +his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, +and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels +to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings? +I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem +just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother. +He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, +but give me strength to bring him up to be a man. + + + + +Late September + + + +Tang of fruitage in the air; +Red boughs bursting everywhere; +Shimmering of seeded grass; +Hooded gentians all a'mass. + +Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind +Tearing off the husky rind, +Blowing feathered seeds to fall +By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. + +Beech trees in a golden haze; +Hardy sumachs all ablaze, +Glowing through the silver birches. +How that pine tree shouts and lurches! + +From the sunny door-jamb high, +Swings the shell of a butterfly. +Scrape of insect violins +Through the stubble shrilly dins. + +Every blade's a minaret +Where a small muezzin's set, +Loudly calling us to pray +At the miracle of day. + +Then the purple-lidded night +Westering comes, her footsteps light +Guided by the radiant boon +Of a sickle-shaped new moon. + + + + +The Pike + + + +In the brown water, +Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, +Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, +A pike dozed. +Lost among the shadows of stems +He lay unnoticed. +Suddenly he flicked his tail, +And a green-and-copper brightness +Ran under the water. + +Out from under the reeds +Came the olive-green light, +And orange flashed up +Through the sun-thickened water. +So the fish passed across the pool, +Green and copper, +A darkness and a gleam, +And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank +Received it. + + + + +The Blue Scarf + + + +Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded +In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, + it lies there, +Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. +Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! +A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down + on my face, +And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim + in cool-tinted heavens. +Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. +Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. +A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied +Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, +Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf +On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. +She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath + her slight stirring. +Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel +Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to + a handful of cinders, +And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. + +How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone! + + + + +White and Green + + + +Hey! My daffodil-crowned, +Slim and without sandals! +As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness +So my eyeballs are startled with you, +Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, +Light runner through tasselled orchards. +You are an almond flower unsheathed +Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. + + + + +Aubade + + + +As I would free the white almond from the green husk +So would I strip your trappings off, +Beloved. +And fingering the smooth and polished kernel +I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. + + + + +Music + + + +The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute. +From my bed I can hear him, +And the round notes flutter and tap about the room, +And hit against each other, +Blurring to unexpected chords. +It is very beautiful, +With the little flute-notes all about me, +In the darkness. + +In the daytime, +The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand +And copies music with the other. +He is fat and has a bald head, +So I do not look at him, +But run quickly past his window. +There is always the sky to look at, +Or the water in the well! + +But when night comes and he plays his flute, +I think of him as a young man, +With gold seals hanging from his watch, +And a blue coat with silver buttons. +As I lie in my bed +The flute-notes push against my ears and lips, +And I go to sleep, dreaming. + + + + +A Lady + + + +You are beautiful and faded +Like an old opera tune +Played upon a harpsichord; +Or like the sun-flooded silks +Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. +In your eyes +Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, +And the perfume of your soul +Is vague and suffusing, +With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. +Your half-tones delight me, +And I grow mad with gazing +At your blent colours. + +My vigour is a new-minted penny, +Which I cast at your feet. +Gather it up from the dust, +That its sparkle may amuse you. + + + + +In a Garden + + + +Gushing from the mouths of stone men +To spread at ease under the sky +In granite-lipped basins, +Where iris dabble their feet +And rustle to a passing wind, +The water fills the garden with its rushing, +In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. + +Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, +Where trickle and plash the fountains, +Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. + +Splashing down moss-tarnished steps +It falls, the water; +And the air is throbbing with it. +With its gurgling and running. +With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. + +And I wished for night and you. +I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, +White and shining in the silver-flecked water. +While the moon rode over the garden, +High in the arch of night, +And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. + +Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! + + + + +A Tulip Garden + + + +Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, + Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, + The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry +Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace +Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! + Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, + With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye +Of purple batteries, every gun in place. + Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, +With torches burning, stepping out in time + To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, +We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime + Parades that army. With our utmost powers + We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + + +Notes: + + + After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok: + Originally: After Hearing a Waltz by Barto/k: + + A Blockhead: + "There are non, ever. As a monk who prays" + changed to: + "There are none, ever. As a monk who prays" + + A Tale of Starvation: + "And he neither eat nor drank." + changed to: + "And he neither ate nor drank." + + The Great Adventure of Max Breuck: + Stanza headings were originally Roman Numerals. + + The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde: + The following names are presented in this etext sans accents: + Margue/rite, Ange/lique, Ve/ronique, Franc,ois. + +The following unconnected lines in the etext are presented sans accents: + The factory of Se\vres had lent + Strange winge/d dragons writhe about + And rich perfume/d smells + A fae"ry moonshine washing pale the crowds + Our eyes will close to undisturbe/d rest. + And terror-winge/d steps. His heart began + On the stripe/d ground + + + + +Some books by Amy Lowell: + + + Poetry: + A Critical Fable + * A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912) + * Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) + * Men, Women and Ghosts (1916) + Can Grande's Castle (1918) + Pictures of the Floating World (1919) + Legends (1921) + What's O'Clock (1925) + East Wind + Ballads For Sale + + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese (1921) + + + Prose: + John Keats + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature (1915) + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917) + +* Now available online from Project Gutenberg. + + + + +About the author: + +From the notes to "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), +edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. + + +Lowell, Amy. Born in Brookline, Mass., Feb. 9, 1874. +Educated at private schools. Author of "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass", 1912; +"Sword Blades and Poppy Seed", 1914; "Men, Women and Ghosts", 1916; +"Can Grande's Castle", 1918; "Pictures of the Floating World", 1919. +Editor of the three successive collections of "Some Imagist Poets", +1915, '16, and '17, containing the early work of the "Imagist School" +of which Miss Lowell became the leader. This movement, . . . +originated in England, the idea have been first conceived by a young poet +named T. E. Hulme, but developed and put forth by Ezra Pound +in an article called "Don'ts by an Imagist", which appeared +in `Poetry; A Magazine of Verse'. . . . A small group of poets +gathered about Mr. Pound, experimenting along the technical lines suggested, +and a cult of "Imagism" was formed, whose first group-expression was in +the little volume, "Des Imagistes", published in New York in April, 1914. +Miss Lowell did not come actively into the movement until after that time, +but once she had entered it, she became its leader, and it was chiefly +through her effort in America that the movement attained so much prominence +and so influenced the trend of poetry for the years immediately succeeding. +Miss Lowell many times, in admirable articles, stated the principles +upon which Imagism is based, notably in the Preface to "Some Imagist Poets" +and in the Preface to the second series, in 1916. She also elaborated it +much more fully in her volume, "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry", 1917, +in the articles pertaining to the work of "H.D." and John Gould Fletcher. +In her own creative work, however, Miss Lowell did most to establish +the possibilities of the Imagistic idea and of its modes of presentation, +and opened up many interesting avenues of poetic form. Her volume, +"Can Grande's Castle", is devoted to work in the medium +which she styled "Polyphonic Prose" and contains some of her finest work, +particularly "The Bronze Horses". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of Sword Blades & Poppy Seed by Lowell + diff --git a/old/old/sbaps10.zip b/old/old/sbaps10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0672e0b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/sbaps10.zip |