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| author | 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/1021-0.txt b/1021-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5caaea --- /dev/null +++ b/1021-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3729 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1021 *** + +THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS + +By Vachel Lindsay + +[Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Illinois Artist. 1879-1931.] + + +With an introduction by Harriet Monroe Editor of "Poetry" + +[Notes: The 'stage-directions' given in "The Congo" and those +poems which are meant to be read aloud, are traditionally printed to the +right side of the first line it refers to. This is possible, but +impracticable, to imitate in a simple ASCII text. Therefore these +'stage-directions' are given on the line BEFORE the first line they +refer to, and are furthermore indented 20 spaces and enclosed by #s to +keep it clear to the reader which parts are text and which parts +directions.] + +[This electronic text was transcribed from a reprint of the original +edition, which was first published in New York, in September, 1914. Due +to a great deal of irregularity between titles in the table of contents +and in the text of the original, there are some slight differences from +the original in these matters--with the more complete titles replacing +cropped ones. In one case they are different enough that both are +given, and "Twenty Poems in which...." was originally "Twenty Moon +Poems" in the table of contents--the odd thing about both these titles +is that there are actually twenty-TWO moon poems.] + + + + + +THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS + + + + +Introduction. By Harriet Monroe + + + +When 'Poetry, A Magazine of Verse', was first published in Chicago in +the autumn of 1912, an Illinois poet, Vachel Lindsay, was, quite +appropriately, one of its first discoveries. It may be not quite without +significance that the issue of January, 1913, which led off with +'General William Booth Enters into Heaven', immediately followed the +number in which the great poet of Bengal, Rabindra Nath Tagore, was +first presented to the American public, and that these two antipodal +poets soon appeared in person among the earliest visitors to the editor. +For the coming together of East and West may prove to be the great event +of the approaching era, and if the poetry of the now famous Bengali +laureate garners the richest wisdom and highest spirituality of his +ancient race, so one may venture to believe that the young Illinois +troubadour brings from Lincoln's city an authentic strain of the lyric +message of this newer world. + +It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to mention Mr. Lindsay's loyalty to the +people of his place and hour, or the training in sympathy with their +aims and ideals which he has achieved through vagabondish wanderings in +the Middle West. And we may permit time to decide how far he expresses +their emotion. But it may be opportune to emphasize his plea for poetry +as a song art, an art appealing to the ear rather than the eye. The +first section of this volume is especially an effort to restore poetry +to its proper place--the audience-chamber, and take it out of the +library, the closet. In the library it has become, so far as the people +are concerned, almost a lost art, and perhaps it can be restored to the +people only through a renewal of its appeal to the ear. + +I am tempted to quote from Mr. Lindsay's explanatory note which +accompanied three of these poems when they were first printed in +'Poetry'. He said: + +"Mr. Yeats asked me recently in Chicago, 'What are we going to do to +restore the primitive singing of poetry?' I find what Mr. Yeats means +by 'the primitive singing of poetry' in Professor Edward Bliss Reed's +new volume on 'The English Lyric'. He says in his chapter on the +definition of the lyric: 'With the Greeks "song" was an all-embracing +term. It included the crooning of the nurse to the child... the +half-sung chant of the mower or sailor... the formal ode sung by the poet. +In all Greek lyrics, even in the choral odes, music was the handmaid of +verse.... The poet himself composed the accompaniment. Euripides was +censured because Iophon had assisted him in the musical setting of some +of his dramas.' Here is pictured a type of Greek work which survives in +American vaudeville, where every line may be two-thirds spoken and +one-third sung, the entire rendering, musical and elocutionary, depending +upon the improvising power and sure instinct of the performer. + +"I respectfully submit these poems as experiments in which I endeavor to +carry this vaudeville form back towards the old Greek precedent of the +half-chanted lyric. In this case the one-third of music must be added +by the instinct of the reader. He must be Iophon. And he can easily be +Iophon if he brings to bear upon the piece what might be called the +Higher Vaudeville imagination.... + +"Big general contrasts between the main sections should be the rule of +the first attempts at improvising. It is the hope of the writer that +after two or three readings each line will suggest its own separate +touch of melody to the reader who has become accustomed to the cadences. +Let him read what he likes read, and sing what he likes sung." + +It was during this same visit in Chicago, at 'Poetry's' banquet on the +evening of March first, 1914, that Mr. Yeats honored Mr. Lindsay by +addressing his after-dinner talk primarily to him as "a fellow +craftsman", and by saying of 'General Booth': + +"This poem is stripped bare of ornament; it has an earnest simplicity, a +strange beauty, and you know Bacon said, 'There is no excellent beauty +without strangeness.'" + +This recognition from the distinguished Irish poet tempts me to hint at +the cosmopolitan aspects of such racily local art as Mr. Lindsay's. The +subject is too large for a merely introductory word, but the reader may +be invited to reflect upon it. If Mr. Lindsay's poetry should cross the +ocean, it would not be the first time that our most indigenous art has +reacted upon the art of older nations. Besides Poe--who, though +indigenous in ways too subtle for brief analysis, yet passed all +frontiers in his swift, sad flight--the two American artists of widest +influence, Whitman and Whistler, have been intensely American in +temperament and in the special spiritual quality of their art. + +If Whistler was the first great artist to accept the modern message in +Oriental art, if Whitman was the first great modern poet to discard the +limitations of conventional form: if both were more free, more +individual, than their contemporaries, this was the expression of their +Americanism, which may perhaps be defined as a spiritual independence +and love of adventure inherited from the pioneers. Foreign artists are +usually the first to recognize this new tang; one detects the influence +of the great dead poet and dead painter in all modern art which looks +forward instead of back; and their countrymen, our own contemporary +poets and painters, often express indirectly, through French influences, +a reaction which they are reluctant to confess directly. + +A lighter phase of this foreign enthusiasm for the American tang is +confessed by Signor Marinetti, the Italian "futurist", when in his +article on 'Futurism and the Theatre', in 'The Mask', he urges the +revolutionary value of "American eccentrics", citing the fundamental +primitive quality in their vaudeville art. This may be another statement +of Mr. Lindsay's plea for a closer relation between the poet and his +audience, for a return to the healthier open-air conditions, and +immediate personal contacts, in the art of the Greeks and of primitive +nations. Such conditions and contacts may still be found, if the world +only knew it, in the wonderful song-dances of the Hopis and others of +our aboriginal tribes. They may be found, also, in a measure, in the +quick response between artist and audience in modern vaudeville. They +are destined to a wider and higher influence; in fact, the development +of that influence, the return to primitive sympathies between artist and +audience, which may make possible once more the assertion of primitive +creative power, is recognized as the immediate movement in modern art. +It is a movement strong enough to persist in spite of extravagances and +absurdities; strong enough, it may be hoped, to fulfil its purpose and +revitalize the world. + +It is because Mr. Lindsay's poetry seems to be definitely in that +movement that it is, I think, important. + +Harriet Monroe. + + + + + +Table of Contents + + + + Introduction. By Harriet Monroe + + + First Section + + Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. + + The Congo + The Santa Fe Trail + The Firemen's Ball + The Master of the Dance + The Mysterious Cat + A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten + Yankee Doodle + The Black Hawk War of the Artists + The Jingo and the Minstrel + I Heard Immanuel Singing + + + Second Section + + Incense + + An Argument + A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign + In Memory of a Child + Galahad, Knight Who Perished + The Leaden-eyed + An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie + The Hearth Eternal + The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit + By the Spring, at Sunset + I Went down into the Desert + Love and Law + The Perfect Marriage + Darling Daughter of Babylon + The Amaranth + The Alchemist's Petition + Two Easter Stanzas + The Traveller-heart + The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son + + + Third Section + + A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" + + This Section is a Christmas Tree + The Sun Says his Prayers + Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) + I. The Lion + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down + V. Parvenu + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly + VII. Crickets on a Strike + How a Little Girl Danced + In Praise of Songs that Die + Factory Windows are always Broken + To Mary Pickford + Blanche Sweet + Sunshine + An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic + When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich + Rhymes for Gloriana + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair + + + Fourth Section + + Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech + + Once More--To Gloriana + + First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children + I. Euclid + II. The Haughty Snail-king + III. What the Rattlesnake Said + IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + V. Drying their Wings + VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said + VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror + I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor + II. On the Garden-wall + III. Written for a Musician + IV. The Moon is a Painter + V. The Encyclopaedia + VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said + VII. What the Coal-heaver Said + VIII. What the Moon Saw + IX. What Semiramis Said + X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said + XI. The Spice-tree + XII. The Scissors-grinder + XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl + XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn + XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + + Fifth Section + War. September 1, 1914 + Intended to be Read Aloud + + I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight + II. A Curse for Kings + III. Who Knows? + IV. To Buddha + V. The Unpardonable Sin + VI. Above the Battle's Front + VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings + + + + + +First Section ~~ Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. + + + + + +The Congo + +A Study of the Negro Race + + + + I. Their Basic Savagery + + Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, + Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, + # A deep rolling bass. # + Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, + Pounded on the table, + Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, + Hard as they were able, + Boom, boom, BOOM, + With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. + I could not turn from their revel in derision. + # More deliberate. Solemnly chanted. # + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + Then along that riverbank + A thousand miles + Tattooed cannibals danced in files; + Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song + # A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket. # + And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. + And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, + "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, + "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, + Harry the uplands, + Steal all the cattle, + Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, + Bing. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + # With a philosophic pause. # + A roaring, epic, rag-time tune + From the mouth of the Congo + To the Mountains of the Moon. + Death is an Elephant, + # Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre. # + Torch-eyed and horrible, + Foam-flanked and terrible. + BOOM, steal the pygmies, + BOOM, kill the Arabs, + BOOM, kill the white men, + HOO, HOO, HOO. + # Like the wind in the chimney. # + Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost + Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. + Hear how the demons chuckle and yell + Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. + Listen to the creepy proclamation, + Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, + Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, + Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:-- + "Be careful what you do, + # All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. + Light accents very light. Last line whispered. # + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." + + + II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits + + # Rather shrill and high. # + Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call + Danced the juba in their gambling-hall + And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, + And guyed the policemen and laughed them down + With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + # Read exactly as in first section. # + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + # Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. + Keep as light-footed as possible. # + A negro fairyland swung into view, + A minstrel river + Where dreams come true. + The ebony palace soared on high + Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. + The inlaid porches and casements shone + With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. + And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore + At the baboon butler in the agate door, + And the well-known tunes of the parrot band + That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. + + # With pomposity. # + A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came + Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, + Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust + And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. + And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call + And danced the juba from wall to wall. + # With a great deliberation and ghostliness. # + But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng + With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:-- + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."... + # With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp. # + Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, + Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, + Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, + And tall silk hats that were red as wine. + # With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm. # + And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, + Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, + Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, + And bells on their ankles and little black feet. + And the couples railed at the chant and the frown + Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. + (O rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile.) + + The cake-walk royalty then began + To walk for a cake that was tall as a man + To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + # With a touch of negro dialect, + and as rapidly as possible toward the end. # + While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, + And sang with the scalawags prancing there:-- + "Walk with care, walk with care, + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Beware, beware, walk with care, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, + BOOM." + # Slow philosophic calm. # + Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile. + + + III. The Hope of their Religion + + # Heavy bass. With a literal imitation + of camp-meeting racket, and trance. # + A good old negro in the slums of the town + Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. + Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, + His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. + Beat on the Bible till he wore it out + Starting the jubilee revival shout. + And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, + And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, + And they all repented, a thousand strong + From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong + And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room + With "glory, glory, glory," + And "Boom, boom, BOOM." + # Exactly as in the first section. + Begin with terror and power, end with joy. # + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK + CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil + And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. + In bright white steele they were seated round + And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. + And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high + Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:-- + # Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand + harps and voices". # + "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; + Never again will he hoo-doo you, + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + # With growing deliberation and joy. # + Then along that river, a thousand miles + The vine-snared trees fell down in files. + Pioneer angels cleared the way + For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, + For sacred capitals, for temples clean. + Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. + # In a rather high key--as delicately as possible. # + There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed + A million boats of the angels sailed + With oars of silver, and prows of blue + And silken pennants that the sun shone through. + 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation. + Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation + And on through the backwoods clearing flew:-- + # To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices". # + "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. + Never again will he hoo-doo you. + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, + And only the vulture dared again + By the far, lone mountains of the moon + To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:-- + # Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper. # + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Mumbo... Jumbo... will... hoo-doo... you." + + + +This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion +in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death of +Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ who +perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo. See "A Master +Builder on the Congo", by Andrew F. Hensey, published by Fleming H. +Revell. + + + + +The Santa Fe Trail + + (A Humoresque) + + +I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He +answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, lark, or +thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane." + + + I. In which a Racing Auto comes from the East + + # To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune. # + This is the order of the music of the morning:-- + First, from the far East comes but a crooning. + The crooning turns to a sunrise singing. + Hark to the _calm_-horn, _balm_-horn, _psalm_-horn. + Hark to the _faint_-horn, _quaint_-horn, _saint_-horn.... + + # To be sung or read with great speed. # + Hark to the _pace_-horn, _chase_-horn, _race_-horn. + And the holy veil of the dawn has gone. + Swiftly the brazen car comes on. + It burns in the East as the sunrise burns. + I see great flashes where the far trail turns. + Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons. + It drinks gasoline from big red flagons. + Butting through the delicate mists of the morning, + It comes like lightning, goes past roaring. + It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing, + Dodge the cyclones, + Count the milestones, + On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills-- + Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills.... + # To be read or sung in a rolling bass, + with some deliberation. # + Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, + Ho for the _gay_-horn, _bark_-horn, _bay_-horn. + _Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas, + A million men have found you before us._ + + + II. In which Many Autos pass Westward + + # In an even, deliberate, narrative manner. # + I want live things in their pride to remain. + I will not kill one grasshopper vain + Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. + I let him out, give him one chance more. + Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, + Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. + + I am a tramp by the long trail's border, + Given to squalor, rags and disorder. + I nap and amble and yawn and look, + Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book, + Recite to the children, explore at my ease, + Work when I work, beg when I please, + Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare + To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare, + And get me a place to sleep in the hay + At the end of a live-and-let-live day. + + I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds + A whisper and a feasting, all one needs: + The whisper of the strawberries, white and red + Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead. + + But I would not walk all alone till I die + Without some life-drunk horns going by. + Up round this apple-earth they come + Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:-- + Cars in a plain realistic row. + And fair dreams fade + When the raw horns blow. + + On each snapping pennant + A big black name:-- + The careering city + Whence each car came. + # Like a train-caller in a Union Depot. # + They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah, + Tallahassee and Texarkana. + They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, + They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee. + Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston, + Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin. + Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo. + Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo. + Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi, + Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami. + Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + While I watch the highroad + And look at the sky, + While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur + Roll their legions without rain + Over the blistering Kansas plain-- + While I sit by the milestone + And watch the sky, + The United States + Goes by. + + # To be given very harshly, + with a snapping explosiveness. # + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. + Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. + Way down the road, trilling like a toad, + Here comes the _dice_-horn, here comes the _vice_-horn, + Here comes the _snarl_-horn, _brawl_-horn, _lewd_-horn, + Followed by the _prude_-horn, bleak and squeaking:-- + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + Here comes the _hod_-horn, _plod_-horn, _sod_-horn, + Nevermore-to-_roam_-horn, _loam_-horn, _home_-horn. + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + # To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper. # + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:-- + "Love and life, + Eternal youth-- + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." + # Louder and louder, faster and faster. # + WHILE SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD, + DRIVEN AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL-FIEND'S OX-GOAD, + SCREAMING TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST, + CARRY OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST, + HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST. + THE HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS, + THE SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS. + # In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation. # + And then, in an instant, + Ye modern men, + Behold the procession once again, + # With a snapping explosiveness. # + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, + Listen to the _wise_-horn, desperate-to-_advise_-horn, + Listen to the _fast_-horn, _kill_-horn, _blast_-horn.... + # To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper. # + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:-- + Love and life, + Eternal youth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth. + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + # To be brawled in the beginning with a + snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant. # + The mufflers open on a score of cars + With wonderful thunder, + CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK-CRACK,... + Listen to the gold-horn... + Old-horn... + Cold-horn... + And all of the tunes, till the night comes down + On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town. + # To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune + as the first five lines. # + Then far in the west, as in the beginning, + Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating, + Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn, + Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.... + + # This section beginning sonorously, + ending in a languorous whisper. # + They are hunting the goals that they understand:-- + San Francisco and the brown sea-sand. + My goal is the mystery the beggars win. + I am caught in the web the night-winds spin. + The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me. + I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree. + And now I hear, as I sit all alone + In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone, + The souls of the tall corn gathering round + And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground. + Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells. + Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells. + Listen to the whistling flutes without price + Of myriad prophets out of paradise. + Harken to the wonder + That the night-air carries.... + Listen... to... the... whisper... + Of... the... prairie... fairies + Singing o'er the fairy plain:-- + # To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song-- + but very slowly. # + "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + Love and glory, + Stars and rain, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet...." + + + + +The Firemen's Ball + + + + Section One + + "Give the engines room, + Give the engines room." + Louder, faster + The little band-master + Whips up the fluting, + Hurries up the tooting. + He thinks that he stands, + # To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass + of fire-engines pumping. # + The reins in his hands, + In the fire-chief's place + In the night alarm chase. + The cymbals whang, + The kettledrums bang:-- + # In this passage the reading or chanting + is shriller and higher. # + "Clear the street, + Clear the street, + Clear the street--Boom, boom. + In the evening gloom, + In the evening gloom, + Give the engines room, + Give the engines room, + Lest souls be trapped + In a terrible tomb." + The sparks and the pine-brands + Whirl on high + From the black and reeking alleys + To the wide red sky. + Hear the hot glass crashing, + Hear the stone steps hissing. + Coal black streams + Down the gutters pour. + There are cries for help + From a far fifth floor. + For a longer ladder + Hear the fire-chief call. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + # To be read or chanted in a heavy bass. # + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Faster, faster + The red flames come. + "Hum grum," say the engines, + "Hum grum grum." + # Shriller and higher. # + "Buzz, buzz," + Says the crowd. + "See, see," + Calls the crowd. + "Look out," + Yelps the crowd + And the high walls fall:-- + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + # Heavy bass. # + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Whangaranga, whangaranga, + Whang, whang, whang, + Clang, clang, clangaranga, + # Bass, much slower. # + Clang, clang, clang. + Clang--a--ranga-- + Clang--a--ranga-- + Clang, + Clang, + Clang. + Listen--to--the--music-- + Of the firemen's ball-- + + + Section Two + + "Many's the heart that's breaking + If we could read them all + After the ball is over." (An old song.) + + + # To be read or sung slowly and softly, + in the manner of lustful, insinuating music. # + Scornfully, gaily + The bandmaster sways, + Changing the strain + That the wild band plays. + With a red and royal intoxication, + A tangle of sounds + And a syncopation, + Sweeping and bending + From side to side, + Master of dreams, + With a peacock pride. + A lord of the delicate flowers of delight + He drives compunction + Back through the night. + Dreams he's a soldier + Plumed and spurred, + And valiant lads + Arise at his word, + Flaying the sober + Thoughts he hates, + Driving them back + From the dream-town gates. + How can the languorous + Dancers know + The red dreams come + # To be read or chanted slowly and softly + in the manner of lustful insinuating music. # + When the good dreams go? + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells, + "NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells. + "Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + Sing low, now, violins, + Sing, sing low, + Blow gently, wood-wind, + Mellow and slow. + Like midnight poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + Their eyes flash power, + Their lips are dumb. + Faster and faster + Their pulses come, + Though softer now + The drum-beats fall. + Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + 'Tis the firemen's ball, + 'Tis the firemen's ball. + + # With a climax of whispered mourning. # + "I am slain," + Cries true-love + There in the shadow. + "And I die," + Cries true-love, + There laid low. + "When the fire-dreams come, + The wise dreams go." + # Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in + a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. + Then gradually musical and sonorous. # + BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED + BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER. + And now great gongs whang, + Sharper, faster, + And kettledrums rattle + And hide the shame + With a swish and a swirk + In dead love's name. + Red and crimson + And scarlet and rose + Magical poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + The scarlet stays + When the rose-flush goes, + And love lies low + In a marble tomb. + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of Doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + # Sharply interrupting in a very high key. # + Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. + "'Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year." + # Heavy bass. # + CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG. + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S BALL... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S... BALL.... + + + Section Three + +In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed +before the reader. + +(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: "There Buddha thus addressed +his disciples: 'Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is +it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, +with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with +the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering +and despair.... A disciple,... becoming weary of all that, +divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.'") + + + # To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service. # + I once knew a teacher, + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the young men + "Wine is a fire." + Who said to the merchants:-- + "Gold is a flame + That sears and tortures + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire + Who said to the soldiers, + "Hate is a fire." + Who said to the statesmen:-- + "Power is a flame + That flays and blisters + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the lordly, + + "Pride is a fire." + Who thus warned the revellers:-- + "Life is a flame. + Be cold as the dew + Would you win at the game + With hearts like the stars, + With hearts like the stars." + # Interrupting very loudly for the last time. # + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE. + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED + IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. + SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE + TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:-- + "THERE GOES THE ALARM, + THERE GOES THE ALARM. + THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, + THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, + AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER'S IRON ARM." + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... _CLANG_.... + + + + +The Master of the Dance + + + +A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and +improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher. + + + I + + A master deep-eyed + Ere his manhood was ripe, + He sang like a thrush, + He could play any pipe. + So dull in the school + That he scarcely could spell, + He read but a bit, + And he figured not well. + A bare-footed fool, + Shod only with grace; + Long hair streaming down + Round a wind-hardened face; + He smiled like a girl, + Or like clear winter skies, + A virginal light + Making stars of his eyes. + In swiftness and poise, + A proud child of the deer, + A white fawn he was, + Yet a fawn without fear. + No youth thought him vain, + Or made mock of his hair, + Or laughed when his ways + Were most curiously fair. + A mastiff at fight, + He could strike to the earth + The envious one + Who would challenge his worth. + However we bowed + To the schoolmaster mild, + Our spirits went out + To the fawn-footed child. + His beckoning led + Our troop to the brush. + We found nothing there + But a wind and a hush. + He sat by a stone + And he looked on the ground, + As if in the weeds + There was something profound. + His pipe seemed to neigh, + Then to bleat like a sheep, + Then sound like a stream + Or a waterfall deep. + It whispered strange tales, + Human words it spoke not. + Told fair things to come, + And our marvellous lot + If now with fawn-steps + Unshod we advanced + To the midst of the grove + And in reverence danced. + We obeyed as he piped + Soft grass to young feet, + Was a medicine mighty, + A remedy meet. + Our thin blood awoke, + It grew dizzy and wild, + Though scarcely a word + Moved the lips of a child. + Our dance gave allegiance, + It set us apart, + We tripped a strange measure, + Uplifted of heart. + + + II + + We thought to be proud + Of our fawn everywhere. + We could hardly see how + Simple books were a care. + No rule of the school + This strange student could tame. + He was banished one day, + While we quivered with shame. + He piped back our love + On a moon-silvered night, + Enticed us once more + To the place of delight. + A greeting he sang + And it made our blood beat, + It tramped upon custom + And mocked at defeat. + He builded a fire + And we tripped in a ring, + The embers our books + And the fawn our good king. + And now we approached + All the mysteries rare + That shadowed his eyelids + And blew through his hair. + That spell now was peace + The deep strength of the trees, + The children of nature + We clambered her knees. + Our breath and our moods + Were in tune with her own, + Tremendous her presence, + Eternal her throne. + The ostracized child + Our white foreheads kissed, + Our bodies and souls + Became lighter than mist. + Sweet dresses like snow + Our small lady-loves wore, + Like moonlight the thoughts + That our bosoms upbore. + Like a lily the touch + Of each cold little hand. + The loves of the stars + We could now understand. + O quivering air! + O the crystalline night! + O pauses of awe + And the faces swan-white! + O ferns in the dusk! + O forest-shrined hour! + O earth that sent upward + The thrill and the power, + To lift us like leaves, + A delirious whirl, + The masterful boy + And the delicate girl! + What child that strange night-time + Can ever forget? + His fealty due + And his infinite debt + To the folly divine, + To the exquisite rule + Of the perilous master, + The fawn-footed fool? + + + III + + Now soldiers we seem, + And night brings a new thing, + A terrible ire, + As of thunder awing. + A warrior power, + That old chivalry stirred, + When knights took up arms, + As the maidens gave word. + THE END OF OUR WAR, + WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD. + WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT + BUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD! + _Near, nearer that war, + And that ecstasy comes, + We hear the trees beating + Invisible drums. + The fields of the night + Are starlit above, + Our girls are white torches + Of conquest and love. + No nerve without will, + And no breast without breath, + We whirl with the planets + That never know death!_ + + + + +The Mysterious Cat + + + +A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted +by George Mather Richards. + + + I saw a proud, mysterious cat, + I saw a proud, mysterious cat + Too proud to catch a mouse or rat-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + But catnip she would eat, and purr, + But catnip she would eat, and purr. + And goldfish she did much prefer-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + I saw a cat--'twas but a dream, + I saw a cat--'twas but a dream + Who scorned the slave that brought her cream-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + Unless the slave were dressed in style, + Unless the slave were dressed in style + And knelt before her all the while-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Mew... mew... mew. + + + + +A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten + + + +To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken +in a snappy, matter-of-fact way. + + + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + Here lies a kitten good, who kept + A kitten's proper place. + He stole no pantry eatables, + Nor scratched the baby's face. + _He let the alley-cats alone_. + He had no yowling vice. + His shirt was always laundried well, + He freed the house of mice. + Until his death he had not caused + His little mistress tears, + He wore his ribbon prettily, + _He washed behind his ears_. + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + + + + +Yankee Doodle + + + +This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural +painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a +slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an +entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday. + + + Dawn this morning burned all red + Watching them in wonder. + There I saw our spangled flag + Divide the clouds asunder. + Then there followed Washington. + Ah, he rode from glory, + Cold and mighty as his name + And stern as Freedom's story. + Unsubdued by burning dawn + Led his continentals. + Vast they were, and strange to see + In gray old regimentals:-- + Marching still with bleeding feet, + Bleeding feet and jesting-- + Marching from the judgment throne + With energy unresting. + How their merry quickstep played-- + Silver, sharp, sonorous, + Piercing through with prophecy + The demons' rumbling chorus-- + Behold the ancient powers of sin + And slavery before them!-- + Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, + The pit-black clouds hung o'er them. + Plagues that rose to blast the day + Fiend and tiger faces, + Monsters plotting bloodshed for + The patient toiling races. + Round the dawn their cannon raged, + Hurling bolts of thunder, + Yet before our spangled flag + Their host was cut asunder. + Like a mist they fled away.... + Ended wrath and roaring. + Still our restless soldier-host + From East to West went pouring. + + High beside the sun of noon + They bore our banner splendid. + All its days of stain and shame + And heaviness were ended. + Men were swelling now the throng + From great and lowly station-- + Valiant citizens to-day + Of every tribe and nation. + Not till night their rear-guard came, + Down the west went marching, + And left behind the sunset-rays + In beauty overarching. + War-god banners lead us still, + Rob, enslave and harry + Let us rather choose to-day + The flag the angels carry-- + Flag we love, but brighter far-- + Soul of it made splendid: + Let its days of stain and shame + And heaviness be ended. + Let its fifes fill all the sky, + Redeemed souls marching after, + Hills and mountains shake with song, + While seas roll on in laughter. + + + + +The Black Hawk War of the Artists + +Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois + + + +To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry. + + + Hawk of the Rocks, + Yours is our cause to-day. + Watching your foes + Here in our war array, + Young men we stand, + Wolves of the West at bay. + _Power, power for war + Comes from these trees divine; + Power from the boughs, + Boughs where the dew-beads shine, + Power from the cones-- + Yea, from the breath of the pine!_ + + Power to restore + All that the white hand mars. + See the dead east + Crushed with the iron cars-- + Chimneys black + Blinding the sun and stars! + + Hawk of the pines, + Hawk of the plain-winds fleet, + You shall be king + There in the iron street, + Factory and forge + Trodden beneath your feet. + + There will proud trees + Grow as they grow by streams. + There will proud thoughts + Walk as in warrior dreams. + There will proud deeds + Bloom as when battle gleams! + + Warriors of Art, + We will hold council there, + Hewing in stone + Things to the trapper fair, + Painting the gray + Veils that the spring moons wear, + This our revenge, + This one tremendous change: + Making new towns, + Lit with a star-fire strange, + Wild as the dawn + Gilding the bison-range. + + All the young men + Chanting your cause that day, + Red-men, new-made + Out of the Saxon clay, + Strong and redeemed, + Bold in your war-array! + + + + +The Jingo and the Minstrel + +An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese +People + + + +Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty: Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of +all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her +greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven +Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most +beautiful mountain. + + + # The minstrel speaks. # + "Now do you know of Avalon + That sailors call Japan? + She holds as rare a chivalry + As ever bled for man. + King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hill + Where Iyeyasu lies, + And there the broad Pendragon flag + In deathless splendor flies." + + # The jingo answers. # + _"Nay, minstrel, but the great ships come + From out the sunset sea. + We cannot greet the souls they bring + With welcome high and free. + How can the Nippon nondescripts + That weird and dreadful band + Be aught but what we find them here:-- + The blasters of the land?"_ + + # The minstrel replies. # + "First race, first men from anywhere + To face you, eye to eye. + For _that_ do you curse Avalon + And raise a hue and cry? + These toilers cannot kiss your hand, + Or fawn with hearts bowed down. + Be glad for them, and Avalon, + And Arthur's ghostly crown. + + "No doubt your guests, with sage debate + In grave things gentlemen + Will let your trade and farms alone + And turn them back again. + But why should brawling braggarts rise + With hasty words of shame + To drive them back like dogs and swine + Who in due honor came?" + + # The jingo answers. # + _"We cannot give them honor, sir. + We give them scorn for scorn. + And Rumor steals around the world + All white-skinned men to warn + Against this sleek silk-merchant here + And viler coolie-man + And wrath within the courts of war + Brews on against Japan!"_ + + # The minstrel replies. # + "Must Avalon, with hope forlorn, + Her back against the wall, + Have lived her brilliant life in vain + While ruder tribes take all? + Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts, + A ghost with spear and crown, + Behind the great Pendragon flag + And be again cut down? + + "Tho Europe's self shall move against + High Jimmu Tenno's throne + The Forty-seven Ronin Men + Will not be found alone. + For Percival and Bedivere + And Nogi side by side + Will stand,--with mourning Merlin there, + Tho all go down in pride. + + "But has the world the envious dream-- + Ah, such things cannot be,-- + To tear their fairy-land like silk + And toss it in the sea? + Must venom rob the future day + The ultimate world-man + Of rare Bushido, code of codes, + The fair heart of Japan? + + "Go, be the guest of Avalon. + Believe me, it lies there + Behind the mighty gray sea-wall + Where heathen bend in prayer: + Where peasants lift adoring eyes + To Fuji's crown of snow. + King Arthur's knights will be your hosts, + So cleanse your heart, and go. + + "And you will find but gardens sweet + Prepared beyond the seas, + And you will find but gentlefolk + Beneath the cherry-trees. + So walk you worthy of your Christ + Tho church bells do not sound, + And weave the bands of brotherhood + On Jimmu Tenno's ground." + + + + +I Heard Immanuel Singing + + + +(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his +heart in Heaven.) + +This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the +well-known tune:-- + + "Last night I lay a-sleeping, + There came a dream so fair, + I stood in Old Jerusalem + Beside the temple there,--" etc. + +Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily. It is here given to +suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it. + + + # To be sung. # + I heard Immanuel singing + Within his own good lands, + I saw him bend above his harp. + I watched his wandering hands + Lost amid the harp-strings; + Sweet, sweet I heard him play. + His wounds were altogether healed. + Old things had passed away. + + All things were new, but music. + The blood of David ran + Within the Son of David, + Our God, the Son of Man. + He was ruddy like a shepherd. + His bold young face, how fair. + Apollo of the silver bow + Had not such flowing hair. + + # To be read very softly, but in spirited response. # + I saw Immanuel singing + On a tree-girdled hill. + The glad remembering branches + Dimly echoed still + The grand new song proclaiming + The Lamb that had been slain. + New-built, the Holy City + Gleamed in the murmuring plain. + + The crowning hours were over. + The pageants all were past. + Within the many mansions + The hosts, grown still at last, + In homes of holy mystery + Slept long by crooning springs + Or waked to peaceful glory, + A universe of Kings. + + # To be sung. # + He left his people happy. + He wandered free to sigh + Alone in lowly friendship + With the green grass and the sky. + He murmured ancient music + His red heart burned to sing + Because his perfect conquest + Had grown a weary thing. + + No chant of gilded triumph-- + His lonely song was made + Of Art's deliberate freedom; + Of minor chords arrayed + In soft and shadowy colors + That once were radiant flowers:-- + The Rose of Sharon, bleeding + In Olive-shadowed bowers:-- + + And all the other roses + In the songs of East and West + Of love and war and worshipping, + And every shield and crest + Of thistle or of lotus + Or sacred lily wrought + In creeds and psalms and palaces + And temples of white thought:-- + + # To be read very softly, yet in spirited response. # + All these he sang, half-smiling + And weeping as he smiled, + Laughing, talking to his harp + As to a new-born child:-- + As though the arts forgotten + But bloomed to prophecy + These careless, fearless harp-strings, + New-crying in the sky. + # To be sung. # + "When this his hour of sorrow + For flowers and Arts of men + Has passed in ghostly music," + I asked my wild heart then-- + What will he sing to-morrow, + What wonder, all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? + What will he sing to-morrow + What wonder all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? + + + + + +Second Section ~~ Incense + + + + + +An Argument + + + + I. The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias + + We find your soft Utopias as white + As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells, + O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are + How human breasts adore alarum bells. + You house us in a hive of prigs and saints + Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law. + I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore + Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. + Promise us all our share in Agincourt + Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death, + That future ant-hills will not be too good + For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. + Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-war + Man's deathless soul will hack and hew its way, + Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fate + Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. + Never a shallow jester any more! + Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. + Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise + And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain. + + + II. The Rhymer's Reply. Incense and Splendor + + Incense and Splendor haunt me as I go. + Though my good works have been, alas, too few, + Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me, + And future ages pass in tall review. + I see the years to come as armies vast, + Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. + MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born, + Flame-like to hover o'er the moil and grime, + Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone, + Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn-- + Laying new, precious pavements with a song, + Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. + I have seen lovers by those new-built walls + Clothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red. + Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love + Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. + Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers. + Passion was turned to civic strength that day-- + Piling the marbles, making fairer domes + With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. + I have seen priestesses of life go by + Gliding in samite through the incense-sea-- + Innocent children marching with them there, + Singing in flowered robes, "THE EARTH IS FREE": + While on the fair, deep-carved unfinished towers + Sentinels watched in armor, night and day-- + Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream-- + Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array! + + + + +A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign + + + + I look on the specious electrical light + Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, + Wickedly red or malignantly green + Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen. + Showing, while millions of souls hurry on, + The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn, + By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl, + Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl, + By maggoty motions in sickening line + Proclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine, + While there far above the steep cliffs of the street + The stars sing a message elusive and sweet. + + Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toil + His clumsy contraptions of coil upon coil + Till the thing he invents, in its use and its range, + Leads on to the marvellous CHANGE BEYOND CHANGE. + Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, + As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise. + And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, + Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. + The signs in the street and the signs in the skies + Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, + And Broadway make one with that marvellous stair + That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer. + + + + +In Memory of a Child + + + + The angels guide him now, + And watch his curly head, + And lead him in their games, + The little boy we led. + + He cannot come to harm, + He knows more than we know, + His light is brighter far + Than daytime here below. + + His path leads on and on, + Through pleasant lawns and flowers, + His brown eyes open wide + At grass more green than ours. + + With playmates like himself, + The shining boy will sing, + Exploring wondrous woods, + Sweet with eternal spring. + + + + +Galahad, Knight Who Perished + + A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and Interstate + Traffic in Young Girls + + + + Galahad... soldier that perished... ages ago, + Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow. + Galahad... knight who perished... awaken again, + Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men. + Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea, + We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free. + Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace, + Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face + Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land, + Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand. + Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red! + Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head! + Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower, + Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power. + Leave not life's fairest to perish--strangers to thee, + Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea! + + + + +The Leaden-eyed + + + + Let not young souls be smothered out before + They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride. + It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull, + Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed. + Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly, + Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap, + Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve, + Not that they die, but that they die like sheep. + + + + +An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie + + + + (In the Beginning) + + The sun is a huntress young, + The sun is a red, red joy, + The sun is an Indian girl, + Of the tribe of the Illinois. + + + (Mid-morning) + + The sun is a smouldering fire, + That creeps through the high gray plain, + And leaves not a bush of cloud + To blossom with flowers of rain. + + + (Noon) + + The sun is a wounded deer, + That treads pale grass in the skies, + Shaking his golden horns, + Flashing his baleful eyes. + + + (Sunset) + + The sun is an eagle old, + There in the windless west. + Atop of the spirit-cliffs + He builds him a crimson nest. + + + + +The Hearth Eternal + + + + There dwelt a widow learned and devout, + Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill. + Three sons she had, who went to find the world. + They promised to return, but wandered still. + The cities used them well, they won their way, + Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs. + Worn out with honors, and apart from her, + They died as many a self-made exile dies. + The mother had a hearth that would not quench, + The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom. + She said to us who came with wondering eyes-- + "This is a magic fire, a magic room." + The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on, + Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade, + And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light. + The neighbors peering in were half afraid. + Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came, + One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor. + They left a naked stone, but how it blazed! + And in the thunderstorm it flared the more. + And now it was that men were heard to say, + "This light should be beloved by all the town." + At last they made the slope a place of prayer, + Where marvellous thoughts from God came sweeping down. + They left their churches crumbling in the sun, + They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood; + One strength and valor only, one delight, + One laughing, brooding genius, great and good. + Now many gray-haired prodigals come home, + The place out-flames the cities of the land, + And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar, + With subtle eyes prepared to understand. + Higher and higher burns the eastern steep, + Showing the roads that march from every place, + A steady beacon o'er the weary leagues, + At dead of night it lights the traveller's face! + Thus has the widow conquered half the earth, + She who increased in faith, though all alone, + Who kept her empty house a magic place, + Has made the town a holy angel's throne. + + + + +The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit + + A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois + + + + Censers are swinging + Over the town; + Censers are swinging, + Look overhead! + Censers are swinging, + Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead! + + Censers, tremendous, + Gleam overhead. + Wind-harps are ringing, + Wind-harps unseen-- + Calling and calling:-- + "Wake from the dead. + Rise, little city, + Shine like a queen." + + Soldiers of Christ + For battle grow keen. + Heaven-sent winds + Haunt alley and lane. + Singing of life + In town-meadows green + After the toil + And battle and pain. + + Incense is pouring + Like the spring rain + Down on the mob + That moil through the street. + Blessed are they + Who behold it and gain + Power made more mighty + Thro' every defeat. + + Builders, toil on. + Make all complete. + Make Springfield wonderful. + Make her renown + Worthy this day, + Till, at God's feet, + Tranced, saved forever, + Waits the white town. + + Censers are swinging + Over the town, + Censers gigantic! + Look overhead! + Hear the winds singing:-- + "Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead." + + + + +By the Spring, at Sunset + + + + Sometimes we remember kisses, + Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: + Not always, but sometimes we remember + The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame + Of laughter and farewell. + + Beside the road + Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write, + Far from my city task, my lawful load. + + Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder, + Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night + Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder + Make bold my soul for some new wise delight. + + I write the day's event, and quench my drouth, + Pausing beside the spring with happy mind. + And now I feel those kisses on my mouth, + Hers most of all, one little friend most kind. + + + + +I Went down into the Desert + + + + I went down into the desert + To meet Elijah-- + Arisen from the dead. + I thought to find him in an echoing cave; + _For so my dream had said_. + + I went down into the desert + To meet John the Baptist. + I walked with feet that bled, + Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold. + _I spied foul fiends instead_. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + By him be comforted. + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + _And I met the devil in red_. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead! + I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground, + I see you there, half-buried in the sand. + I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, + _The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head_. + + + + +Love and Law + + + + True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance + In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain. + The workman lays wearily granite on granite, + And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain. + + Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, + Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone. + 'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion. + With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne. + + + + +The Perfect Marriage + + + + I + + I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: + Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone. + Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine-- + Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine: + Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none; + Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one). + + + II + + We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweet + No longer turning to the tryst with flying feet. + We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloom + And tenderness of passion's touch, and in its room + Will come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom. + Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life! + Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife. + Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come-- + It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum, + The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag-- + And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag. + + + III + + We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can-- + Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. + Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. + It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air-- + It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh-- + It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; + It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows + Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. + It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, + And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems + A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, + Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. + But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, + The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. + Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, + Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark-- + Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange + Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change. + + + IV + + Love?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time-- + Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime-- + And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes-- + Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise. + Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial-- + And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile-- + We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play, + Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay-- + As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild, + True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled! + + + + +Darling Daughter of Babylon + + + + Too soon you wearied of our tears. + And then you danced with spangled feet, + Leading Belshazzar's chattering court + A-tinkling through the shadowy street. + With mead they came, with chants of shame. + DESIRE'S red flag before them flew. + And Istar's music moved your mouth + And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you. + + Now you could drive the royal car; + Forget our Nation's breaking load: + Now you could sleep on silver beds-- + (Bitter and dark was our abode.) + And so, for many a night you laughed, + And knew not of my hopeless prayer, + Till God's own spirit whipped you forth + From Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair. + + Darling daughter of Babylon-- + Rose by the black Euphrates flood-- + Again your beauty grew more dear + Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. + We sang of Zion, good to know, + Where righteousness and peace abide.... + What of your second sacrilege + Carousing at Belshazzar's side? + + Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands-- + Your paint and henna washed away. + Your place, you said, was with the slaves + Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. + You were a pale and holy maid + Toil-bound with us. One night you said:-- + "Your God shall be my God until + I slumber with the patriarch dead." + + Pardon, daughter of Babylon, + If, on this night remembering + Our lover walks under the walls + Of hanging gardens in the spring, + A venom comes from broken hope, + From memories of your comrade-song + Until I curse your painted eyes + And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. + + + + +The Amaranth + + + + Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here.... + Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns + And the tremendous Amaranth descends + Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns? + + Does it not mean my God would have me say:-- + "Whether you will or no, O city young, + Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, + Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?" + + Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep. + Such things I see, and some of them shall come + Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray, + Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb. + Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise. + Naught can delay it. Though it may not be + Just as I dream, it comes at last I know + With streets like channels of an incense-sea. + + + + +The Alchemist's Petition + + + + Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life + My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep + Like a white statue dropped into the deep, + Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold, + And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold. + + But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in Hell + My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth-- + In such unquenched desires consumed his youth-- + Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall, + Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall-- + Amen. + + + + +Two Easter Stanzas + + + + I + + The Hope of the Resurrection + + + Though I have watched so many mourners weep + O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep-- + Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days + That passed and left me in the sun's bright rays. + Now though you go on smiling in the sun + Our love is slain, and love and you were one. + You are the first, you I have known so long, + Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong. + Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right + Amid the lilies and the candle-light. + I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear + We two may meet, confused and parted here. + Ah, when man's dearest dies, 'tis then he goes + To that old balm that heals the centuries' woes. + Then Christ's wild cry in all the streets is rife:-- + "I am the Resurrection and the Life." + + + + II + + We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not + + + Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning, + I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, + With golden hope my spirit still adorning. + + Our God who made you all so fair and sweet + Is three times gentle, and before his feet + Rejoicing I shall say:--"The girl you gave + Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save. + Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath + Is worth this rescue from the Second Death, + Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too + That scorned my graceless years and trophies few. + Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned + Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned. + We now as comrades through the stars may take + The rich and arduous quests I did forsake. + Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng + And quickly find that woman-soul so strong. + I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart + Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart, + A brooding secret mercy like your own + That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne. + + + + +The Traveller-heart + +(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible +Manner of Interment) + + + + I would be one with the dark, dark earth:-- + Follow the plough with a yokel tread. + I would be part of the Indian corn, + Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead. + + I would be one with the lavish earth, + Eating the bee-stung apples red: + Walking where lambs walk on the hills; + By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. + + I would be one with the dark-bright night + When sparkling skies and the lightning wed-- + Walking on with the vicious wind + By roads whence even the dogs have fled. + + I would be one with the sacred earth + On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. + Terror shall put no spears through me. + Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. + + I shall be one with all pit-black things + Finding their lowering threat unsaid: + Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,-- + Oak-roots arching about my head! + + Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, + Acorns fall round my breast that bled. + Children shall weave there a flowery chain, + Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:-- + + Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, + Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: + Sweet with the life of my sunburned days + When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red. + + + + +The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son + + + + The North Star whispers: "You are one + Of those whose course no chance can change. + You blunder, but are not undone, + Your spirit-task is fixed and strange. + + "When here you walk, a bloodless shade, + A singer all men else forget. + Your chants of hammer, forge and spade + Will move the prairie-village yet. + + "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town + Beholds your fancies on her walls, + And paints them out or tears them down, + Or bars them from her feasting-halls. + + "Yet shall the fragments still remain; + Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong + That ivy-vines will not disdain, + Haunted and trembling with your song. + + "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn, + Flame high in storms, flame white and clear; + Your ghost in gleaming robes return + And burn a deathless incense here." + + + + +Third Section ~~ A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" + + + + + +This Section is a Christmas Tree + + + + This section is a Christmas tree: + Loaded with pretty toys for you. + Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, + The popguns painted red and blue. + No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, + But silver horns and candy sacks + And many little tinsel hearts + And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks. + For every child a gift, I hope. + The doll upon the topmost bough + Is mine. But all the rest are yours. + And I will light the candles now. + + + + +The Sun Says his Prayers + + + + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + Or else he would wither and die. + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + "For strength to climb up through the sky. + He leans on invisible angels, + And Faith is his prop and his rod. + The sky is his crystal cathedral. + And dawn is his altar to God." + + + + +Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) + + + + I. The Lion + + + The Lion is a kingly beast. + He likes a Hindu for a feast. + And if no Hindu he can get, + The lion-family is upset. + + He cuffs his wife and bites her ears + Till she is nearly moved to tears. + Then some explorer finds the den + And all is family peace again. + + + + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper + + + The Grasshopper, the grasshopper, + I will explain to you:-- + He is the Brownies' racehorse, + The fairies' Kangaroo. + + + + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies + + + In fairyland the little boys + Would rather fight than eat their meals. + They like to chase a gauze-winged fly + And catch and beat him till he squeals. + Sometimes they come to sleeping men + Armed with the deadly red-rose thorn, + And those that feel its fearful wound + Repent the day that they were born. + + + + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down + + + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down + Began his task in early life. + He kept so busy with his teeth + He had no time to take a wife. + + He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain + When the ambitious fit was on, + Then rested in the sawdust till + A month of idleness had gone. + + He did not move about to hunt + The coteries of mousie-men. + He was a snail-paced, stupid thing + Until he cared to gnaw again. + + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down, + When that tough foe was at his feet-- + Found in the stump no angel-cake + Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat-- + The forest-roof let in the sky. + "This light is worth the work," said he. + "I'll make this ancient swamp more light," + And started on another tree. + + + + V. Parvenu + + + Where does Cinderella sleep? + By far-off day-dream river. + A secret place her burning Prince + Decks, while his heart-strings quiver. + + Homesick for our cinder world, + Her low-born shoulders shiver; + She longs for sleep in cinders curled-- + We, for the day-dream river. + + + + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly + + + Once I loved a spider + When I was born a fly, + A velvet-footed spider + With a gown of rainbow-dye. + She ate my wings and gloated. + She bound me with a hair. + She drove me to her parlor + Above her winding stair. + To educate young spiders + She took me all apart. + My ghost came back to haunt her. + I saw her eat my heart. + + + + VII. Crickets on a Strike + + + The foolish queen of fairyland + From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, + Gave command to her cricket-band + To play for her when the dew-drops fell. + + But the cold dew spoiled their instruments + And they play for the foolish queen no more. + Instead those sturdy malcontents + Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. + + + + +How a Little Girl Danced + +Dedicated to Lucy Bates + +(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.) + + + + Oh, cabaret dancer, _I_ know a dancer, + Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain. + _I_ know a dancer, _I_ know a dancer, + Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, + Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, + _I_ know a dancer, _I_ know a dancer, + Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, + A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, + With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain. + + Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, + Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: + I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, + A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:-- + The music of God is her innermost brooding, + The whispering angels her footsteps sustain. + + Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing. + No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign. + You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, + A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane. + But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit + More white than Apollo and all of his train. + + I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, + Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain. + I know a dancer, I know a dancer, + Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + + + +In Praise of Songs that Die + +After having read a Great Deal of Good Current Poetry in the Magazines +and Newspapers + + + + Ah, they are passing, passing by, + Wonderful songs, but born to die! + Cries from the infinite human seas, + Waves thrice-winged with harmonies. + Here I stand on a pier in the foam + Seeing the songs to the beach go home, + Dying in sand while the tide flows back, + As it flowed of old in its fated track. + Oh, hurrying tide that will not hear + Your own foam-children dying near: + Is there no refuge-house of song, + No home, no haven where songs belong? + Oh, precious hymns that come and go! + You perish, and I love you so! + + + + +Factory Windows are always Broken + + + + Factory windows are always broken. + Somebody's always throwing bricks, + Somebody's always heaving cinders, + Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Other windows are let alone. + No one throws through the chapel-window + The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Something or other is going wrong. + Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark. + _End of the factory-window song_. + + + + +To Mary Pickford + + Moving-picture Actress + +(On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.) + + + + Mary Pickford, doll divine, + Year by year, and every day + At the moving-picture play, + You have been my valentine. + + Once a free-limbed page in hose, + Baby-Rosalind in flower, + Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour + How our reverent passion rose, + How our fine desire you won. + Kitchen-wench another day, + Shapeless, wooden every way. + Next, a fairy from the sun. + + Once you walked a grown-up strand + Fish-wife siren, full of lure, + Snaring with devices sure + Lads who murdered on the sand. + But on most days just a child + Dimpled as no grown-folk are, + Cold of kiss as some north star, + Violet from the valleys wild. + Snared as innocence must be, + Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead-- + At the end of tortures dread + Roaring cowboys set you free. + + Fly, O song, to her to-day, + Like a cowboy cross the land. + Snatch her from Belasco's hand + And that prison called Broadway. + + All the village swains await + One dear lily-girl demure, + Saucy, dancing, cold and pure, + Elf who must return in state. + + + + +Blanche Sweet + + Moving-picture Actress + +(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".) + + + + Beauty has a throne-room + In our humorous town, + Spoiling its hob-goblins, + Laughing shadows down. + Rank musicians torture + Ragtime ballads vile, + But we walk serenely + Down the odorous aisle. + We forgive the squalor + And the boom and squeal + For the Great Queen flashes + From the moving reel. + + Just a prim blonde stranger + In her early day, + Hiding brilliant weapons, + Too averse to play, + Then she burst upon us + Dancing through the night. + Oh, her maiden radiance, + Veils and roses white. + With new powers, yet cautious, + Not too smart or skilled, + That first flash of dancing + Wrought the thing she willed:-- + Mobs of us made noble + By her strong desire, + By her white, uplifting, + Royal romance-fire. + + Though the tin piano + Snarls its tango rude, + Though the chairs are shaky + And the dramas crude, + Solemn are her motions, + Stately are her wiles, + Filling oafs with wisdom, + Saving souls with smiles; + 'Mid the restless actors + She is rich and slow. + She will stand like marble, + She will pause and glow, + Though the film is twitching, + Keep a peaceful reign, + Ruler of her passion, + Ruler of our pain! + + + + +Sunshine + +For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old. Catharine Frazee Wakefield. + + + + The sun gives not directly + The coal, the diamond crown; + Not in a special basket + Are these from Heaven let down. + + The sun gives not directly + The plough, man's iron friend; + Not by a path or stairway + Do tools from Heaven descend. + + Yet sunshine fashions all things + That cut or burn or fly; + And corn that seems upon the earth + Is made in the hot sky. + + The gravel of the roadbed, + The metal of the gun, + The engine of the airship + Trace somehow from the sun. + + And so your soul, my lady-- + (Mere sunshine, nothing more)-- + Prepares me the contraptions + I work with or adore. + + Within me cornfields rustle, + Niagaras roar their way, + Vast thunderstorms and rainbows + Are in my thought to-day. + + Ten thousand anvils sound there + By forges flaming white, + And many books I read there, + And many books I write; + + And freedom's bells are ringing, + And bird-choirs chant and fly-- + The whole world works in me to-day + And all the shining sky, + + Because of one small lady + Whose smile is my chief sun. + She gives not any gift to me + Yet all gifts, giving one.... + Amen. + + + + +An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic + + + + Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, + The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. + It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small, + And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all. + And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink, + And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think." + And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, + The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more. + O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way-- + All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day, + And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom, + And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. + And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, + And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite, + My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine + Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line. + I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair, + They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. + The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew, + O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew! + + + + +When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich + + + + He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour + Just to invent a fancy style + To spread the celebration paint + So it would show at least a mile. + + Some things they did I will not tell. + They're not quite proper for a rhyme. + But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede + Did sure invent a sunflower time. + + One thing they did that I can tell + And not offend the ladies here:-- + They took a goat to Simp's Saloon + And made it take a bath in beer. + + That ENTERprise took MANagement. + They broke a wash-tub in the fray. + But mister goat was bathed all right + And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say. + + They wore girls' pink straw hats to church + And clucked like hens. They surely did. + They bought two HOtel frying pans + And in them down the mountain slid. + + They went to Denver in good clothes, + And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake, + And cut about like jumping-jacks, + And ordered seven-dollar steak. + + They had the waiters whirling round + Just sweeping up the smear and smash. + They tried to buy the State-house flag. + They showed the Janitor the cash. + + And old Dan Tucker on a toot, + Or John Paul Jones before the breeze, + Or Indians eating fat fried dog, + Were not as happy babes as these. + + One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek + With cheerful swears the two awoke. + The Swede had twenty cents, all right. + But Gassy Thompson was clean broke. + + + + +Rhymes for Gloriana + + + + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough + + + This doll upon the topmost bough, + This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, + Was taken down and brought to me + One sleety night most comfortless. + + Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash + Was gray brocade, most good to see. + The dear toy laughed, and I forgot + The ill the new year promised me. + + + + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused + + + Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk-- + Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure: + A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger:-- + Here in my study you sing me a measure. + + Whimsy and song in my little gray study! + Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness, + Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter, + Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!" + + Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness, + Trusting her insights, ardent for living; + She would be weeping with me and be laughing, + A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!" + + + + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters + + + Your pen needs but a ruffle + To be Pavlova whirling. + It surely is a scalawag + A-scamping down the page. + A pretty little May-wind + The morning buds uncurling. + And then the white sweet Russian, + The dancer of the age. + + Your pen's the Queen of Sheba, + Such serious questions bringing, + That merry rascal Solomon + Would show a sober face:-- + And then again Pavlova + To set our spirits singing, + The snowy-swan bacchante + All glamour, glee and grace. + + + + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair + + + The gleaming head of one fine friend + Is bent above my little song, + So through the treasure-pits of Heaven + In fancy's shoes, I march along. + + I wander, seek and peer and ponder + In Splendor's last ensnaring lair-- + 'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns + Where noble chariots gleam and flare: + + Amid the spirit-coins and gems, + The plates and cups and helms of fire-- + The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven-- + Where angel-misers slake desire! + + O endless treasure-pits of gold + Where silly angel-men make mirth-- + I think that I am there this hour, + Though walking in the ways of earth! + + + + + +Fourth Section ~~ Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech + + + + + +Once More--To Gloriana + + + + Girl with the burning golden eyes, + And red-bird song, and snowy throat: + I bring you gold and silver moons + And diamond stars, and mists that float. + I bring you moons and snowy clouds, + I bring you prairie skies to-night + To feebly praise your golden eyes + And red-bird song, and throat so white. + + + + +First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children + + + + I. Euclid + + + Old Euclid drew a circle + On a sand-beach long ago. + He bounded and enclosed it + With angles thus and so. + His set of solemn greybeards + Nodded and argued much + Of arc and of circumference, + Diameter and such. + A silent child stood by them + From morning until noon + Because they drew such charming + Round pictures of the moon. + + + + II. The Haughty Snail-king + + (What Uncle William told the Children) + + + Twelve snails went walking after night. + They'd creep an inch or so, + Then stop and bug their eyes + And blow. + Some folks... are... deadly... slow. + Twelve snails went walking yestereve, + Led by their fat old king. + They were so dull their princeling had + No sceptre, robe or ring-- + Only a paper cap to wear + When nightly journeying. + + This king-snail said: "I feel a thought + Within.... It blossoms soon.... + O little courtiers of mine,... + I crave a pretty boon.... + Oh, yes... (High thoughts with effort come + And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.) + "I wish I had a yellow crown + As glistering... as... the moon." + + + + III. What the Rattlesnake Said + + + The moon's a little prairie-dog. + He shivers through the night. + He sits upon his hill and cries + For fear that _I_ will bite. + + The sun's a broncho. He's afraid + Like every other thing, + And trembles, morning, noon and night, + Lest _I_ should spring, and sting. + + + + IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + + (What the Little Girl Said) + + + The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. + He bites it, day by day, + Until there's but a rim of scraps + That crumble all away. + + The South Wind is a baker. + He kneads clouds in his den, + And bakes a crisp new moon _that... greedy + North... Wind... eats... again!_ + + + + V. Drying their Wings + + (What the Carpenter Said) + + + The moon's a cottage with a door. + Some folks can see it plain. + Look, you may catch a glint of light, + A sparkle through the pane, + Showing the place is brighter still + Within, though bright without. + There, at a cosy open fire + Strange babes are grouped about. + The children of the wind and tide-- + The urchins of the sky, + Drying their wings from storms and things + So they again can fly. + + + + VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said + + + The moon's a gong, hung in the wild, + Whose song the fays hold dear. + Of course you do not hear it, child. + It takes a FAIRY ear. + + The full moon is a splendid gong + That beats as night grows still. + It sounds above the evening song + Of dove or whippoorwill. + + + + VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + (What Grandpa told the Children) + + + The moon? It is a griffin's egg, + Hatching to-morrow night. + And how the little boys will watch + With shouting and delight + To see him break the shell and stretch + And creep across the sky. + The boys will laugh. The little girls, + I fear, may hide and cry. + Yet gentle will the griffin be, + Most decorous and fat, + And walk up to the milky way + And lap it like a cat. + + + + +Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror + + + + I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor + + + No man should stand before the moon + To make sweet song thereon, + With dandified importance, + His sense of humor gone. + + Nay, let us don the motley cap, + The jester's chastened mien, + If we would woo that looking-glass + And see what should be seen. + + O mirror on fair Heaven's wall, + We find there what we bring. + So, let us smile in honest part + And deck our souls and sing. + + Yea, by the chastened jest alone + Will ghosts and terrors pass, + And fays, or suchlike friendly things, + Throw kisses through the glass. + + + + II. On the Garden-wall + + + Oh, once I walked a garden + In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass. + And many orange-trees grew there + In sand as white as glass. + The curving, wide wall-border + Was marble, like the snow. + I walked that wall a fairy-prince + And, pacing quaint and slow, + Beside me were my pages, + Two giant, friendly birds. + Half-swan they were, half peacock. + They spake in courtier-words. + Their inner wings a chariot, + Their outer wings for flight, + They lifted me from dreamland. + We bade those trees good-night. + Swiftly above the stars we rode. + I looked below me soon. + The white-walled garden I had ruled + Was one lone flower--the moon. + + + + III. Written for a Musician + + + Hungry for music with a desperate hunger + I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town; + The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking, + Vulgar and pitiful--my heart bowed down-- + Till I remembered duller hours made noble + By strangers clad in some surprising grace. + Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight + Appearing in some unexpected place + With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face. + + + + IV. The Moon is a Painter + + + He coveted her portrait. + He toiled as she grew gay. + She loved to see him labor + In that devoted way. + + And in the end it pleased her, + But bowed him more with care. + Her rose-smile showed so plainly, + Her soul-smile was not there. + + That night he groped without a lamp + To find a cloak, a book, + And on the vexing portrait + By moonrise chanced to look. + + The color-scheme was out of key, + The maiden rose-smile faint, + But through the blessed darkness + She gleamed, his friendly saint. + + The comrade, white, immortal, + His bride, and more than bride-- + The citizen, the sage of mind, + For whom he lived and died. + + + + V. The Encyclopaedia + + + "If I could set the moon upon + This table," said my friend, + "Among the standard poets + And brochures without end, + And noble prints of old Japan, + How empty they would seem, + By that encyclopaedia + Of whim and glittering dream." + + + + VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said + + + The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, + A wondrous water-feast. + If I could climb the ridge and drink + And give drink to my beast; + If I could drain that keg, the flies + Would not be biting so, + My burning feet be spry again, + My mule no longer slow. + And I could rise and dig for ore, + And reach my fatherland, + And not be food for ants and hawks + And perish in the sand. + + + + VII. What the Coal-heaver Said + + + The moon's an open furnace door + Where all can see the blast, + We shovel in our blackest griefs, + Upon that grate are cast + Our aching burdens, loves and fears + And underneath them wait + Paper and tar and pitch and pine + Called strife and blood and hate. + + Out of it all there comes a flame, + A splendid widening light. + Sorrow is turned to mystery + And Death into delight. + + + + VIII. What the Moon Saw + + + Two statesmen met by moonlight. + Their ease was partly feigned. + They glanced about the prairie. + Their faces were constrained. + In various ways aforetime + They had misled the state, + Yet did it so politely + Their henchmen thought them great. + They sat beneath a hedge and spake + No word, but had a smoke. + A satchel passed from hand to hand. + Next day, the deadlock broke. + + + + IX. What Semiramis Said + + + The moon's a steaming chalice + Of honey and venom-wine. + A little of it sipped by night + Makes the long hours divine. + But oh, my reckless lovers, + They drain the cup and wail, + Die at my feet with shaking limbs + And tender lips all pale. + Above them in the sky it bends + Empty and gray and dread. + To-morrow night 'tis full again, + Golden, and foaming red. + + + + X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said + + + Where now the huts are empty, + Where never a camp-fire glows, + In an abandoned canyon, + A Gambler's Ghost arose. + He muttered there, "The moon's a sack + Of dust." His voice rose thin: + "I wish I knew the miner-man. + I'd play, and play to win. + In every game in Cripple-creek + Of old, when stakes were high, + I held my own. Now I would play + For that sack in the sky. + The sport would not be ended there. + 'Twould rather be begun. + I'd bet my moon against his stars, + And gamble for the sun." + + + + XI. The Spice-tree + + + This is the song + The spice-tree sings: + "Hunger and fire, + Hunger and fire, + Sky-born Beauty-- + Spice of desire," + Under the spice-tree + Watch and wait, + Burning maidens + And lads that mate. + + The spice-tree spreads + And its boughs come down + Shadowing village and farm and town. + And none can see + But the pure of heart + The great green leaves + And the boughs descending, + And hear the song that is never ending. + + The deep roots whisper, + The branches say:-- + "Love to-morrow, + And love to-day, + And till Heaven's day, + And till Heaven's day." + + The moon is a bird's nest in its branches, + The moon is hung in its topmost spaces. + And there, to-night, two doves play house + While lovers watch with uplifted faces. + Two doves go home + To their nest, the moon. + It is woven of twigs of broken light, + With threads of scarlet and threads of gray + And a lining of down for silk delight. + To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves, + Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;-- + And one is the kiss I took from you, + And one is the kiss you gave to me. + + + + XII. The Scissors-grinder + + (What the Tramp Said) + + + The old man had his box and wheel + For grinding knives and shears. + No doubt his bell in village streets + Was joy to children's ears. + And I bethought me of my youth + When such men came around, + And times I asked them in, quite sure + The scissors should be ground. + The old man turned and spoke to me, + His face at last in view. + And then I thought those curious eyes + Were eyes that once I knew. + + "The moon is but an emery-wheel + To whet the sword of God," + He said. "And here beside my fire + I stretch upon the sod + Each night, and dream, and watch the stars + And watch the ghost-clouds go. + And see that sword of God in Heaven + A-waving to and fro. + I see that sword each century, friend. + It means the world-war comes + With all its bloody, wicked chiefs + And hate-inflaming drums. + Men talk of peace, but I have seen + That emery-wheel turn round. + The voice of Abel cries again + To God from out the ground. + The ditches must flow red, the plague + Go stark and screaming by + Each time that sword of God takes edge + Within the midnight sky. + And those that scorned their brothers here + And sowed a wind of shame + Will reap the whirlwind as of old + And face relentless flame." + + And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, + His face at last in view. + _And there beside the railroad bridge + I saw the wandering Jew_. + + + + XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl + + + My lady in her white silk shawl + Is like a lily dim, + Within the twilight of the room + Enthroned and kind and prim. + + My lady! Pale gold is her hair. + Until she smiles her face + Is pale with far Hellenic moods, + With thoughts that find no place + + In our harsh village of the West + Wherein she lives of late, + She's distant as far-hidden stars, + And cold--(almost!)--as fate. + + But when she smiles she's here again + Rosy with comrade-cheer, + A Puritan Bacchante made + To laugh around the year. + + The merry gentle moon herself, + Heart-stirring too, like her, + Wakening wild and innocent love + In every worshipper. + + + + XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn + + + "Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. + "This tailor-shop sings not at all. + Chant me a word of the twilight, + Of roses that mourn in the fall. + Bring me a song like hashish + That will comfort the stale and the sad, + For I would be mending my spirit, + Forgetting these days that are bad, + Forgetting companions too shallow, + Their quarrels and arguments thin, + Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:"-- + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Bring me old wines," said Aladdin. + "I have been a starved pauper too long. + Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, + Serve them with fruit and with song:-- + Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans + Digged from beneath the black seas:-- + New-gathered dew from the heavens + Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees, + Cups from the angels' pale tables + That will make me both handsome and wise, + For I have beheld her, the princess, + Firelight and starlight her eyes. + Pauper I am, I would woo her. + And--let me drink wine, to begin, + Though the Koran expressly forbids it." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Plan me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON, + When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains, + Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon." + "Build me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That shall cause all young lovers to sigh, + The fullness of life and of beauty, + Peace beyond peace to the eye-- + A palace of foam and of opal, + Pure moonlight without and within, + Where I may enthrone my sweet lady." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + + + XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + (What the Mendicant Said) + + + The moon's a monk, unmated, + Who walks his cell, the sky. + His strength is that of heaven-vowed men + Who all life's flames defy. + + They turn to stars or shadows, + They go like snow or dew-- + Leaving behind no sorrow-- + Only the arching blue. + + + + +Fifth Section + +War. September 1, 1914 Intended to be Read Aloud + + + + + +I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight + + (In Springfield, Illinois) + + + + It is portentous, and a thing of state + That here at midnight, in our little town + A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, + Near the old court-house pacing up and down, + + Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards + He lingers where his children used to play, + Or through the market, on the well-worn stones + He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. + + A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, + A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl + Make him the quaint great figure that men love, + The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. + + He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. + He is among us:--as in times before! + And we who toss and lie awake for long + Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. + + His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. + Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? + Too many peasants fight, they know not why, + Too many homesteads in black terror weep. + + The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. + He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. + He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now + The bitterness, the folly and the pain. + + He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn + Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free: + The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, + Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. + + It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, + That all his hours of travail here for men + Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace + That he may sleep upon his hill again? + + + + +II. A Curse for Kings + + + + A curse upon each king who leads his state, + No matter what his plea, to this foul game, + And may it end his wicked dynasty, + And may he die in exile and black shame. + + If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, + What punishment could Heaven devise for these + Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, + And turn their murderers loose on all the seas! + + Put back the clock of time a thousand years, + And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen, + A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, + Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene + + In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, + Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; + While Science towers above;--a witch, red-winged: + Science we looked to for the light of life. + + Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, + Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find + Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, + Each deadliest device against mankind. + + Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, + May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, + Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake, + And felon's stripes for medals and for braids. + + Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, + Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, + Who make the kind world but their game of cards, + Till millions die at turning of a hair. + + What punishment will Heaven devise for these + Who win by others' sweat and hardihood, + Who make men into stinking vultures' meat, + Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"? + + Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death + Should burn in utmost hell a million years! + --Mothers of men go on the destined wrack + To give them life, with anguish and with tears:-- + + Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away? + Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, + And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: + These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings! + + All in the name of this or that grim flag, + No angel-flags in all the rag-array-- + Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings + And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day! + + + + +III. Who Knows? + + + + They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows? + They say one king is doddering and grey. + They say one king is slack and sick of mind, + A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play. + + Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place? + Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane? + Their place of maudlin, slavering conference + Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? + + + + +IV. To Buddha + + + + Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, + Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. + And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, + Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes? + + Good comrade and philosopher and prince, + Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, + Dare they to move against your pride benign, + Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind? + + ***** + + But what can Europe say, when in your name + The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red? + And what can Europe say, when with a laugh + Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead? + + + + +V. The Unpardonable Sin + + + + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:-- + To speak of bloody power as right divine, + And call on God to guard each vile chief's house, + And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:-- + + To go forth killing in White Mercy's name, + Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, + Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, + Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains. + + In any Church's name, to sack fair towns, + And turn each home into a screaming sty, + To make the little children fugitive, + And have their mothers for a quick death cry,-- + + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: + This is the sin no purging can atone:-- + To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:-- + To set the face, and make the heart a stone. + + + + +VI. Above the Battle's Front + + + + St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John-- + Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, + Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, + And walked upon the water and the land, + + If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings + For sober conclave, ere their battle great, + Would they for one deep instant then discern + Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate? + + If you should float above the battle's front, + Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay, + Bearing a fifth within your regal train, + The Son of David in his strange array-- + + If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven, + Would they have hearts to see or understand? + ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know, + Thorn-crowned above the water and the land. + + + + +VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings + + + + Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, + On sunny days have found you weak and still, + Though I have often held your girlish head + Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill:-- + + Under the blessing of your Psyche-wings + I hide to-night like one small broken bird, + So soothed I half-forget the world gone mad:-- + And all the winds of war are now unheard. + + My heaven-doubting pennons feel your hands + With touch most delicate so circling round, + That for an hour I dream that God is good. + And in your shadow, Mercy's ways abound. + + I thought myself the guard of your frail state, + And yet I come to-night a helpless guest, + Hiding beneath your giant Psyche-wings, + Against the pallor of your wondrous breast. + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +Biographical Note: + +Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931): + +(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel'). + +"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known +poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William +Booth Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914). + +Lindsay himself considered his drawings and his prose writings to be as +important as his verse, all coming together to form a whole. His +"Collected Poems" (1925) gives a good selection. + +***** + +From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917): + +"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, +Ohio. He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, +Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time +after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical +relation to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, +Illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "The +Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, +pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his +own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, taking as scrip for the +journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", made a pilgrimage on foot +through several Western States going as far afield as New Mexico. The +story of this journey is given in his volume, "Adventures while +Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention +in poetry by "General William Booth Enters into Heaven", a poem which +became the title of his first volume, in 1913. His second volume was +"The Congo", published in 1914. He is attempting to restore to poetry +its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly +from the selections contained in this anthology." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1021 *** diff --git a/1021-h/1021-h.htm b/1021-h/1021-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9eb64b --- /dev/null +++ b/1021-h/1021-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3948 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" + content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<title> + The Congo and Other Poems, + by Vachel Lindsay +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body { text-align:justify} + P { margin:15%; + text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; } + .foot { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 95%; } + img {border: 0;} + HR { width: 33%; text-align: center; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; } + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 1%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: left; + color: gray; + } /* page numbers */ + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 10%; margin-left: 1%;} + .toc { margin-left: 5%; margin-bottom: .75em; font-size: 80%;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 5%;} + CENTER { padding: 10px;} + PRE { font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 20%;} + // --> +</style> + + +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1021 ***</div> + +<br><br> + +<h1> + THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS +</h1><br /> + +<h2> +By Vachel Lindsay +</h2> +<h4> +[Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Illinois Artist. 1879-1931.] +</h4><br /> + +<h3> +With an introduction by Harriet Monroe Editor of "Poetry" +</h3><br /> +<br /> + +<p> +[Notes: The 'stage-directions' given in "The Congo" and those +poems which are meant to be read aloud, are traditionally printed to the +right side of the first line it refers to. This is possible, but +impracticable, to imitate in a simple ASCII text. Therefore these +'stage-directions' are given on the line BEFORE the first line they +refer to, and are furthermore indented 20 spaces and given bold print to +keep it clear to the reader which parts are text and which parts +directions.] +</p> +<p> +[This electronic text was transcribed from a reprint of the original +edition, which was first published in New York, in September, 1914. Due +to a great deal of irregularity between titles in the table of contents +and in the text of the original, there are some slight differences from +the original in these matters—with the more complete titles replacing +cropped ones. In one case they are different enough that both are +given, and "Twenty Poems in which...." was originally "Twenty Moon +Poems" in the table of contents—the odd thing about both these titles +is that there are actually twenty-TWO moon poems.] +</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<hr> +<br /> +<br /> + +<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS +</h2> +<a name="2H_INTR"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Introduction. By Harriet Monroe +</h2> +<p> +When 'Poetry, A Magazine of Verse', was first published in Chicago in +the autumn of 1912, an Illinois poet, Vachel Lindsay, was, quite +appropriately, one of its first discoveries. It may be not quite without +significance that the issue of January, 1913, which led off with +'General William Booth Enters into Heaven', immediately followed the +number in which the great poet of Bengal, Rabindra Nath Tagore, was +first presented to the American public, and that these two antipodal +poets soon appeared in person among the earliest visitors to the editor. +For the coming together of East and West may prove to be the great event +of the approaching era, and if the poetry of the now famous Bengali +laureate garners the richest wisdom and highest spirituality of his +ancient race, so one may venture to believe that the young Illinois +troubadour brings from Lincoln's city an authentic strain of the lyric +message of this newer world. +</p> +<p> +It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to mention Mr. Lindsay's loyalty to the +people of his place and hour, or the training in sympathy with their +aims and ideals which he has achieved through vagabondish wanderings in +the Middle West. And we may permit time to decide how far he expresses +their emotion. But it may be opportune to emphasize his plea for poetry +as a song art, an art appealing to the ear rather than the eye. The +first section of this volume is especially an effort to restore poetry +to its proper place—the audience-chamber, and take it out of the +library, the closet. In the library it has become, so far as the people +are concerned, almost a lost art, and perhaps it can be restored to the +people only through a renewal of its appeal to the ear. +</p> +<p> +I am tempted to quote from Mr. Lindsay's explanatory note which +accompanied three of these poems when they were first printed in +'Poetry'. He said: +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Yeats asked me recently in Chicago, 'What are we going to do to +restore the primitive singing of poetry?' I find what Mr. Yeats means +by 'the primitive singing of poetry' in Professor Edward Bliss Reed's +new volume on 'The English Lyric'. He says in his chapter on the +definition of the lyric: 'With the Greeks "song" was an all-embracing +term. It included the crooning of the nurse to the child... the +half-sung chant of the mower or sailor... the formal ode sung by the poet. +In all Greek lyrics, even in the choral odes, music was the handmaid of +verse.... The poet himself composed the accompaniment. Euripides was +censured because Iophon had assisted him in the musical setting of some +of his dramas.' Here is pictured a type of Greek work which survives in +American vaudeville, where every line may be two-thirds spoken and +one-third sung, the entire rendering, musical and elocutionary, depending +upon the improvising power and sure instinct of the performer. +</p> +<p> +"I respectfully submit these poems as experiments in which I endeavor to +carry this vaudeville form back towards the old Greek precedent of the +half-chanted lyric. In this case the one-third of music must be added +by the instinct of the reader. He must be Iophon. And he can easily be +Iophon if he brings to bear upon the piece what might be called the +Higher Vaudeville imagination.... +</p> +<p> +"Big general contrasts between the main sections should be the rule of +the first attempts at improvising. It is the hope of the writer that +after two or three readings each line will suggest its own separate +touch of melody to the reader who has become accustomed to the cadences. +Let him read what he likes read, and sing what he likes sung." +</p> +<p> +It was during this same visit in Chicago, at 'Poetry's' banquet on the +evening of March first, 1914, that Mr. Yeats honored Mr. Lindsay by +addressing his after-dinner talk primarily to him as "a fellow +craftsman", and by saying of 'General Booth': +</p> +<p> +"This poem is stripped bare of ornament; it has an earnest simplicity, a +strange beauty, and you know Bacon said, 'There is no excellent beauty +without strangeness.'" +</p> +<p> +This recognition from the distinguished Irish poet tempts me to hint at +the cosmopolitan aspects of such racily local art as Mr. Lindsay's. The +subject is too large for a merely introductory word, but the reader may +be invited to reflect upon it. If Mr. Lindsay's poetry should cross the +ocean, it would not be the first time that our most indigenous art has +reacted upon the art of older nations. Besides Poe—who, though +indigenous in ways too subtle for brief analysis, yet passed all +frontiers in his swift, sad flight—the two American artists of widest +influence, Whitman and Whistler, have been intensely American in +temperament and in the special spiritual quality of their art. +</p> +<p> +If Whistler was the first great artist to accept the modern message in +Oriental art, if Whitman was the first great modern poet to discard the +limitations of conventional form: if both were more free, more +individual, than their contemporaries, this was the expression of their +Americanism, which may perhaps be defined as a spiritual independence +and love of adventure inherited from the pioneers. Foreign artists are +usually the first to recognize this new tang; one detects the influence +of the great dead poet and dead painter in all modern art which looks +forward instead of back; and their countrymen, our own contemporary +poets and painters, often express indirectly, through French influences, +a reaction which they are reluctant to confess directly. +</p> +<p> +A lighter phase of this foreign enthusiasm for the American tang is +confessed by Signor Marinetti, the Italian "futurist", when in his +article on 'Futurism and the Theatre', in 'The Mask', he urges the +revolutionary value of "American eccentrics", citing the fundamental +primitive quality in their vaudeville art. This may be another statement +of Mr. Lindsay's plea for a closer relation between the poet and his +audience, for a return to the healthier open-air conditions, and +immediate personal contacts, in the art of the Greeks and of primitive +nations. Such conditions and contacts may still be found, if the world +only knew it, in the wonderful song-dances of the Hopis and others of +our aboriginal tribes. They may be found, also, in a measure, in the +quick response between artist and audience in modern vaudeville. They +are destined to a wider and higher influence; in fact, the development +of that influence, the return to primitive sympathies between artist and +audience, which may make possible once more the assertion of primitive +creative power, is recognized as the immediate movement in modern art. +It is a movement strong enough to persist in spite of extravagances and +absurdities; strong enough, it may be hoped, to fulfil its purpose and +revitalize the world. +</p> +<p> +It is because Mr. Lindsay's poetry seems to be definitely in that +movement that it is, I think, important. +</p> +<p> +Harriet Monroe. +</p> + + + + +<br /> +<br /> +<hr> +<br /> +<br /> + + +<h2>Contents</h2> + + +<center> +<table summary=""> +<tr><td> + + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001"> +<b>THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_INTR"> +Introduction. By Harriet Monroe +</a></p><br /> + + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003"> +<b>First Section ~~ Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted.</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0004"> +The Congo +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0005"> +The Santa Fe Trail +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0006"> +The Firemen's Ball +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0007"> +The Master of the Dance +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0008"> +The Mysterious Cat +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0009"> +A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0010"> +Yankee Doodle +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0011"> +The Black Hawk War of the Artists +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0012"> +The Jingo and the Minstrel +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0015"> +I Heard Immanuel Singing +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0016"> +<b>Second Section ~~ Incense</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0017"> +An Argument +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0018"> +A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0019"> +In Memory of a Child +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0020"> +Galahad, Knight Who Perished +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0021"> +The Leaden-eyed +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0022"> +An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0023"> +The Hearth Eternal +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0024"> +The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0025"> +By the Spring, at Sunset +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0026"> +I Went down into the Desert +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0027"> +Love and Law +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0028"> +The Perfect Marriage +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0029"> +Darling Daughter of Babylon +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0030"> +The Amaranth +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0031"> +The Alchemist's Petition +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0032"> +Two Easter Stanzas +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0033"> +The Traveller-heart +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0034"> +The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0035"> +<b>Third Section ~~ A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree"</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0036"> +This Section is a Christmas Tree +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0037"> +The Sun Says his Prayers +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0038"> +Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0039"> +How a Little Girl Danced +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0040"> +In Praise of Songs that Die +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0041"> +Factory Windows are always Broken +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0042"> +To Mary Pickford +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0043"> +Blanche Sweet +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0044"> +Sunshine +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0045"> +An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0046"> +When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0047"> +Rhymes for Gloriana +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0048"> +<b>Fourth Section ~~ Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0049"> +Once More—To Gloriana +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0050"> +First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0051"> +Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0052"> +<b>Fifth Section</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0053"> +I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0054"> +II. A Curse for Kings +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0055"> +III. Who Knows? +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0056"> +IV. To Buddha +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0057"> +V. The Unpardonable Sin +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0058"> +VI. Above the Battle's Front +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0059"> +VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0060"> +Biographical Note +</a></p> + + + +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> + + +<br /> +<br /> +<hr> +<br /> +<br /> + +<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + + +<h2> + First Section ~~ Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Congo +</h2> +<h3> + A Study of the Negro Race +</h3> +<pre> + I. Their Basic Savagery + + Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, + Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, + <b>A deep rolling bass.</b> + Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, + Pounded on the table, + Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, + Hard as they were able, + Boom, boom, BOOM, + With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. + I could not turn from their revel in derision. + <b>More deliberate. Solemnly chanted.</b> + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + Then along that riverbank + A thousand miles + Tattooed cannibals danced in files; + Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song + <b>A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket.</b> + And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. + And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, + "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, + "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, + Harry the uplands, + Steal all the cattle, + Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, + Bing. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + <b>With a philosophic pause.</b> + A roaring, epic, rag-time tune + From the mouth of the Congo + To the Mountains of the Moon. + Death is an Elephant, + <b>Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre.</b> + Torch-eyed and horrible, + Foam-flanked and terrible. + BOOM, steal the pygmies, + BOOM, kill the Arabs, + BOOM, kill the white men, + HOO, HOO, HOO. + <b>Like the wind in the chimney.</b> + Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost + Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. + Hear how the demons chuckle and yell + Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. + Listen to the creepy proclamation, + Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, + Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, + Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:— + "Be careful what you do, + <b>All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. + Light accents very light. Last line whispered.</b> + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." +</pre> +<pre> + II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits + + <b>Rather shrill and high.</b> + Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call + Danced the juba in their gambling-hall + And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, + And guyed the policemen and laughed them down + With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + <b>Read exactly as in first section.</b> + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + <b>Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. + Keep as light-footed as possible.</b> + A negro fairyland swung into view, + A minstrel river + Where dreams come true. + The ebony palace soared on high + Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. + The inlaid porches and casements shone + With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. + And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore + At the baboon butler in the agate door, + And the well-known tunes of the parrot band + That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. + + <b>With pomposity.</b> + A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came + Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, + Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust + And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. + And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call + And danced the juba from wall to wall. + <b>With a great deliberation and ghostliness.</b> + But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng + With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:— + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."... + <b>With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp.</b> + Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, + Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, + Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, + And tall silk hats that were red as wine. + <b>With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm.</b> + And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, + Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, + Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, + And bells on their ankles and little black feet. + And the couples railed at the chant and the frown + Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. + (O rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile.) + + The cake-walk royalty then began + To walk for a cake that was tall as a man + To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + <b>With a touch of negro dialect, + and as rapidly as possible toward the end.</b> + While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, + And sang with the scalawags prancing there:— + "Walk with care, walk with care, + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Beware, beware, walk with care, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, + BOOM." + <b>Slow philosophic calm.</b> + Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile. +</pre> +<pre> + III. The Hope of their Religion + + <b>Heavy bass. With a literal imitation + of camp-meeting racket, and trance.</b> + A good old negro in the slums of the town + Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. + Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, + His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. + Beat on the Bible till he wore it out + Starting the jubilee revival shout. + And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, + And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, + And they all repented, a thousand strong + From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong + And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room + With "glory, glory, glory," + And "Boom, boom, BOOM." + <b>Exactly as in the first section. + Begin with terror and power, end with joy.</b> + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK + CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil + And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. + In bright white steele they were seated round + And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. + And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high + Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:— + <b>Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand + harps and voices".</b> + "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; + Never again will he hoo-doo you, + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + <b>With growing deliberation and joy.</b> + Then along that river, a thousand miles + The vine-snared trees fell down in files. + Pioneer angels cleared the way + For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, + For sacred capitals, for temples clean. + Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. + <b>In a rather high key—as delicately as possible.</b> + There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed + A million boats of the angels sailed + With oars of silver, and prows of blue + And silken pennants that the sun shone through. + 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation. + Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation + And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— + <b>To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices".</b> + "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. + Never again will he hoo-doo you. + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, + And only the vulture dared again + By the far, lone mountains of the moon + To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:— + <b>Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper.</b> + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Mumbo... Jumbo... will... hoo-doo... you." +</pre> +<p> +This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion +in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death of +Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ who +perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo. See "A Master +Builder on the Congo", by Andrew F. Hensey, published by Fleming H. +Revell. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Santa Fe Trail +</h2> +<pre> + (A Humoresque) +</pre> +<p> +I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He +answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, lark, or +thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane." +</p> +<pre> + I. In which a Racing Auto comes from the East + + <b>To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune.</b> + This is the order of the music of the morning:— + First, from the far East comes but a crooning. + The crooning turns to a sunrise singing. + Hark to the <i>calm</i>-horn, <i>balm</i>-horn, <i>psalm</i>-horn. + Hark to the <i>faint</i>-horn, <i>quaint</i>-horn, <i>saint</i>-horn.... + + <b>To be sung or read with great speed.</b> + Hark to the <i>pace</i>-horn, <i>chase</i>-horn, <i>race</i>-horn. + And the holy veil of the dawn has gone. + Swiftly the brazen car comes on. + It burns in the East as the sunrise burns. + I see great flashes where the far trail turns. + Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons. + It drinks gasoline from big red flagons. + Butting through the delicate mists of the morning, + It comes like lightning, goes past roaring. + It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing, + Dodge the cyclones, + Count the milestones, + On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills— + Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills.... + <b>To be read or sung in a rolling bass, + with some deliberation.</b> + Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, + Ho for the <i>gay</i>-horn, <i>bark</i>-horn, <i>bay</i>-horn. + <i>Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas, + A million men have found you before us.</i> +</pre> +<pre> + II. In which Many Autos pass Westward + + <b>In an even, deliberate, narrative manner.</b> + I want live things in their pride to remain. + I will not kill one grasshopper vain + Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. + I let him out, give him one chance more. + Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, + Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. + + I am a tramp by the long trail's border, + Given to squalor, rags and disorder. + I nap and amble and yawn and look, + Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book, + Recite to the children, explore at my ease, + Work when I work, beg when I please, + Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare + To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare, + And get me a place to sleep in the hay + At the end of a live-and-let-live day. + + I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds + A whisper and a feasting, all one needs: + The whisper of the strawberries, white and red + Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead. + + But I would not walk all alone till I die + Without some life-drunk horns going by. + Up round this apple-earth they come + Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:— + Cars in a plain realistic row. + And fair dreams fade + When the raw horns blow. + + On each snapping pennant + A big black name:— + The careering city + Whence each car came. + <b>Like a train-caller in a Union Depot.</b> + They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah, + Tallahassee and Texarkana. + They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, + They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee. + Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston, + Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin. + Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo. + Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo. + Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi, + Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami. + Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + While I watch the highroad + And look at the sky, + While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur + Roll their legions without rain + Over the blistering Kansas plain— + While I sit by the milestone + And watch the sky, + The United States + Goes by. + + <b>To be given very harshly, + with a snapping explosiveness.</b> + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. + Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. + Way down the road, trilling like a toad, + Here comes the <i>dice</i>-horn, here comes the <i>vice</i>-horn, + Here comes the <i>snarl</i>-horn, <i>brawl</i>-horn, <i>lewd</i>-horn, + Followed by the <i>prude</i>-horn, bleak and squeaking:— + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + Here comes the <i>hod</i>-horn, <i>plod</i>-horn, <i>sod</i>-horn, + Nevermore-to-<i>roam</i>-horn, <i>loam</i>-horn, <i>home</i>-horn. + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + <b>To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper.</b> + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:— + "Love and life, + Eternal youth— + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." + <b>Louder and louder, faster and faster.</b> + WHILE SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD, + DRIVEN AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL-FIEND'S OX-GOAD, + SCREAMING TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST, + CARRY OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST, + HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST. + THE HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS, + THE SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS. + <b>In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation.</b> + And then, in an instant, + Ye modern men, + Behold the procession once again, + <b>With a snapping explosiveness.</b> + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, + Listen to the <i>wise</i>-horn, desperate-to-<i>advise</i>-horn, + Listen to the <i>fast</i>-horn, <i>kill</i>-horn, <i>blast</i>-horn.... + <b>To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper.</b> + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:— + Love and life, + Eternal youth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth. + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + <b>To be brawled in the beginning with a + snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant.</b> + The mufflers open on a score of cars + With wonderful thunder, + CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK-CRACK,... + Listen to the gold-horn... + Old-horn... + Cold-horn... + And all of the tunes, till the night comes down + On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town. + <b>To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune + as the first five lines.</b> + Then far in the west, as in the beginning, + Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating, + Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn, + Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.... + + <b>This section beginning sonorously, + ending in a languorous whisper.</b> + They are hunting the goals that they understand:— + San Francisco and the brown sea-sand. + My goal is the mystery the beggars win. + I am caught in the web the night-winds spin. + The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me. + I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree. + And now I hear, as I sit all alone + In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone, + The souls of the tall corn gathering round + And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground. + Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells. + Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells. + Listen to the whistling flutes without price + Of myriad prophets out of paradise. + Harken to the wonder + That the night-air carries.... + Listen... to... the... whisper... + Of... the... prairie... fairies + Singing o'er the fairy plain:— + <b>To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song— + but very slowly.</b> + "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + Love and glory, + Stars and rain, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet...." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Firemen's Ball +</h2> +<pre> + Section One + + "Give the engines room, + Give the engines room." + Louder, faster + The little band-master + Whips up the fluting, + Hurries up the tooting. + He thinks that he stands, + <b>To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass + of fire-engines pumping.</b> + The reins in his hands, + In the fire-chief's place + In the night alarm chase. + The cymbals whang, + The kettledrums bang:— + <b>In this passage the reading or chanting + is shriller and higher.</b> + "Clear the street, + Clear the street, + Clear the street—Boom, boom. + In the evening gloom, + In the evening gloom, + Give the engines room, + Give the engines room, + Lest souls be trapped + In a terrible tomb." + The sparks and the pine-brands + Whirl on high + From the black and reeking alleys + To the wide red sky. + Hear the hot glass crashing, + Hear the stone steps hissing. + Coal black streams + Down the gutters pour. + There are cries for help + From a far fifth floor. + For a longer ladder + Hear the fire-chief call. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + <b>To be read or chanted in a heavy bass.</b> + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Faster, faster + The red flames come. + "Hum grum," say the engines, + "Hum grum grum." + <b>Shriller and higher.</b> + "Buzz, buzz," + Says the crowd. + "See, see," + Calls the crowd. + "Look out," + Yelps the crowd + And the high walls fall:— + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + <b>Heavy bass.</b> + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Whangaranga, whangaranga, + Whang, whang, whang, + Clang, clang, clangaranga, + <b>Bass, much slower.</b> + Clang, clang, clang. + Clang—a—ranga— + Clang—a—ranga— + Clang, + Clang, + Clang. + Listen—to—the—music— + Of the firemen's ball— +</pre> +<pre> + Section Two + + "Many's the heart that's breaking + If we could read them all + After the ball is over." (An old song.) +</pre> +<pre> + <b>To be read or sung slowly and softly, + in the manner of lustful, insinuating music.</b> + Scornfully, gaily + The bandmaster sways, + Changing the strain + That the wild band plays. + With a red and royal intoxication, + A tangle of sounds + And a syncopation, + Sweeping and bending + From side to side, + Master of dreams, + With a peacock pride. + A lord of the delicate flowers of delight + He drives compunction + Back through the night. + Dreams he's a soldier + Plumed and spurred, + And valiant lads + Arise at his word, + Flaying the sober + Thoughts he hates, + Driving them back + From the dream-town gates. + How can the languorous + Dancers know + The red dreams come + <b>To be read or chanted slowly and softly + in the manner of lustful insinuating music.</b> + When the good dreams go? + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells, + "NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells. + "Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + Sing low, now, violins, + Sing, sing low, + Blow gently, wood-wind, + Mellow and slow. + Like midnight poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + Their eyes flash power, + Their lips are dumb. + Faster and faster + Their pulses come, + Though softer now + The drum-beats fall. + Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + 'Tis the firemen's ball, + 'Tis the firemen's ball. + + <b>With a climax of whispered mourning.</b> + "I am slain," + Cries true-love + There in the shadow. + "And I die," + Cries true-love, + There laid low. + "When the fire-dreams come, + The wise dreams go." + <b>Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in + a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. + Then gradually musical and sonorous.</b> + BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED + BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER. + And now great gongs whang, + Sharper, faster, + And kettledrums rattle + And hide the shame + With a swish and a swirk + In dead love's name. + Red and crimson + And scarlet and rose + Magical poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + The scarlet stays + When the rose-flush goes, + And love lies low + In a marble tomb. + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of Doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + <b>Sharply interrupting in a very high key.</b> + Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. + "'Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year." + <b>Heavy bass.</b> + CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG. + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S BALL... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S... BALL.... +</pre> +<pre> + Section Three +</pre> +<p> +In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed +before the reader. +</p> +<p> +(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: "There Buddha thus addressed +his disciples: 'Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is +it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, +with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with +the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering +and despair.... A disciple,... becoming weary of all that, +divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.'") +</p> +<pre> + <b>To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service.</b> + I once knew a teacher, + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the young men + "Wine is a fire." + Who said to the merchants:— + "Gold is a flame + That sears and tortures + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire + Who said to the soldiers, + "Hate is a fire." + Who said to the statesmen:— + "Power is a flame + That flays and blisters + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the lordly, + + "Pride is a fire." + Who thus warned the revellers:— + "Life is a flame. + Be cold as the dew + Would you win at the game + With hearts like the stars, + With hearts like the stars." + <b>Interrupting very loudly for the last time.</b> + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE. + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED + IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. + SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE + TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:— + "THERE GOES THE ALARM, + THERE GOES THE ALARM. + THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, + THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, + AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER'S IRON ARM." + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... <i>CLANG</i>.... +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Master of the Dance +</h2> +<p> +A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and +improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher. +</p> +<pre> + I + + A master deep-eyed + Ere his manhood was ripe, + He sang like a thrush, + He could play any pipe. + So dull in the school + That he scarcely could spell, + He read but a bit, + And he figured not well. + A bare-footed fool, + Shod only with grace; + Long hair streaming down + Round a wind-hardened face; + He smiled like a girl, + Or like clear winter skies, + A virginal light + Making stars of his eyes. + In swiftness and poise, + A proud child of the deer, + A white fawn he was, + Yet a fawn without fear. + No youth thought him vain, + Or made mock of his hair, + Or laughed when his ways + Were most curiously fair. + A mastiff at fight, + He could strike to the earth + The envious one + Who would challenge his worth. + However we bowed + To the schoolmaster mild, + Our spirits went out + To the fawn-footed child. + His beckoning led + Our troop to the brush. + We found nothing there + But a wind and a hush. + He sat by a stone + And he looked on the ground, + As if in the weeds + There was something profound. + His pipe seemed to neigh, + Then to bleat like a sheep, + Then sound like a stream + Or a waterfall deep. + It whispered strange tales, + Human words it spoke not. + Told fair things to come, + And our marvellous lot + If now with fawn-steps + Unshod we advanced + To the midst of the grove + And in reverence danced. + We obeyed as he piped + Soft grass to young feet, + Was a medicine mighty, + A remedy meet. + Our thin blood awoke, + It grew dizzy and wild, + Though scarcely a word + Moved the lips of a child. + Our dance gave allegiance, + It set us apart, + We tripped a strange measure, + Uplifted of heart. +</pre> +<pre> + II + + We thought to be proud + Of our fawn everywhere. + We could hardly see how + Simple books were a care. + No rule of the school + This strange student could tame. + He was banished one day, + While we quivered with shame. + He piped back our love + On a moon-silvered night, + Enticed us once more + To the place of delight. + A greeting he sang + And it made our blood beat, + It tramped upon custom + And mocked at defeat. + He builded a fire + And we tripped in a ring, + The embers our books + And the fawn our good king. + And now we approached + All the mysteries rare + That shadowed his eyelids + And blew through his hair. + That spell now was peace + The deep strength of the trees, + The children of nature + We clambered her knees. + Our breath and our moods + Were in tune with her own, + Tremendous her presence, + Eternal her throne. + The ostracized child + Our white foreheads kissed, + Our bodies and souls + Became lighter than mist. + Sweet dresses like snow + Our small lady-loves wore, + Like moonlight the thoughts + That our bosoms upbore. + Like a lily the touch + Of each cold little hand. + The loves of the stars + We could now understand. + O quivering air! + O the crystalline night! + O pauses of awe + And the faces swan-white! + O ferns in the dusk! + O forest-shrined hour! + O earth that sent upward + The thrill and the power, + To lift us like leaves, + A delirious whirl, + The masterful boy + And the delicate girl! + What child that strange night-time + Can ever forget? + His fealty due + And his infinite debt + To the folly divine, + To the exquisite rule + Of the perilous master, + The fawn-footed fool? +</pre> +<pre> + III + + Now soldiers we seem, + And night brings a new thing, + A terrible ire, + As of thunder awing. + A warrior power, + That old chivalry stirred, + When knights took up arms, + As the maidens gave word. + THE END OF OUR WAR, + WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD. + WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT + BUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD! + <i>Near, nearer that war, + And that ecstasy comes, + We hear the trees beating + Invisible drums. + The fields of the night + Are starlit above, + Our girls are white torches + Of conquest and love. + No nerve without will, + And no breast without breath, + We whirl with the planets + That never know death!</i> +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Mysterious Cat +</h2> +<p> +A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted +by George Mather Richards. +</p> +<pre> + I saw a proud, mysterious cat, + I saw a proud, mysterious cat + Too proud to catch a mouse or rat— + Mew, mew, mew. + + But catnip she would eat, and purr, + But catnip she would eat, and purr. + And goldfish she did much prefer— + Mew, mew, mew. + + I saw a cat—'twas but a dream, + I saw a cat—'twas but a dream + Who scorned the slave that brought her cream— + Mew, mew, mew. + + Unless the slave were dressed in style, + Unless the slave were dressed in style + And knelt before her all the while— + Mew, mew, mew. + + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Mew... mew... mew. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten +</h2> +<p> +To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken +in a snappy, matter-of-fact way. +</p> +<pre> + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + Here lies a kitten good, who kept + A kitten's proper place. + He stole no pantry eatables, + Nor scratched the baby's face. + <i>He let the alley-cats alone</i>. + He had no yowling vice. + His shirt was always laundried well, + He freed the house of mice. + Until his death he had not caused + His little mistress tears, + He wore his ribbon prettily, + <i>He washed behind his ears</i>. + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Yankee Doodle +</h2> +<p> +This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural +painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a +slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an +entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday. +</p> +<pre> + Dawn this morning burned all red + Watching them in wonder. + There I saw our spangled flag + Divide the clouds asunder. + Then there followed Washington. + Ah, he rode from glory, + Cold and mighty as his name + And stern as Freedom's story. + Unsubdued by burning dawn + Led his continentals. + Vast they were, and strange to see + In gray old regimentals:— + Marching still with bleeding feet, + Bleeding feet and jesting— + Marching from the judgment throne + With energy unresting. + How their merry quickstep played— + Silver, sharp, sonorous, + Piercing through with prophecy + The demons' rumbling chorus— + Behold the ancient powers of sin + And slavery before them!— + Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, + The pit-black clouds hung o'er them. + Plagues that rose to blast the day + Fiend and tiger faces, + Monsters plotting bloodshed for + The patient toiling races. + Round the dawn their cannon raged, + Hurling bolts of thunder, + Yet before our spangled flag + Their host was cut asunder. + Like a mist they fled away.... + Ended wrath and roaring. + Still our restless soldier-host + From East to West went pouring. + + High beside the sun of noon + They bore our banner splendid. + All its days of stain and shame + And heaviness were ended. + Men were swelling now the throng + From great and lowly station— + Valiant citizens to-day + Of every tribe and nation. + Not till night their rear-guard came, + Down the west went marching, + And left behind the sunset-rays + In beauty overarching. + War-god banners lead us still, + Rob, enslave and harry + Let us rather choose to-day + The flag the angels carry— + Flag we love, but brighter far— + Soul of it made splendid: + Let its days of stain and shame + And heaviness be ended. + Let its fifes fill all the sky, + Redeemed souls marching after, + Hills and mountains shake with song, + While seas roll on in laughter. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Black Hawk War of the Artists +</h2> +<h3> + Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois +</h3> +<p> +To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry. +</p> +<pre> + Hawk of the Rocks, + Yours is our cause to-day. + Watching your foes + Here in our war array, + Young men we stand, + Wolves of the West at bay. + <i>Power, power for war + Comes from these trees divine; + Power from the boughs, + Boughs where the dew-beads shine, + Power from the cones— + Yea, from the breath of the pine!</i> + + Power to restore + All that the white hand mars. + See the dead east + Crushed with the iron cars— + Chimneys black + Blinding the sun and stars! + + Hawk of the pines, + Hawk of the plain-winds fleet, + You shall be king + There in the iron street, + Factory and forge + Trodden beneath your feet. + + There will proud trees + Grow as they grow by streams. + There will proud thoughts + Walk as in warrior dreams. + There will proud deeds + Bloom as when battle gleams! + + Warriors of Art, + We will hold council there, + Hewing in stone + Things to the trapper fair, + Painting the gray + Veils that the spring moons wear, + This our revenge, + This one tremendous change: + Making new towns, + Lit with a star-fire strange, + Wild as the dawn + Gilding the bison-range. + + All the young men + Chanting your cause that day, + Red-men, new-made + Out of the Saxon clay, + Strong and redeemed, + Bold in your war-array! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Jingo and the Minstrel +</h2> +<p> +An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese +People +</p> + +<p> + Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty: Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of +all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her +greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven +Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most +beautiful mountain. +</p> + +<pre> + <b>The minstrel speaks.</b> + "Now do you know of Avalon + That sailors call Japan? + She holds as rare a chivalry + As ever bled for man. + King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hill + Where Iyeyasu lies, + And there the broad Pendragon flag + In deathless splendor flies." + + <b>The jingo answers.</b> + <i>"Nay, minstrel, but the great ships come + From out the sunset sea. + We cannot greet the souls they bring + With welcome high and free. + How can the Nippon nondescripts + That weird and dreadful band + Be aught but what we find them here:— + The blasters of the land?"</i> + + <b>The minstrel replies.</b> + "First race, first men from anywhere + To face you, eye to eye. + For <i>that</i> do you curse Avalon + And raise a hue and cry? + These toilers cannot kiss your hand, + Or fawn with hearts bowed down. + Be glad for them, and Avalon, + And Arthur's ghostly crown. + + "No doubt your guests, with sage debate + In grave things gentlemen + Will let your trade and farms alone + And turn them back again. + But why should brawling braggarts rise + With hasty words of shame + To drive them back like dogs and swine + Who in due honor came?" + + <b>The jingo answers.</b> + <i>"We cannot give them honor, sir. + We give them scorn for scorn. + And Rumor steals around the world + All white-skinned men to warn + Against this sleek silk-merchant here + And viler coolie-man + And wrath within the courts of war + Brews on against Japan!"</i> + + <b>The minstrel replies.</b> + "Must Avalon, with hope forlorn, + Her back against the wall, + Have lived her brilliant life in vain + While ruder tribes take all? + Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts, + A ghost with spear and crown, + Behind the great Pendragon flag + And be again cut down? + + "Tho Europe's self shall move against + High Jimmu Tenno's throne + The Forty-seven Ronin Men + Will not be found alone. + For Percival and Bedivere + And Nogi side by side + Will stand,—with mourning Merlin there, + Tho all go down in pride. + + "But has the world the envious dream— + Ah, such things cannot be,— + To tear their fairy-land like silk + And toss it in the sea? + Must venom rob the future day + The ultimate world-man + Of rare Bushido, code of codes, + The fair heart of Japan? + + "Go, be the guest of Avalon. + Believe me, it lies there + Behind the mighty gray sea-wall + Where heathen bend in prayer: + Where peasants lift adoring eyes + To Fuji's crown of snow. + King Arthur's knights will be your hosts, + So cleanse your heart, and go. + + "And you will find but gardens sweet + Prepared beyond the seas, + And you will find but gentlefolk + Beneath the cherry-trees. + So walk you worthy of your Christ + Tho church bells do not sound, + And weave the bands of brotherhood + On Jimmu Tenno's ground." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I Heard Immanuel Singing +</h2> +<p> +(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his +heart in Heaven.) +</p> +<p> +This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the +well-known tune:— +</p> +<pre> + "Last night I lay a-sleeping, + There came a dream so fair, + I stood in Old Jerusalem + Beside the temple there,—" etc. +</pre> +<p> +Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily. It is here given to +suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it. +</p> +<pre> + <b>To be sung.</b> + I heard Immanuel singing + Within his own good lands, + I saw him bend above his harp. + I watched his wandering hands + Lost amid the harp-strings; + Sweet, sweet I heard him play. + His wounds were altogether healed. + Old things had passed away. + + All things were new, but music. + The blood of David ran + Within the Son of David, + Our God, the Son of Man. + He was ruddy like a shepherd. + His bold young face, how fair. + Apollo of the silver bow + Had not such flowing hair. + + <b>To be read very softly, but in spirited response.</b> + I saw Immanuel singing + On a tree-girdled hill. + The glad remembering branches + Dimly echoed still + The grand new song proclaiming + The Lamb that had been slain. + New-built, the Holy City + Gleamed in the murmuring plain. + + The crowning hours were over. + The pageants all were past. + Within the many mansions + The hosts, grown still at last, + In homes of holy mystery + Slept long by crooning springs + Or waked to peaceful glory, + A universe of Kings. + + <b>To be sung.</b> + He left his people happy. + He wandered free to sigh + Alone in lowly friendship + With the green grass and the sky. + He murmured ancient music + His red heart burned to sing + Because his perfect conquest + Had grown a weary thing. + + No chant of gilded triumph— + His lonely song was made + Of Art's deliberate freedom; + Of minor chords arrayed + In soft and shadowy colors + That once were radiant flowers:— + The Rose of Sharon, bleeding + In Olive-shadowed bowers:— + + And all the other roses + In the songs of East and West + Of love and war and worshipping, + And every shield and crest + Of thistle or of lotus + Or sacred lily wrought + In creeds and psalms and palaces + And temples of white thought:— + + <b>To be read very softly, yet in spirited response.</b> + All these he sang, half-smiling + And weeping as he smiled, + Laughing, talking to his harp + As to a new-born child:— + As though the arts forgotten + But bloomed to prophecy + These careless, fearless harp-strings, + New-crying in the sky. + <b>To be sung.</b> + "When this his hour of sorrow + For flowers and Arts of men + Has passed in ghostly music," + I asked my wild heart then— + What will he sing to-morrow, + What wonder, all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? + What will he sing to-morrow + What wonder all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Second Section ~~ Incense +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + An Argument +</h2> +<pre> + I. The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias + + We find your soft Utopias as white + As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells, + O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are + How human breasts adore alarum bells. + You house us in a hive of prigs and saints + Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law. + I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore + Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. + Promise us all our share in Agincourt + Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death, + That future ant-hills will not be too good + For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. + Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-war + Man's deathless soul will hack and hew its way, + Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fate + Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. + Never a shallow jester any more! + Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. + Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise + And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain. +</pre> +<pre> + II. The Rhymer's Reply. Incense and Splendor + + Incense and Splendor haunt me as I go. + Though my good works have been, alas, too few, + Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me, + And future ages pass in tall review. + I see the years to come as armies vast, + Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. + MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born, + Flame-like to hover o'er the moil and grime, + Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone, + Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn— + Laying new, precious pavements with a song, + Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. + I have seen lovers by those new-built walls + Clothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red. + Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love + Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. + Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers. + Passion was turned to civic strength that day— + Piling the marbles, making fairer domes + With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. + I have seen priestesses of life go by + Gliding in samite through the incense-sea— + Innocent children marching with them there, + Singing in flowered robes, "THE EARTH IS FREE": + While on the fair, deep-carved unfinished towers + Sentinels watched in armor, night and day— + Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream— + Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign +</h2> +<pre> + I look on the specious electrical light + Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, + Wickedly red or malignantly green + Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen. + Showing, while millions of souls hurry on, + The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn, + By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl, + Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl, + By maggoty motions in sickening line + Proclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine, + While there far above the steep cliffs of the street + The stars sing a message elusive and sweet. + + Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toil + His clumsy contraptions of coil upon coil + Till the thing he invents, in its use and its range, + Leads on to the marvellous CHANGE BEYOND CHANGE. + Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, + As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise. + And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, + Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. + The signs in the street and the signs in the skies + Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, + And Broadway make one with that marvellous stair + That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + In Memory of a Child +</h2> +<pre> + The angels guide him now, + And watch his curly head, + And lead him in their games, + The little boy we led. + + He cannot come to harm, + He knows more than we know, + His light is brighter far + Than daytime here below. + + His path leads on and on, + Through pleasant lawns and flowers, + His brown eyes open wide + At grass more green than ours. + + With playmates like himself, + The shining boy will sing, + Exploring wondrous woods, + Sweet with eternal spring. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Galahad, Knight Who Perished +</h2> +<pre> + A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and Interstate + Traffic in Young Girls +</pre> +<pre> + Galahad... soldier that perished... ages ago, + Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow. + Galahad... knight who perished... awaken again, + Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men. + Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea, + We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free. + Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace, + Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face + Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land, + Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand. + Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red! + Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head! + Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower, + Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power. + Leave not life's fairest to perish—strangers to thee, + Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Leaden-eyed +</h2> +<pre> + Let not young souls be smothered out before + They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride. + It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull, + Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed. + Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly, + Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap, + Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve, + Not that they die, but that they die like sheep. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie +</h2> +<pre> + (In the Beginning) + + The sun is a huntress young, + The sun is a red, red joy, + The sun is an Indian girl, + Of the tribe of the Illinois. +</pre> +<pre> + (Mid-morning) + + The sun is a smouldering fire, + That creeps through the high gray plain, + And leaves not a bush of cloud + To blossom with flowers of rain. +</pre> +<pre> + (Noon) + + The sun is a wounded deer, + That treads pale grass in the skies, + Shaking his golden horns, + Flashing his baleful eyes. +</pre> +<pre> + (Sunset) + + The sun is an eagle old, + There in the windless west. + Atop of the spirit-cliffs + He builds him a crimson nest. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Hearth Eternal +</h2> +<pre> + There dwelt a widow learned and devout, + Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill. + Three sons she had, who went to find the world. + They promised to return, but wandered still. + The cities used them well, they won their way, + Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs. + Worn out with honors, and apart from her, + They died as many a self-made exile dies. + The mother had a hearth that would not quench, + The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom. + She said to us who came with wondering eyes— + "This is a magic fire, a magic room." + The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on, + Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade, + And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light. + The neighbors peering in were half afraid. + Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came, + One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor. + They left a naked stone, but how it blazed! + And in the thunderstorm it flared the more. + And now it was that men were heard to say, + "This light should be beloved by all the town." + At last they made the slope a place of prayer, + Where marvellous thoughts from God came sweeping down. + They left their churches crumbling in the sun, + They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood; + One strength and valor only, one delight, + One laughing, brooding genius, great and good. + Now many gray-haired prodigals come home, + The place out-flames the cities of the land, + And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar, + With subtle eyes prepared to understand. + Higher and higher burns the eastern steep, + Showing the roads that march from every place, + A steady beacon o'er the weary leagues, + At dead of night it lights the traveller's face! + Thus has the widow conquered half the earth, + She who increased in faith, though all alone, + Who kept her empty house a magic place, + Has made the town a holy angel's throne. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit +</h2> +<pre> + A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois +</pre> +<pre> + Censers are swinging + Over the town; + Censers are swinging, + Look overhead! + Censers are swinging, + Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead! + + Censers, tremendous, + Gleam overhead. + Wind-harps are ringing, + Wind-harps unseen— + Calling and calling:— + "Wake from the dead. + Rise, little city, + Shine like a queen." + + Soldiers of Christ + For battle grow keen. + Heaven-sent winds + Haunt alley and lane. + Singing of life + In town-meadows green + After the toil + And battle and pain. + + Incense is pouring + Like the spring rain + Down on the mob + That moil through the street. + Blessed are they + Who behold it and gain + Power made more mighty + Thro' every defeat. + + Builders, toil on. + Make all complete. + Make Springfield wonderful. + Make her renown + Worthy this day, + Till, at God's feet, + Tranced, saved forever, + Waits the white town. + + Censers are swinging + Over the town, + Censers gigantic! + Look overhead! + Hear the winds singing:— + "Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0025"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + By the Spring, at Sunset +</h2> +<pre> + Sometimes we remember kisses, + Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: + Not always, but sometimes we remember + The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame + Of laughter and farewell. + + Beside the road + Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write, + Far from my city task, my lawful load. + + Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder, + Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night + Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder + Make bold my soul for some new wise delight. + + I write the day's event, and quench my drouth, + Pausing beside the spring with happy mind. + And now I feel those kisses on my mouth, + Hers most of all, one little friend most kind. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0026"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I Went down into the Desert +</h2> +<pre> + I went down into the desert + To meet Elijah— + Arisen from the dead. + I thought to find him in an echoing cave; + <i>For so my dream had said</i>. + + I went down into the desert + To meet John the Baptist. + I walked with feet that bled, + Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold. + <i>I spied foul fiends instead</i>. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + By him be comforted. + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + <i>And I met the devil in red</i>. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead! + I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground, + I see you there, half-buried in the sand. + I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, + <i>The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head</i>. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0027"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Love and Law +</h2> +<pre> + True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance + In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain. + The workman lays wearily granite on granite, + And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain. + + Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, + Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone. + 'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion. + With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0028"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Perfect Marriage +</h2> +<pre> + I + + I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: + Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone. + Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine— + Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine: + Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none; + Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one). +</pre> +<pre> + II + + We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweet + No longer turning to the tryst with flying feet. + We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloom + And tenderness of passion's touch, and in its room + Will come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom. + Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life! + Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife. + Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come— + It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum, + The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag— + And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag. +</pre> +<pre> + III + + We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can— + Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. + Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. + It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air— + It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh— + It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; + It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows + Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. + It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, + And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems + A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, + Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. + But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, + The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. + Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, + Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark— + Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange + Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change. +</pre> +<pre> + IV + + Love?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time— + Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime— + And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes— + Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise. + Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial— + And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile— + We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play, + Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay— + As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild, + True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0029"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Darling Daughter of Babylon +</h2> +<pre> + Too soon you wearied of our tears. + And then you danced with spangled feet, + Leading Belshazzar's chattering court + A-tinkling through the shadowy street. + With mead they came, with chants of shame. + DESIRE'S red flag before them flew. + And Istar's music moved your mouth + And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you. + + Now you could drive the royal car; + Forget our Nation's breaking load: + Now you could sleep on silver beds— + (Bitter and dark was our abode.) + And so, for many a night you laughed, + And knew not of my hopeless prayer, + Till God's own spirit whipped you forth + From Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair. + + Darling daughter of Babylon— + Rose by the black Euphrates flood— + Again your beauty grew more dear + Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. + We sang of Zion, good to know, + Where righteousness and peace abide.... + What of your second sacrilege + Carousing at Belshazzar's side? + + Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands— + Your paint and henna washed away. + Your place, you said, was with the slaves + Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. + You were a pale and holy maid + Toil-bound with us. One night you said:— + "Your God shall be my God until + I slumber with the patriarch dead." + + Pardon, daughter of Babylon, + If, on this night remembering + Our lover walks under the walls + Of hanging gardens in the spring, + A venom comes from broken hope, + From memories of your comrade-song + Until I curse your painted eyes + And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0030"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Amaranth +</h2> +<pre> + Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here.... + Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns + And the tremendous Amaranth descends + Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns? + + Does it not mean my God would have me say:— + "Whether you will or no, O city young, + Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, + Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?" + + Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep. + Such things I see, and some of them shall come + Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray, + Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb. + Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise. + Naught can delay it. Though it may not be + Just as I dream, it comes at last I know + With streets like channels of an incense-sea. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0031"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Alchemist's Petition +</h2> +<pre> + Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life + My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep + Like a white statue dropped into the deep, + Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold, + And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold. + + But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in Hell + My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth— + In such unquenched desires consumed his youth— + Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall, + Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall— + Amen. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0032"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Two Easter Stanzas +</h2> +<pre> + I + + The Hope of the Resurrection +</pre> +<pre> + Though I have watched so many mourners weep + O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep— + Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days + That passed and left me in the sun's bright rays. + Now though you go on smiling in the sun + Our love is slain, and love and you were one. + You are the first, you I have known so long, + Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong. + Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right + Amid the lilies and the candle-light. + I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear + We two may meet, confused and parted here. + Ah, when man's dearest dies, 'tis then he goes + To that old balm that heals the centuries' woes. + Then Christ's wild cry in all the streets is rife:— + "I am the Resurrection and the Life." +</pre> +<pre> + II + + We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not +</pre> +<pre> + Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning, + I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, + With golden hope my spirit still adorning. + + Our God who made you all so fair and sweet + Is three times gentle, and before his feet + Rejoicing I shall say:—"The girl you gave + Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save. + Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath + Is worth this rescue from the Second Death, + Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too + That scorned my graceless years and trophies few. + Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned + Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned. + We now as comrades through the stars may take + The rich and arduous quests I did forsake. + Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng + And quickly find that woman-soul so strong. + I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart + Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart, + A brooding secret mercy like your own + That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0033"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Traveller-heart +</h2> +<p> +(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible +Manner of Interment) +</p> +<pre> + I would be one with the dark, dark earth:— + Follow the plough with a yokel tread. + I would be part of the Indian corn, + Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead. + + I would be one with the lavish earth, + Eating the bee-stung apples red: + Walking where lambs walk on the hills; + By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. + + I would be one with the dark-bright night + When sparkling skies and the lightning wed— + Walking on with the vicious wind + By roads whence even the dogs have fled. + + I would be one with the sacred earth + On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. + Terror shall put no spears through me. + Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. + + I shall be one with all pit-black things + Finding their lowering threat unsaid: + Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,— + Oak-roots arching about my head! + + Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, + Acorns fall round my breast that bled. + Children shall weave there a flowery chain, + Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:— + + Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, + Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: + Sweet with the life of my sunburned days + When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0034"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son +</h2> +<pre> + The North Star whispers: "You are one + Of those whose course no chance can change. + You blunder, but are not undone, + Your spirit-task is fixed and strange. + + "When here you walk, a bloodless shade, + A singer all men else forget. + Your chants of hammer, forge and spade + Will move the prairie-village yet. + + "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town + Beholds your fancies on her walls, + And paints them out or tears them down, + Or bars them from her feasting-halls. + + "Yet shall the fragments still remain; + Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong + That ivy-vines will not disdain, + Haunted and trembling with your song. + + "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn, + Flame high in storms, flame white and clear; + Your ghost in gleaming robes return + And burn a deathless incense here." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0035"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Third Section ~~ A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0036"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + This Section is a Christmas Tree +</h2> +<pre> + This section is a Christmas tree: + Loaded with pretty toys for you. + Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, + The popguns painted red and blue. + No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, + But silver horns and candy sacks + And many little tinsel hearts + And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks. + For every child a gift, I hope. + The doll upon the topmost bough + Is mine. But all the rest are yours. + And I will light the candles now. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0037"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Sun Says his Prayers +</h2> +<pre> + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + Or else he would wither and die. + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + "For strength to climb up through the sky. + He leans on invisible angels, + And Faith is his prop and his rod. + The sky is his crystal cathedral. + And dawn is his altar to God." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0038"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) +</h2> +<pre> + I. The Lion +</pre> +<pre> + The Lion is a kingly beast. + He likes a Hindu for a feast. + And if no Hindu he can get, + The lion-family is upset. + + He cuffs his wife and bites her ears + Till she is nearly moved to tears. + Then some explorer finds the den + And all is family peace again. +</pre> +<pre> + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper +</pre> +<pre> + The Grasshopper, the grasshopper, + I will explain to you:— + He is the Brownies' racehorse, + The fairies' Kangaroo. +</pre> +<pre> + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies +</pre> +<pre> + In fairyland the little boys + Would rather fight than eat their meals. + They like to chase a gauze-winged fly + And catch and beat him till he squeals. + Sometimes they come to sleeping men + Armed with the deadly red-rose thorn, + And those that feel its fearful wound + Repent the day that they were born. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down +</pre> +<pre> + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down + Began his task in early life. + He kept so busy with his teeth + He had no time to take a wife. + + He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain + When the ambitious fit was on, + Then rested in the sawdust till + A month of idleness had gone. + + He did not move about to hunt + The coteries of mousie-men. + He was a snail-paced, stupid thing + Until he cared to gnaw again. + + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down, + When that tough foe was at his feet— + Found in the stump no angel-cake + Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat— + The forest-roof let in the sky. + "This light is worth the work," said he. + "I'll make this ancient swamp more light," + And started on another tree. +</pre> +<pre> + V. Parvenu +</pre> +<pre> + Where does Cinderella sleep? + By far-off day-dream river. + A secret place her burning Prince + Decks, while his heart-strings quiver. + + Homesick for our cinder world, + Her low-born shoulders shiver; + She longs for sleep in cinders curled— + We, for the day-dream river. +</pre> +<pre> + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly +</pre> +<pre> + Once I loved a spider + When I was born a fly, + A velvet-footed spider + With a gown of rainbow-dye. + She ate my wings and gloated. + She bound me with a hair. + She drove me to her parlor + Above her winding stair. + To educate young spiders + She took me all apart. + My ghost came back to haunt her. + I saw her eat my heart. +</pre> +<pre> + VII. Crickets on a Strike +</pre> +<pre> + The foolish queen of fairyland + From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, + Gave command to her cricket-band + To play for her when the dew-drops fell. + + But the cold dew spoiled their instruments + And they play for the foolish queen no more. + Instead those sturdy malcontents + Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0039"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + How a Little Girl Danced +</h2> +<h3> + Dedicated to Lucy Bates +</h3> +<p> +(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.) +</p> +<pre> + Oh, cabaret dancer, <i>I</i> know a dancer, + Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain. + <i>I</i> know a dancer, <i>I</i> know a dancer, + Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, + Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, + <i>I</i> know a dancer, <i>I</i> know a dancer, + Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, + A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, + With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain. + + Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, + Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: + I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, + A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:— + The music of God is her innermost brooding, + The whispering angels her footsteps sustain. + + Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing. + No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign. + You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, + A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane. + But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit + More white than Apollo and all of his train. + + I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, + Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain. + I know a dancer, I know a dancer, + Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0040"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + In Praise of Songs that Die +</h2> +<p> +After having read a Great Deal of Good Current Poetry in the Magazines +and Newspapers +</p> +<pre> + Ah, they are passing, passing by, + Wonderful songs, but born to die! + Cries from the infinite human seas, + Waves thrice-winged with harmonies. + Here I stand on a pier in the foam + Seeing the songs to the beach go home, + Dying in sand while the tide flows back, + As it flowed of old in its fated track. + Oh, hurrying tide that will not hear + Your own foam-children dying near: + Is there no refuge-house of song, + No home, no haven where songs belong? + Oh, precious hymns that come and go! + You perish, and I love you so! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0041"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Factory Windows are always Broken +</h2> +<pre> + Factory windows are always broken. + Somebody's always throwing bricks, + Somebody's always heaving cinders, + Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Other windows are let alone. + No one throws through the chapel-window + The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Something or other is going wrong. + Something is rotten—I think, in Denmark. + <i>End of the factory-window song</i>. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0042"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + To Mary Pickford +</h2> +<pre> + Moving-picture Actress +</pre> +<p> +(On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.) +</p> +<pre> + Mary Pickford, doll divine, + Year by year, and every day + At the moving-picture play, + You have been my valentine. + + Once a free-limbed page in hose, + Baby-Rosalind in flower, + Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour + How our reverent passion rose, + How our fine desire you won. + Kitchen-wench another day, + Shapeless, wooden every way. + Next, a fairy from the sun. + + Once you walked a grown-up strand + Fish-wife siren, full of lure, + Snaring with devices sure + Lads who murdered on the sand. + But on most days just a child + Dimpled as no grown-folk are, + Cold of kiss as some north star, + Violet from the valleys wild. + Snared as innocence must be, + Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead— + At the end of tortures dread + Roaring cowboys set you free. + + Fly, O song, to her to-day, + Like a cowboy cross the land. + Snatch her from Belasco's hand + And that prison called Broadway. + + All the village swains await + One dear lily-girl demure, + Saucy, dancing, cold and pure, + Elf who must return in state. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0043"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Blanche Sweet +</h2> +<pre> + Moving-picture Actress +</pre> +<p> +(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".) +</p> +<pre> + Beauty has a throne-room + In our humorous town, + Spoiling its hob-goblins, + Laughing shadows down. + Rank musicians torture + Ragtime ballads vile, + But we walk serenely + Down the odorous aisle. + We forgive the squalor + And the boom and squeal + For the Great Queen flashes + From the moving reel. + + Just a prim blonde stranger + In her early day, + Hiding brilliant weapons, + Too averse to play, + Then she burst upon us + Dancing through the night. + Oh, her maiden radiance, + Veils and roses white. + With new powers, yet cautious, + Not too smart or skilled, + That first flash of dancing + Wrought the thing she willed:— + Mobs of us made noble + By her strong desire, + By her white, uplifting, + Royal romance-fire. + + Though the tin piano + Snarls its tango rude, + Though the chairs are shaky + And the dramas crude, + Solemn are her motions, + Stately are her wiles, + Filling oafs with wisdom, + Saving souls with smiles; + 'Mid the restless actors + She is rich and slow. + She will stand like marble, + She will pause and glow, + Though the film is twitching, + Keep a peaceful reign, + Ruler of her passion, + Ruler of our pain! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0044"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Sunshine +</h2> +<h3> + For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old. Catharine Frazee Wakefield. +</h3> +<pre> + The sun gives not directly + The coal, the diamond crown; + Not in a special basket + Are these from Heaven let down. + + The sun gives not directly + The plough, man's iron friend; + Not by a path or stairway + Do tools from Heaven descend. + + Yet sunshine fashions all things + That cut or burn or fly; + And corn that seems upon the earth + Is made in the hot sky. + + The gravel of the roadbed, + The metal of the gun, + The engine of the airship + Trace somehow from the sun. + + And so your soul, my lady— + (Mere sunshine, nothing more)— + Prepares me the contraptions + I work with or adore. + + Within me cornfields rustle, + Niagaras roar their way, + Vast thunderstorms and rainbows + Are in my thought to-day. + + Ten thousand anvils sound there + By forges flaming white, + And many books I read there, + And many books I write; + + And freedom's bells are ringing, + And bird-choirs chant and fly— + The whole world works in me to-day + And all the shining sky, + + Because of one small lady + Whose smile is my chief sun. + She gives not any gift to me + Yet all gifts, giving one.... + Amen. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0045"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic +</h2> +<pre> + Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, + The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. + It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small, + And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all. + And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink, + And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think." + And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, + The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more. + O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way— + All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day, + And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom, + And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. + And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, + And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite, + My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine + Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line. + I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair, + They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. + The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew, + O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0046"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich +</h2> +<pre> + He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour + Just to invent a fancy style + To spread the celebration paint + So it would show at least a mile. + + Some things they did I will not tell. + They're not quite proper for a rhyme. + But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede + Did sure invent a sunflower time. + + One thing they did that I can tell + And not offend the ladies here:— + They took a goat to Simp's Saloon + And made it take a bath in beer. + + That ENTERprise took MANagement. + They broke a wash-tub in the fray. + But mister goat was bathed all right + And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say. + + They wore girls' pink straw hats to church + And clucked like hens. They surely did. + They bought two HOtel frying pans + And in them down the mountain slid. + + They went to Denver in good clothes, + And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake, + And cut about like jumping-jacks, + And ordered seven-dollar steak. + + They had the waiters whirling round + Just sweeping up the smear and smash. + They tried to buy the State-house flag. + They showed the Janitor the cash. + + And old Dan Tucker on a toot, + Or John Paul Jones before the breeze, + Or Indians eating fat fried dog, + Were not as happy babes as these. + + One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek + With cheerful swears the two awoke. + The Swede had twenty cents, all right. + But Gassy Thompson was clean broke. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0047"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Rhymes for Gloriana +</h2> +<pre> + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough +</pre> +<pre> + This doll upon the topmost bough, + This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, + Was taken down and brought to me + One sleety night most comfortless. + + Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash + Was gray brocade, most good to see. + The dear toy laughed, and I forgot + The ill the new year promised me. +</pre> +<pre> + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused +</pre> +<pre> + Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk— + Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure: + A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger:— + Here in my study you sing me a measure. + + Whimsy and song in my little gray study! + Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness, + Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter, + Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!" + + Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness, + Trusting her insights, ardent for living; + She would be weeping with me and be laughing, + A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!" +</pre> +<pre> + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters +</pre> +<pre> + Your pen needs but a ruffle + To be Pavlova whirling. + It surely is a scalawag + A-scamping down the page. + A pretty little May-wind + The morning buds uncurling. + And then the white sweet Russian, + The dancer of the age. + + Your pen's the Queen of Sheba, + Such serious questions bringing, + That merry rascal Solomon + Would show a sober face:— + And then again Pavlova + To set our spirits singing, + The snowy-swan bacchante + All glamour, glee and grace. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair +</pre> +<pre> + The gleaming head of one fine friend + Is bent above my little song, + So through the treasure-pits of Heaven + In fancy's shoes, I march along. + + I wander, seek and peer and ponder + In Splendor's last ensnaring lair— + 'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns + Where noble chariots gleam and flare: + + Amid the spirit-coins and gems, + The plates and cups and helms of fire— + The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven— + Where angel-misers slake desire! + + O endless treasure-pits of gold + Where silly angel-men make mirth— + I think that I am there this hour, + Though walking in the ways of earth! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0048"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Fourth Section ~~ Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0049"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Once More—To Gloriana +</h2> +<pre> + Girl with the burning golden eyes, + And red-bird song, and snowy throat: + I bring you gold and silver moons + And diamond stars, and mists that float. + I bring you moons and snowy clouds, + I bring you prairie skies to-night + To feebly praise your golden eyes + And red-bird song, and throat so white. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0050"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children +</h2> +<pre> + I. Euclid +</pre> +<pre> + Old Euclid drew a circle + On a sand-beach long ago. + He bounded and enclosed it + With angles thus and so. + His set of solemn greybeards + Nodded and argued much + Of arc and of circumference, + Diameter and such. + A silent child stood by them + From morning until noon + Because they drew such charming + Round pictures of the moon. +</pre> +<pre> + II. The Haughty Snail-king + + (What Uncle William told the Children) +</pre> +<pre> + Twelve snails went walking after night. + They'd creep an inch or so, + Then stop and bug their eyes + And blow. + Some folks... are... deadly... slow. + Twelve snails went walking yestereve, + Led by their fat old king. + They were so dull their princeling had + No sceptre, robe or ring— + Only a paper cap to wear + When nightly journeying. + + This king-snail said: "I feel a thought + Within.... It blossoms soon.... + O little courtiers of mine,... + I crave a pretty boon.... + Oh, yes... (High thoughts with effort come + And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.) + "I wish I had a yellow crown + As glistering... as... the moon." +</pre> +<pre> + III. What the Rattlesnake Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a little prairie-dog. + He shivers through the night. + He sits upon his hill and cries + For fear that <i>I</i> will bite. + + The sun's a broncho. He's afraid + Like every other thing, + And trembles, morning, noon and night, + Lest <i>I</i> should spring, and sting. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + + (What the Little Girl Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. + He bites it, day by day, + Until there's but a rim of scraps + That crumble all away. + + The South Wind is a baker. + He kneads clouds in his den, + And bakes a crisp new moon <i>that... greedy + North... Wind... eats... again!</i> +</pre> +<pre> + V. Drying their Wings + + (What the Carpenter Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a cottage with a door. + Some folks can see it plain. + Look, you may catch a glint of light, + A sparkle through the pane, + Showing the place is brighter still + Within, though bright without. + There, at a cosy open fire + Strange babes are grouped about. + The children of the wind and tide— + The urchins of the sky, + Drying their wings from storms and things + So they again can fly. +</pre> +<pre> + VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a gong, hung in the wild, + Whose song the fays hold dear. + Of course you do not hear it, child. + It takes a FAIRY ear. + + The full moon is a splendid gong + That beats as night grows still. + It sounds above the evening song + Of dove or whippoorwill. +</pre> +<pre> + VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + (What Grandpa told the Children) +</pre> +<pre> + The moon? It is a griffin's egg, + Hatching to-morrow night. + And how the little boys will watch + With shouting and delight + To see him break the shell and stretch + And creep across the sky. + The boys will laugh. The little girls, + I fear, may hide and cry. + Yet gentle will the griffin be, + Most decorous and fat, + And walk up to the milky way + And lap it like a cat. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0051"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror +</h2> +<pre> + I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor +</pre> +<pre> + No man should stand before the moon + To make sweet song thereon, + With dandified importance, + His sense of humor gone. + + Nay, let us don the motley cap, + The jester's chastened mien, + If we would woo that looking-glass + And see what should be seen. + + O mirror on fair Heaven's wall, + We find there what we bring. + So, let us smile in honest part + And deck our souls and sing. + + Yea, by the chastened jest alone + Will ghosts and terrors pass, + And fays, or suchlike friendly things, + Throw kisses through the glass. +</pre> +<pre> + II. On the Garden-wall +</pre> +<pre> + Oh, once I walked a garden + In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass. + And many orange-trees grew there + In sand as white as glass. + The curving, wide wall-border + Was marble, like the snow. + I walked that wall a fairy-prince + And, pacing quaint and slow, + Beside me were my pages, + Two giant, friendly birds. + Half-swan they were, half peacock. + They spake in courtier-words. + Their inner wings a chariot, + Their outer wings for flight, + They lifted me from dreamland. + We bade those trees good-night. + Swiftly above the stars we rode. + I looked below me soon. + The white-walled garden I had ruled + Was one lone flower—the moon. +</pre> +<pre> + III. Written for a Musician +</pre> +<pre> + Hungry for music with a desperate hunger + I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town; + The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking, + Vulgar and pitiful—my heart bowed down— + Till I remembered duller hours made noble + By strangers clad in some surprising grace. + Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight + Appearing in some unexpected place + With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. The Moon is a Painter +</pre> +<pre> + He coveted her portrait. + He toiled as she grew gay. + She loved to see him labor + In that devoted way. + + And in the end it pleased her, + But bowed him more with care. + Her rose-smile showed so plainly, + Her soul-smile was not there. + + That night he groped without a lamp + To find a cloak, a book, + And on the vexing portrait + By moonrise chanced to look. + + The color-scheme was out of key, + The maiden rose-smile faint, + But through the blessed darkness + She gleamed, his friendly saint. + + The comrade, white, immortal, + His bride, and more than bride— + The citizen, the sage of mind, + For whom he lived and died. +</pre> +<pre> + V. The Encyclopaedia +</pre> +<pre> + "If I could set the moon upon + This table," said my friend, + "Among the standard poets + And brochures without end, + And noble prints of old Japan, + How empty they would seem, + By that encyclopaedia + Of whim and glittering dream." +</pre> +<pre> + VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, + A wondrous water-feast. + If I could climb the ridge and drink + And give drink to my beast; + If I could drain that keg, the flies + Would not be biting so, + My burning feet be spry again, + My mule no longer slow. + And I could rise and dig for ore, + And reach my fatherland, + And not be food for ants and hawks + And perish in the sand. +</pre> +<pre> + VII. What the Coal-heaver Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's an open furnace door + Where all can see the blast, + We shovel in our blackest griefs, + Upon that grate are cast + Our aching burdens, loves and fears + And underneath them wait + Paper and tar and pitch and pine + Called strife and blood and hate. + + Out of it all there comes a flame, + A splendid widening light. + Sorrow is turned to mystery + And Death into delight. +</pre> +<pre> + VIII. What the Moon Saw +</pre> +<pre> + Two statesmen met by moonlight. + Their ease was partly feigned. + They glanced about the prairie. + Their faces were constrained. + In various ways aforetime + They had misled the state, + Yet did it so politely + Their henchmen thought them great. + They sat beneath a hedge and spake + No word, but had a smoke. + A satchel passed from hand to hand. + Next day, the deadlock broke. +</pre> +<pre> + IX. What Semiramis Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a steaming chalice + Of honey and venom-wine. + A little of it sipped by night + Makes the long hours divine. + But oh, my reckless lovers, + They drain the cup and wail, + Die at my feet with shaking limbs + And tender lips all pale. + Above them in the sky it bends + Empty and gray and dread. + To-morrow night 'tis full again, + Golden, and foaming red. +</pre> +<pre> + X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said +</pre> +<pre> + Where now the huts are empty, + Where never a camp-fire glows, + In an abandoned canyon, + A Gambler's Ghost arose. + He muttered there, "The moon's a sack + Of dust." His voice rose thin: + "I wish I knew the miner-man. + I'd play, and play to win. + In every game in Cripple-creek + Of old, when stakes were high, + I held my own. Now I would play + For that sack in the sky. + The sport would not be ended there. + 'Twould rather be begun. + I'd bet my moon against his stars, + And gamble for the sun." +</pre> +<pre> + XI. The Spice-tree +</pre> +<pre> + This is the song + The spice-tree sings: + "Hunger and fire, + Hunger and fire, + Sky-born Beauty— + Spice of desire," + Under the spice-tree + Watch and wait, + Burning maidens + And lads that mate. + + The spice-tree spreads + And its boughs come down + Shadowing village and farm and town. + And none can see + But the pure of heart + The great green leaves + And the boughs descending, + And hear the song that is never ending. + + The deep roots whisper, + The branches say:— + "Love to-morrow, + And love to-day, + And till Heaven's day, + And till Heaven's day." + + The moon is a bird's nest in its branches, + The moon is hung in its topmost spaces. + And there, to-night, two doves play house + While lovers watch with uplifted faces. + Two doves go home + To their nest, the moon. + It is woven of twigs of broken light, + With threads of scarlet and threads of gray + And a lining of down for silk delight. + To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves, + Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;— + And one is the kiss I took from you, + And one is the kiss you gave to me. +</pre> +<pre> + XII. The Scissors-grinder + + (What the Tramp Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The old man had his box and wheel + For grinding knives and shears. + No doubt his bell in village streets + Was joy to children's ears. + And I bethought me of my youth + When such men came around, + And times I asked them in, quite sure + The scissors should be ground. + The old man turned and spoke to me, + His face at last in view. + And then I thought those curious eyes + Were eyes that once I knew. + + "The moon is but an emery-wheel + To whet the sword of God," + He said. "And here beside my fire + I stretch upon the sod + Each night, and dream, and watch the stars + And watch the ghost-clouds go. + And see that sword of God in Heaven + A-waving to and fro. + I see that sword each century, friend. + It means the world-war comes + With all its bloody, wicked chiefs + And hate-inflaming drums. + Men talk of peace, but I have seen + That emery-wheel turn round. + The voice of Abel cries again + To God from out the ground. + The ditches must flow red, the plague + Go stark and screaming by + Each time that sword of God takes edge + Within the midnight sky. + And those that scorned their brothers here + And sowed a wind of shame + Will reap the whirlwind as of old + And face relentless flame." + + And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, + His face at last in view. + <i>And there beside the railroad bridge + I saw the wandering Jew</i>. +</pre> +<pre> + XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl +</pre> +<pre> + My lady in her white silk shawl + Is like a lily dim, + Within the twilight of the room + Enthroned and kind and prim. + + My lady! Pale gold is her hair. + Until she smiles her face + Is pale with far Hellenic moods, + With thoughts that find no place + + In our harsh village of the West + Wherein she lives of late, + She's distant as far-hidden stars, + And cold—(almost!)—as fate. + + But when she smiles she's here again + Rosy with comrade-cheer, + A Puritan Bacchante made + To laugh around the year. + + The merry gentle moon herself, + Heart-stirring too, like her, + Wakening wild and innocent love + In every worshipper. +</pre> +<pre> + XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn +</pre> +<pre> + "Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. + "This tailor-shop sings not at all. + Chant me a word of the twilight, + Of roses that mourn in the fall. + Bring me a song like hashish + That will comfort the stale and the sad, + For I would be mending my spirit, + Forgetting these days that are bad, + Forgetting companions too shallow, + Their quarrels and arguments thin, + Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:"— + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Bring me old wines," said Aladdin. + "I have been a starved pauper too long. + Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, + Serve them with fruit and with song:— + Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans + Digged from beneath the black seas:— + New-gathered dew from the heavens + Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees, + Cups from the angels' pale tables + That will make me both handsome and wise, + For I have beheld her, the princess, + Firelight and starlight her eyes. + Pauper I am, I would woo her. + And—let me drink wine, to begin, + Though the Koran expressly forbids it." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Plan me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON, + When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains, + Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon." + "Build me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That shall cause all young lovers to sigh, + The fullness of life and of beauty, + Peace beyond peace to the eye— + A palace of foam and of opal, + Pure moonlight without and within, + Where I may enthrone my sweet lady." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. +</pre> +<pre> + XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + (What the Mendicant Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a monk, unmated, + Who walks his cell, the sky. + His strength is that of heaven-vowed men + Who all life's flames defy. + + They turn to stars or shadows, + They go like snow or dew— + Leaving behind no sorrow— + Only the arching blue. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0052"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Fifth Section +</h2> +<h3> + War. September 1, 1914 Intended to be Read Aloud +</h3> +<a name="2H_4_0053"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight +</h2> +<pre> + (In Springfield, Illinois) +</pre> +<pre> + It is portentous, and a thing of state + That here at midnight, in our little town + A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, + Near the old court-house pacing up and down, + + Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards + He lingers where his children used to play, + Or through the market, on the well-worn stones + He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. + + A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, + A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl + Make him the quaint great figure that men love, + The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. + + He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. + He is among us:—as in times before! + And we who toss and lie awake for long + Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. + + His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. + Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? + Too many peasants fight, they know not why, + Too many homesteads in black terror weep. + + The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. + He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. + He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now + The bitterness, the folly and the pain. + + He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn + Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free: + The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, + Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. + + It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, + That all his hours of travail here for men + Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace + That he may sleep upon his hill again? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0054"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + II. A Curse for Kings +</h2> +<pre> + A curse upon each king who leads his state, + No matter what his plea, to this foul game, + And may it end his wicked dynasty, + And may he die in exile and black shame. + + If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, + What punishment could Heaven devise for these + Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, + And turn their murderers loose on all the seas! + + Put back the clock of time a thousand years, + And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen, + A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, + Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene + + In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, + Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; + While Science towers above;—a witch, red-winged: + Science we looked to for the light of life. + + Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, + Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find + Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, + Each deadliest device against mankind. + + Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, + May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, + Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake, + And felon's stripes for medals and for braids. + + Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, + Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, + Who make the kind world but their game of cards, + Till millions die at turning of a hair. + + What punishment will Heaven devise for these + Who win by others' sweat and hardihood, + Who make men into stinking vultures' meat, + Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"? + + Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death + Should burn in utmost hell a million years! + —Mothers of men go on the destined wrack + To give them life, with anguish and with tears:— + + Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away? + Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, + And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: + These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings! + + All in the name of this or that grim flag, + No angel-flags in all the rag-array— + Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings + And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0055"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + III. Who Knows? +</h2> +<pre> + They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows? + They say one king is doddering and grey. + They say one king is slack and sick of mind, + A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play. + + Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place? + Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane? + Their place of maudlin, slavering conference + Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0056"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IV. To Buddha +</h2> +<pre> + Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, + Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. + And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, + Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes? + + Good comrade and philosopher and prince, + Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, + Dare they to move against your pride benign, + Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind? + +</pre> +<hr> +<pre> + But what can Europe say, when in your name + The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red? + And what can Europe say, when with a laugh + Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0057"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + V. The Unpardonable Sin +</h2> +<pre> + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:— + To speak of bloody power as right divine, + And call on God to guard each vile chief's house, + And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:— + + To go forth killing in White Mercy's name, + Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, + Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, + Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains. + + In any Church's name, to sack fair towns, + And turn each home into a screaming sty, + To make the little children fugitive, + And have their mothers for a quick death cry,— + + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: + This is the sin no purging can atone:— + To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:— + To set the face, and make the heart a stone. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0058"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VI. Above the Battle's Front +</h2> +<pre> + St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John— + Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, + Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, + And walked upon the water and the land, + + If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings + For sober conclave, ere their battle great, + Would they for one deep instant then discern + Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate? + + If you should float above the battle's front, + Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay, + Bearing a fifth within your regal train, + The Son of David in his strange array— + + If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven, + Would they have hearts to see or understand? + ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know, + Thorn-crowned above the water and the land. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0059"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings +</h2> +<pre> + Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, + On sunny days have found you weak and still, + Though I have often held your girlish head + Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill:— + + Under the blessing of your Psyche-wings + I hide to-night like one small broken bird, + So soothed I half-forget the world gone mad:— + And all the winds of war are now unheard. + + My heaven-doubting pennons feel your hands + With touch most delicate so circling round, + That for an hour I dream that God is good. + And in your shadow, Mercy's ways abound. + + I thought myself the guard of your frail state, + And yet I come to-night a helpless guest, + Hiding beneath your giant Psyche-wings, + Against the pallor of your wondrous breast. +</pre> +<p> +[End of original text.] +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0060"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Biographical Note: +</h2> +<h3> + Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931): +</h3> +<p> +(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel'). +</p> +<p> +"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known +poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William +Booth Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914). +</p> +<p> +Lindsay himself considered his drawings and his prose writings to be as +important as his verse, all coming together to form a whole. His +"Collected Poems" (1925) gives a good selection. +</p> +<hr> +<p> +From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917): +</p> +<p> +"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, +Ohio. He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, +Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time +after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical +relation to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, +Illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "The +Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, +pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his +own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, taking as scrip for the +journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", made a pilgrimage on foot +through several Western States going as far afield as New Mexico. The +story of this journey is given in his volume, "Adventures while +Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention +in poetry by "General William Booth Enters into Heaven", a poem which +became the title of his first volume, in 1913. His second volume was +"The Congo", published in 1914. He is attempting to restore to poetry +its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly +from the selections contained in this anthology." +</p> + + +<br><br> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1021 ***</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..ff9fd16 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1021 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1021) diff --git a/old/1021-h.zip b/old/1021-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a892104 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1021-h.zip diff --git a/old/1021-h/1021-h.htm b/old/1021-h/1021-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac0fbdd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1021-h/1021-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4359 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" + content="text/html; charset=us-ascii"> +<title> + The Congo and Other Poems, + by Vachel Lindsay +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body { text-align:justify} + P { margin:15%; + text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; } + .foot { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 95%; } + img {border: 0;} + HR { width: 33%; text-align: center; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; } + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 1%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: left; + color: gray; + } /* page numbers */ + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 10%; margin-left: 1%;} + .toc { margin-left: 5%; margin-bottom: .75em; font-size: 80%;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 5%;} + CENTER { padding: 10px;} + PRE { font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 20%;} + // --> +</style> + + +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay + +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: The Congo and Other Poems + +Author: Vachel Lindsay + +Release Date: July 23, 2008 [EBook #1021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + +<br><br> + +<h1> + THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS +</h1><br /> + +<h2> +By Vachel Lindsay +</h2> +<h4> +[Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Illinois Artist. 1879-1931.] +</h4><br /> + +<h3> +With an introduction by Harriet Monroe Editor of "Poetry" +</h3><br /> +<br /> + +<p> +[Notes: The 'stage-directions' given in "The Congo" and those +poems which are meant to be read aloud, are traditionally printed to the +right side of the first line it refers to. This is possible, but +impracticable, to imitate in a simple ASCII text. Therefore these +'stage-directions' are given on the line BEFORE the first line they +refer to, and are furthermore indented 20 spaces and given bold print to +keep it clear to the reader which parts are text and which parts +directions.] +</p> +<p> +[This electronic text was transcribed from a reprint of the original +edition, which was first published in New York, in September, 1914. Due +to a great deal of irregularity between titles in the table of contents +and in the text of the original, there are some slight differences from +the original in these matters—with the more complete titles replacing +cropped ones. In one case they are different enough that both are +given, and "Twenty Poems in which...." was originally "Twenty Moon +Poems" in the table of contents—the odd thing about both these titles +is that there are actually twenty-TWO moon poems.] +</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<hr> +<br /> +<br /> + +<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS +</h2> +<a name="2H_INTR"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Introduction. By Harriet Monroe +</h2> +<p> +When 'Poetry, A Magazine of Verse', was first published in Chicago in +the autumn of 1912, an Illinois poet, Vachel Lindsay, was, quite +appropriately, one of its first discoveries. It may be not quite without +significance that the issue of January, 1913, which led off with +'General William Booth Enters into Heaven', immediately followed the +number in which the great poet of Bengal, Rabindra Nath Tagore, was +first presented to the American public, and that these two antipodal +poets soon appeared in person among the earliest visitors to the editor. +For the coming together of East and West may prove to be the great event +of the approaching era, and if the poetry of the now famous Bengali +laureate garners the richest wisdom and highest spirituality of his +ancient race, so one may venture to believe that the young Illinois +troubadour brings from Lincoln's city an authentic strain of the lyric +message of this newer world. +</p> +<p> +It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to mention Mr. Lindsay's loyalty to the +people of his place and hour, or the training in sympathy with their +aims and ideals which he has achieved through vagabondish wanderings in +the Middle West. And we may permit time to decide how far he expresses +their emotion. But it may be opportune to emphasize his plea for poetry +as a song art, an art appealing to the ear rather than the eye. The +first section of this volume is especially an effort to restore poetry +to its proper place—the audience-chamber, and take it out of the +library, the closet. In the library it has become, so far as the people +are concerned, almost a lost art, and perhaps it can be restored to the +people only through a renewal of its appeal to the ear. +</p> +<p> +I am tempted to quote from Mr. Lindsay's explanatory note which +accompanied three of these poems when they were first printed in +'Poetry'. He said: +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Yeats asked me recently in Chicago, 'What are we going to do to +restore the primitive singing of poetry?' I find what Mr. Yeats means +by 'the primitive singing of poetry' in Professor Edward Bliss Reed's +new volume on 'The English Lyric'. He says in his chapter on the +definition of the lyric: 'With the Greeks "song" was an all-embracing +term. It included the crooning of the nurse to the child... the +half-sung chant of the mower or sailor... the formal ode sung by the poet. +In all Greek lyrics, even in the choral odes, music was the handmaid of +verse.... The poet himself composed the accompaniment. Euripides was +censured because Iophon had assisted him in the musical setting of some +of his dramas.' Here is pictured a type of Greek work which survives in +American vaudeville, where every line may be two-thirds spoken and +one-third sung, the entire rendering, musical and elocutionary, depending +upon the improvising power and sure instinct of the performer. +</p> +<p> +"I respectfully submit these poems as experiments in which I endeavor to +carry this vaudeville form back towards the old Greek precedent of the +half-chanted lyric. In this case the one-third of music must be added +by the instinct of the reader. He must be Iophon. And he can easily be +Iophon if he brings to bear upon the piece what might be called the +Higher Vaudeville imagination.... +</p> +<p> +"Big general contrasts between the main sections should be the rule of +the first attempts at improvising. It is the hope of the writer that +after two or three readings each line will suggest its own separate +touch of melody to the reader who has become accustomed to the cadences. +Let him read what he likes read, and sing what he likes sung." +</p> +<p> +It was during this same visit in Chicago, at 'Poetry's' banquet on the +evening of March first, 1914, that Mr. Yeats honored Mr. Lindsay by +addressing his after-dinner talk primarily to him as "a fellow +craftsman", and by saying of 'General Booth': +</p> +<p> +"This poem is stripped bare of ornament; it has an earnest simplicity, a +strange beauty, and you know Bacon said, 'There is no excellent beauty +without strangeness.'" +</p> +<p> +This recognition from the distinguished Irish poet tempts me to hint at +the cosmopolitan aspects of such racily local art as Mr. Lindsay's. The +subject is too large for a merely introductory word, but the reader may +be invited to reflect upon it. If Mr. Lindsay's poetry should cross the +ocean, it would not be the first time that our most indigenous art has +reacted upon the art of older nations. Besides Poe—who, though +indigenous in ways too subtle for brief analysis, yet passed all +frontiers in his swift, sad flight—the two American artists of widest +influence, Whitman and Whistler, have been intensely American in +temperament and in the special spiritual quality of their art. +</p> +<p> +If Whistler was the first great artist to accept the modern message in +Oriental art, if Whitman was the first great modern poet to discard the +limitations of conventional form: if both were more free, more +individual, than their contemporaries, this was the expression of their +Americanism, which may perhaps be defined as a spiritual independence +and love of adventure inherited from the pioneers. Foreign artists are +usually the first to recognize this new tang; one detects the influence +of the great dead poet and dead painter in all modern art which looks +forward instead of back; and their countrymen, our own contemporary +poets and painters, often express indirectly, through French influences, +a reaction which they are reluctant to confess directly. +</p> +<p> +A lighter phase of this foreign enthusiasm for the American tang is +confessed by Signor Marinetti, the Italian "futurist", when in his +article on 'Futurism and the Theatre', in 'The Mask', he urges the +revolutionary value of "American eccentrics", citing the fundamental +primitive quality in their vaudeville art. This may be another statement +of Mr. Lindsay's plea for a closer relation between the poet and his +audience, for a return to the healthier open-air conditions, and +immediate personal contacts, in the art of the Greeks and of primitive +nations. Such conditions and contacts may still be found, if the world +only knew it, in the wonderful song-dances of the Hopis and others of +our aboriginal tribes. They may be found, also, in a measure, in the +quick response between artist and audience in modern vaudeville. They +are destined to a wider and higher influence; in fact, the development +of that influence, the return to primitive sympathies between artist and +audience, which may make possible once more the assertion of primitive +creative power, is recognized as the immediate movement in modern art. +It is a movement strong enough to persist in spite of extravagances and +absurdities; strong enough, it may be hoped, to fulfil its purpose and +revitalize the world. +</p> +<p> +It is because Mr. Lindsay's poetry seems to be definitely in that +movement that it is, I think, important. +</p> +<p> +Harriet Monroe. +</p> + + + + +<br /> +<br /> +<hr> +<br /> +<br /> + + +<h2>Contents</h2> + + +<center> +<table summary=""> +<tr><td> + + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001"> +<b>THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_INTR"> +Introduction. By Harriet Monroe +</a></p><br /> + + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003"> +<b>First Section ~~ Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted.</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0004"> +The Congo +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0005"> +The Santa Fe Trail +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0006"> +The Firemen's Ball +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0007"> +The Master of the Dance +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0008"> +The Mysterious Cat +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0009"> +A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0010"> +Yankee Doodle +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0011"> +The Black Hawk War of the Artists +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0012"> +The Jingo and the Minstrel +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0015"> +I Heard Immanuel Singing +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0016"> +<b>Second Section ~~ Incense</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0017"> +An Argument +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0018"> +A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0019"> +In Memory of a Child +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0020"> +Galahad, Knight Who Perished +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0021"> +The Leaden-eyed +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0022"> +An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0023"> +The Hearth Eternal +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0024"> +The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0025"> +By the Spring, at Sunset +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0026"> +I Went down into the Desert +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0027"> +Love and Law +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0028"> +The Perfect Marriage +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0029"> +Darling Daughter of Babylon +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0030"> +The Amaranth +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0031"> +The Alchemist's Petition +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0032"> +Two Easter Stanzas +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0033"> +The Traveller-heart +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0034"> +The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0035"> +<b>Third Section ~~ A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree"</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0036"> +This Section is a Christmas Tree +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0037"> +The Sun Says his Prayers +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0038"> +Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0039"> +How a Little Girl Danced +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0040"> +In Praise of Songs that Die +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0041"> +Factory Windows are always Broken +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0042"> +To Mary Pickford +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0043"> +Blanche Sweet +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0044"> +Sunshine +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0045"> +An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0046"> +When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0047"> +Rhymes for Gloriana +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0048"> +<b>Fourth Section ~~ Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0049"> +Once More—To Gloriana +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0050"> +First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0051"> +Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0052"> +<b>Fifth Section</b> +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0053"> +I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0054"> +II. A Curse for Kings +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0055"> +III. Who Knows? +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0056"> +IV. To Buddha +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0057"> +V. The Unpardonable Sin +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0058"> +VI. Above the Battle's Front +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0059"> +VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings +</a></p><br /> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0060"> +Biographical Note +</a></p> + + + +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> + + +<br /> +<br /> +<hr> +<br /> +<br /> + +<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + + +<h2> + First Section ~~ Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Congo +</h2> +<h3> + A Study of the Negro Race +</h3> +<pre> + I. Their Basic Savagery + + Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, + Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, + <b>A deep rolling bass.</b> + Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, + Pounded on the table, + Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, + Hard as they were able, + Boom, boom, BOOM, + With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. + I could not turn from their revel in derision. + <b>More deliberate. Solemnly chanted.</b> + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + Then along that riverbank + A thousand miles + Tattooed cannibals danced in files; + Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song + <b>A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket.</b> + And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. + And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, + "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, + "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, + Harry the uplands, + Steal all the cattle, + Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, + Bing. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + <b>With a philosophic pause.</b> + A roaring, epic, rag-time tune + From the mouth of the Congo + To the Mountains of the Moon. + Death is an Elephant, + <b>Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre.</b> + Torch-eyed and horrible, + Foam-flanked and terrible. + BOOM, steal the pygmies, + BOOM, kill the Arabs, + BOOM, kill the white men, + HOO, HOO, HOO. + <b>Like the wind in the chimney.</b> + Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost + Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. + Hear how the demons chuckle and yell + Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. + Listen to the creepy proclamation, + Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, + Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, + Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:— + "Be careful what you do, + <b>All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. + Light accents very light. Last line whispered.</b> + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." +</pre> +<pre> + II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits + + <b>Rather shrill and high.</b> + Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call + Danced the juba in their gambling-hall + And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, + And guyed the policemen and laughed them down + With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + <b>Read exactly as in first section.</b> + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + <b>Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. + Keep as light-footed as possible.</b> + A negro fairyland swung into view, + A minstrel river + Where dreams come true. + The ebony palace soared on high + Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. + The inlaid porches and casements shone + With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. + And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore + At the baboon butler in the agate door, + And the well-known tunes of the parrot band + That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. + + <b>With pomposity.</b> + A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came + Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, + Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust + And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. + And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call + And danced the juba from wall to wall. + <b>With a great deliberation and ghostliness.</b> + But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng + With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:— + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."... + <b>With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp.</b> + Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, + Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, + Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, + And tall silk hats that were red as wine. + <b>With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm.</b> + And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, + Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, + Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, + And bells on their ankles and little black feet. + And the couples railed at the chant and the frown + Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. + (O rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile.) + + The cake-walk royalty then began + To walk for a cake that was tall as a man + To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + <b>With a touch of negro dialect, + and as rapidly as possible toward the end.</b> + While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, + And sang with the scalawags prancing there:— + "Walk with care, walk with care, + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Beware, beware, walk with care, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, + BOOM." + <b>Slow philosophic calm.</b> + Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile. +</pre> +<pre> + III. The Hope of their Religion + + <b>Heavy bass. With a literal imitation + of camp-meeting racket, and trance.</b> + A good old negro in the slums of the town + Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. + Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, + His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. + Beat on the Bible till he wore it out + Starting the jubilee revival shout. + And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, + And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, + And they all repented, a thousand strong + From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong + And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room + With "glory, glory, glory," + And "Boom, boom, BOOM." + <b>Exactly as in the first section. + Begin with terror and power, end with joy.</b> + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK + CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil + And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. + In bright white steele they were seated round + And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. + And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high + Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:— + <b>Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand + harps and voices".</b> + "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; + Never again will he hoo-doo you, + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + <b>With growing deliberation and joy.</b> + Then along that river, a thousand miles + The vine-snared trees fell down in files. + Pioneer angels cleared the way + For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, + For sacred capitals, for temples clean. + Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. + <b>In a rather high key—as delicately as possible.</b> + There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed + A million boats of the angels sailed + With oars of silver, and prows of blue + And silken pennants that the sun shone through. + 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation. + Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation + And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— + <b>To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices".</b> + "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. + Never again will he hoo-doo you. + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, + And only the vulture dared again + By the far, lone mountains of the moon + To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:— + <b>Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper.</b> + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Mumbo... Jumbo... will... hoo-doo... you." +</pre> +<p> +This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion +in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death of +Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ who +perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo. See "A Master +Builder on the Congo", by Andrew F. Hensey, published by Fleming H. +Revell. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Santa Fe Trail +</h2> +<pre> + (A Humoresque) +</pre> +<p> +I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He +answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, lark, or +thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane." +</p> +<pre> + I. In which a Racing Auto comes from the East + + <b>To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune.</b> + This is the order of the music of the morning:— + First, from the far East comes but a crooning. + The crooning turns to a sunrise singing. + Hark to the <i>calm</i>-horn, <i>balm</i>-horn, <i>psalm</i>-horn. + Hark to the <i>faint</i>-horn, <i>quaint</i>-horn, <i>saint</i>-horn.... + + <b>To be sung or read with great speed.</b> + Hark to the <i>pace</i>-horn, <i>chase</i>-horn, <i>race</i>-horn. + And the holy veil of the dawn has gone. + Swiftly the brazen car comes on. + It burns in the East as the sunrise burns. + I see great flashes where the far trail turns. + Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons. + It drinks gasoline from big red flagons. + Butting through the delicate mists of the morning, + It comes like lightning, goes past roaring. + It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing, + Dodge the cyclones, + Count the milestones, + On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills— + Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills.... + <b>To be read or sung in a rolling bass, + with some deliberation.</b> + Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, + Ho for the <i>gay</i>-horn, <i>bark</i>-horn, <i>bay</i>-horn. + <i>Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas, + A million men have found you before us.</i> +</pre> +<pre> + II. In which Many Autos pass Westward + + <b>In an even, deliberate, narrative manner.</b> + I want live things in their pride to remain. + I will not kill one grasshopper vain + Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. + I let him out, give him one chance more. + Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, + Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. + + I am a tramp by the long trail's border, + Given to squalor, rags and disorder. + I nap and amble and yawn and look, + Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book, + Recite to the children, explore at my ease, + Work when I work, beg when I please, + Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare + To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare, + And get me a place to sleep in the hay + At the end of a live-and-let-live day. + + I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds + A whisper and a feasting, all one needs: + The whisper of the strawberries, white and red + Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead. + + But I would not walk all alone till I die + Without some life-drunk horns going by. + Up round this apple-earth they come + Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:— + Cars in a plain realistic row. + And fair dreams fade + When the raw horns blow. + + On each snapping pennant + A big black name:— + The careering city + Whence each car came. + <b>Like a train-caller in a Union Depot.</b> + They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah, + Tallahassee and Texarkana. + They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, + They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee. + Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston, + Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin. + Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo. + Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo. + Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi, + Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami. + Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + While I watch the highroad + And look at the sky, + While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur + Roll their legions without rain + Over the blistering Kansas plain— + While I sit by the milestone + And watch the sky, + The United States + Goes by. + + <b>To be given very harshly, + with a snapping explosiveness.</b> + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. + Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. + Way down the road, trilling like a toad, + Here comes the <i>dice</i>-horn, here comes the <i>vice</i>-horn, + Here comes the <i>snarl</i>-horn, <i>brawl</i>-horn, <i>lewd</i>-horn, + Followed by the <i>prude</i>-horn, bleak and squeaking:— + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + Here comes the <i>hod</i>-horn, <i>plod</i>-horn, <i>sod</i>-horn, + Nevermore-to-<i>roam</i>-horn, <i>loam</i>-horn, <i>home</i>-horn. + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + <b>To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper.</b> + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:— + "Love and life, + Eternal youth— + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." + <b>Louder and louder, faster and faster.</b> + WHILE SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD, + DRIVEN AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL-FIEND'S OX-GOAD, + SCREAMING TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST, + CARRY OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST, + HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST. + THE HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS, + THE SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS. + <b>In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation.</b> + And then, in an instant, + Ye modern men, + Behold the procession once again, + <b>With a snapping explosiveness.</b> + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, + Listen to the <i>wise</i>-horn, desperate-to-<i>advise</i>-horn, + Listen to the <i>fast</i>-horn, <i>kill</i>-horn, <i>blast</i>-horn.... + <b>To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper.</b> + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:— + Love and life, + Eternal youth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth. + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + <b>To be brawled in the beginning with a + snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant.</b> + The mufflers open on a score of cars + With wonderful thunder, + CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK-CRACK,... + Listen to the gold-horn... + Old-horn... + Cold-horn... + And all of the tunes, till the night comes down + On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town. + <b>To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune + as the first five lines.</b> + Then far in the west, as in the beginning, + Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating, + Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn, + Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.... + + <b>This section beginning sonorously, + ending in a languorous whisper.</b> + They are hunting the goals that they understand:— + San Francisco and the brown sea-sand. + My goal is the mystery the beggars win. + I am caught in the web the night-winds spin. + The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me. + I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree. + And now I hear, as I sit all alone + In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone, + The souls of the tall corn gathering round + And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground. + Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells. + Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells. + Listen to the whistling flutes without price + Of myriad prophets out of paradise. + Harken to the wonder + That the night-air carries.... + Listen... to... the... whisper... + Of... the... prairie... fairies + Singing o'er the fairy plain:— + <b>To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song— + but very slowly.</b> + "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + Love and glory, + Stars and rain, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet...." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Firemen's Ball +</h2> +<pre> + Section One + + "Give the engines room, + Give the engines room." + Louder, faster + The little band-master + Whips up the fluting, + Hurries up the tooting. + He thinks that he stands, + <b>To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass + of fire-engines pumping.</b> + The reins in his hands, + In the fire-chief's place + In the night alarm chase. + The cymbals whang, + The kettledrums bang:— + <b>In this passage the reading or chanting + is shriller and higher.</b> + "Clear the street, + Clear the street, + Clear the street—Boom, boom. + In the evening gloom, + In the evening gloom, + Give the engines room, + Give the engines room, + Lest souls be trapped + In a terrible tomb." + The sparks and the pine-brands + Whirl on high + From the black and reeking alleys + To the wide red sky. + Hear the hot glass crashing, + Hear the stone steps hissing. + Coal black streams + Down the gutters pour. + There are cries for help + From a far fifth floor. + For a longer ladder + Hear the fire-chief call. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + <b>To be read or chanted in a heavy bass.</b> + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Faster, faster + The red flames come. + "Hum grum," say the engines, + "Hum grum grum." + <b>Shriller and higher.</b> + "Buzz, buzz," + Says the crowd. + "See, see," + Calls the crowd. + "Look out," + Yelps the crowd + And the high walls fall:— + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + <b>Heavy bass.</b> + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Whangaranga, whangaranga, + Whang, whang, whang, + Clang, clang, clangaranga, + <b>Bass, much slower.</b> + Clang, clang, clang. + Clang—a—ranga— + Clang—a—ranga— + Clang, + Clang, + Clang. + Listen—to—the—music— + Of the firemen's ball— +</pre> +<pre> + Section Two + + "Many's the heart that's breaking + If we could read them all + After the ball is over." (An old song.) +</pre> +<pre> + <b>To be read or sung slowly and softly, + in the manner of lustful, insinuating music.</b> + Scornfully, gaily + The bandmaster sways, + Changing the strain + That the wild band plays. + With a red and royal intoxication, + A tangle of sounds + And a syncopation, + Sweeping and bending + From side to side, + Master of dreams, + With a peacock pride. + A lord of the delicate flowers of delight + He drives compunction + Back through the night. + Dreams he's a soldier + Plumed and spurred, + And valiant lads + Arise at his word, + Flaying the sober + Thoughts he hates, + Driving them back + From the dream-town gates. + How can the languorous + Dancers know + The red dreams come + <b>To be read or chanted slowly and softly + in the manner of lustful insinuating music.</b> + When the good dreams go? + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells, + "NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells. + "Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + Sing low, now, violins, + Sing, sing low, + Blow gently, wood-wind, + Mellow and slow. + Like midnight poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + Their eyes flash power, + Their lips are dumb. + Faster and faster + Their pulses come, + Though softer now + The drum-beats fall. + Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + 'Tis the firemen's ball, + 'Tis the firemen's ball. + + <b>With a climax of whispered mourning.</b> + "I am slain," + Cries true-love + There in the shadow. + "And I die," + Cries true-love, + There laid low. + "When the fire-dreams come, + The wise dreams go." + <b>Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in + a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. + Then gradually musical and sonorous.</b> + BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED + BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER. + And now great gongs whang, + Sharper, faster, + And kettledrums rattle + And hide the shame + With a swish and a swirk + In dead love's name. + Red and crimson + And scarlet and rose + Magical poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + The scarlet stays + When the rose-flush goes, + And love lies low + In a marble tomb. + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of Doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + <b>Sharply interrupting in a very high key.</b> + Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. + "'Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year." + <b>Heavy bass.</b> + CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG. + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S BALL... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S... BALL.... +</pre> +<pre> + Section Three +</pre> +<p> +In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed +before the reader. +</p> +<p> +(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: "There Buddha thus addressed +his disciples: 'Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is +it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, +with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with +the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering +and despair.... A disciple,... becoming weary of all that, +divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.'") +</p> +<pre> + <b>To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service.</b> + I once knew a teacher, + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the young men + "Wine is a fire." + Who said to the merchants:— + "Gold is a flame + That sears and tortures + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire + Who said to the soldiers, + "Hate is a fire." + Who said to the statesmen:— + "Power is a flame + That flays and blisters + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the lordly, + + "Pride is a fire." + Who thus warned the revellers:— + "Life is a flame. + Be cold as the dew + Would you win at the game + With hearts like the stars, + With hearts like the stars." + <b>Interrupting very loudly for the last time.</b> + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE. + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED + IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. + SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE + TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:— + "THERE GOES THE ALARM, + THERE GOES THE ALARM. + THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, + THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, + AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER'S IRON ARM." + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... <i>CLANG</i>.... +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Master of the Dance +</h2> +<p> +A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and +improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher. +</p> +<pre> + I + + A master deep-eyed + Ere his manhood was ripe, + He sang like a thrush, + He could play any pipe. + So dull in the school + That he scarcely could spell, + He read but a bit, + And he figured not well. + A bare-footed fool, + Shod only with grace; + Long hair streaming down + Round a wind-hardened face; + He smiled like a girl, + Or like clear winter skies, + A virginal light + Making stars of his eyes. + In swiftness and poise, + A proud child of the deer, + A white fawn he was, + Yet a fawn without fear. + No youth thought him vain, + Or made mock of his hair, + Or laughed when his ways + Were most curiously fair. + A mastiff at fight, + He could strike to the earth + The envious one + Who would challenge his worth. + However we bowed + To the schoolmaster mild, + Our spirits went out + To the fawn-footed child. + His beckoning led + Our troop to the brush. + We found nothing there + But a wind and a hush. + He sat by a stone + And he looked on the ground, + As if in the weeds + There was something profound. + His pipe seemed to neigh, + Then to bleat like a sheep, + Then sound like a stream + Or a waterfall deep. + It whispered strange tales, + Human words it spoke not. + Told fair things to come, + And our marvellous lot + If now with fawn-steps + Unshod we advanced + To the midst of the grove + And in reverence danced. + We obeyed as he piped + Soft grass to young feet, + Was a medicine mighty, + A remedy meet. + Our thin blood awoke, + It grew dizzy and wild, + Though scarcely a word + Moved the lips of a child. + Our dance gave allegiance, + It set us apart, + We tripped a strange measure, + Uplifted of heart. +</pre> +<pre> + II + + We thought to be proud + Of our fawn everywhere. + We could hardly see how + Simple books were a care. + No rule of the school + This strange student could tame. + He was banished one day, + While we quivered with shame. + He piped back our love + On a moon-silvered night, + Enticed us once more + To the place of delight. + A greeting he sang + And it made our blood beat, + It tramped upon custom + And mocked at defeat. + He builded a fire + And we tripped in a ring, + The embers our books + And the fawn our good king. + And now we approached + All the mysteries rare + That shadowed his eyelids + And blew through his hair. + That spell now was peace + The deep strength of the trees, + The children of nature + We clambered her knees. + Our breath and our moods + Were in tune with her own, + Tremendous her presence, + Eternal her throne. + The ostracized child + Our white foreheads kissed, + Our bodies and souls + Became lighter than mist. + Sweet dresses like snow + Our small lady-loves wore, + Like moonlight the thoughts + That our bosoms upbore. + Like a lily the touch + Of each cold little hand. + The loves of the stars + We could now understand. + O quivering air! + O the crystalline night! + O pauses of awe + And the faces swan-white! + O ferns in the dusk! + O forest-shrined hour! + O earth that sent upward + The thrill and the power, + To lift us like leaves, + A delirious whirl, + The masterful boy + And the delicate girl! + What child that strange night-time + Can ever forget? + His fealty due + And his infinite debt + To the folly divine, + To the exquisite rule + Of the perilous master, + The fawn-footed fool? +</pre> +<pre> + III + + Now soldiers we seem, + And night brings a new thing, + A terrible ire, + As of thunder awing. + A warrior power, + That old chivalry stirred, + When knights took up arms, + As the maidens gave word. + THE END OF OUR WAR, + WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD. + WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT + BUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD! + <i>Near, nearer that war, + And that ecstasy comes, + We hear the trees beating + Invisible drums. + The fields of the night + Are starlit above, + Our girls are white torches + Of conquest and love. + No nerve without will, + And no breast without breath, + We whirl with the planets + That never know death!</i> +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Mysterious Cat +</h2> +<p> +A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted +by George Mather Richards. +</p> +<pre> + I saw a proud, mysterious cat, + I saw a proud, mysterious cat + Too proud to catch a mouse or rat— + Mew, mew, mew. + + But catnip she would eat, and purr, + But catnip she would eat, and purr. + And goldfish she did much prefer— + Mew, mew, mew. + + I saw a cat—'twas but a dream, + I saw a cat—'twas but a dream + Who scorned the slave that brought her cream— + Mew, mew, mew. + + Unless the slave were dressed in style, + Unless the slave were dressed in style + And knelt before her all the while— + Mew, mew, mew. + + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Mew... mew... mew. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten +</h2> +<p> +To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken +in a snappy, matter-of-fact way. +</p> +<pre> + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + Here lies a kitten good, who kept + A kitten's proper place. + He stole no pantry eatables, + Nor scratched the baby's face. + <i>He let the alley-cats alone</i>. + He had no yowling vice. + His shirt was always laundried well, + He freed the house of mice. + Until his death he had not caused + His little mistress tears, + He wore his ribbon prettily, + <i>He washed behind his ears</i>. + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Yankee Doodle +</h2> +<p> +This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural +painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a +slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an +entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday. +</p> +<pre> + Dawn this morning burned all red + Watching them in wonder. + There I saw our spangled flag + Divide the clouds asunder. + Then there followed Washington. + Ah, he rode from glory, + Cold and mighty as his name + And stern as Freedom's story. + Unsubdued by burning dawn + Led his continentals. + Vast they were, and strange to see + In gray old regimentals:— + Marching still with bleeding feet, + Bleeding feet and jesting— + Marching from the judgment throne + With energy unresting. + How their merry quickstep played— + Silver, sharp, sonorous, + Piercing through with prophecy + The demons' rumbling chorus— + Behold the ancient powers of sin + And slavery before them!— + Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, + The pit-black clouds hung o'er them. + Plagues that rose to blast the day + Fiend and tiger faces, + Monsters plotting bloodshed for + The patient toiling races. + Round the dawn their cannon raged, + Hurling bolts of thunder, + Yet before our spangled flag + Their host was cut asunder. + Like a mist they fled away.... + Ended wrath and roaring. + Still our restless soldier-host + From East to West went pouring. + + High beside the sun of noon + They bore our banner splendid. + All its days of stain and shame + And heaviness were ended. + Men were swelling now the throng + From great and lowly station— + Valiant citizens to-day + Of every tribe and nation. + Not till night their rear-guard came, + Down the west went marching, + And left behind the sunset-rays + In beauty overarching. + War-god banners lead us still, + Rob, enslave and harry + Let us rather choose to-day + The flag the angels carry— + Flag we love, but brighter far— + Soul of it made splendid: + Let its days of stain and shame + And heaviness be ended. + Let its fifes fill all the sky, + Redeemed souls marching after, + Hills and mountains shake with song, + While seas roll on in laughter. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Black Hawk War of the Artists +</h2> +<h3> + Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois +</h3> +<p> +To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry. +</p> +<pre> + Hawk of the Rocks, + Yours is our cause to-day. + Watching your foes + Here in our war array, + Young men we stand, + Wolves of the West at bay. + <i>Power, power for war + Comes from these trees divine; + Power from the boughs, + Boughs where the dew-beads shine, + Power from the cones— + Yea, from the breath of the pine!</i> + + Power to restore + All that the white hand mars. + See the dead east + Crushed with the iron cars— + Chimneys black + Blinding the sun and stars! + + Hawk of the pines, + Hawk of the plain-winds fleet, + You shall be king + There in the iron street, + Factory and forge + Trodden beneath your feet. + + There will proud trees + Grow as they grow by streams. + There will proud thoughts + Walk as in warrior dreams. + There will proud deeds + Bloom as when battle gleams! + + Warriors of Art, + We will hold council there, + Hewing in stone + Things to the trapper fair, + Painting the gray + Veils that the spring moons wear, + This our revenge, + This one tremendous change: + Making new towns, + Lit with a star-fire strange, + Wild as the dawn + Gilding the bison-range. + + All the young men + Chanting your cause that day, + Red-men, new-made + Out of the Saxon clay, + Strong and redeemed, + Bold in your war-array! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Jingo and the Minstrel +</h2> +<p> +An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese +People +</p> + +<p> + Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty: Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of +all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her +greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven +Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most +beautiful mountain. +</p> + +<pre> + <b>The minstrel speaks.</b> + "Now do you know of Avalon + That sailors call Japan? + She holds as rare a chivalry + As ever bled for man. + King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hill + Where Iyeyasu lies, + And there the broad Pendragon flag + In deathless splendor flies." + + <b>The jingo answers.</b> + <i>"Nay, minstrel, but the great ships come + From out the sunset sea. + We cannot greet the souls they bring + With welcome high and free. + How can the Nippon nondescripts + That weird and dreadful band + Be aught but what we find them here:— + The blasters of the land?"</i> + + <b>The minstrel replies.</b> + "First race, first men from anywhere + To face you, eye to eye. + For <i>that</i> do you curse Avalon + And raise a hue and cry? + These toilers cannot kiss your hand, + Or fawn with hearts bowed down. + Be glad for them, and Avalon, + And Arthur's ghostly crown. + + "No doubt your guests, with sage debate + In grave things gentlemen + Will let your trade and farms alone + And turn them back again. + But why should brawling braggarts rise + With hasty words of shame + To drive them back like dogs and swine + Who in due honor came?" + + <b>The jingo answers.</b> + <i>"We cannot give them honor, sir. + We give them scorn for scorn. + And Rumor steals around the world + All white-skinned men to warn + Against this sleek silk-merchant here + And viler coolie-man + And wrath within the courts of war + Brews on against Japan!"</i> + + <b>The minstrel replies.</b> + "Must Avalon, with hope forlorn, + Her back against the wall, + Have lived her brilliant life in vain + While ruder tribes take all? + Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts, + A ghost with spear and crown, + Behind the great Pendragon flag + And be again cut down? + + "Tho Europe's self shall move against + High Jimmu Tenno's throne + The Forty-seven Ronin Men + Will not be found alone. + For Percival and Bedivere + And Nogi side by side + Will stand,—with mourning Merlin there, + Tho all go down in pride. + + "But has the world the envious dream— + Ah, such things cannot be,— + To tear their fairy-land like silk + And toss it in the sea? + Must venom rob the future day + The ultimate world-man + Of rare Bushido, code of codes, + The fair heart of Japan? + + "Go, be the guest of Avalon. + Believe me, it lies there + Behind the mighty gray sea-wall + Where heathen bend in prayer: + Where peasants lift adoring eyes + To Fuji's crown of snow. + King Arthur's knights will be your hosts, + So cleanse your heart, and go. + + "And you will find but gardens sweet + Prepared beyond the seas, + And you will find but gentlefolk + Beneath the cherry-trees. + So walk you worthy of your Christ + Tho church bells do not sound, + And weave the bands of brotherhood + On Jimmu Tenno's ground." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I Heard Immanuel Singing +</h2> +<p> +(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his +heart in Heaven.) +</p> +<p> +This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the +well-known tune:— +</p> +<pre> + "Last night I lay a-sleeping, + There came a dream so fair, + I stood in Old Jerusalem + Beside the temple there,—" etc. +</pre> +<p> +Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily. It is here given to +suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it. +</p> +<pre> + <b>To be sung.</b> + I heard Immanuel singing + Within his own good lands, + I saw him bend above his harp. + I watched his wandering hands + Lost amid the harp-strings; + Sweet, sweet I heard him play. + His wounds were altogether healed. + Old things had passed away. + + All things were new, but music. + The blood of David ran + Within the Son of David, + Our God, the Son of Man. + He was ruddy like a shepherd. + His bold young face, how fair. + Apollo of the silver bow + Had not such flowing hair. + + <b>To be read very softly, but in spirited response.</b> + I saw Immanuel singing + On a tree-girdled hill. + The glad remembering branches + Dimly echoed still + The grand new song proclaiming + The Lamb that had been slain. + New-built, the Holy City + Gleamed in the murmuring plain. + + The crowning hours were over. + The pageants all were past. + Within the many mansions + The hosts, grown still at last, + In homes of holy mystery + Slept long by crooning springs + Or waked to peaceful glory, + A universe of Kings. + + <b>To be sung.</b> + He left his people happy. + He wandered free to sigh + Alone in lowly friendship + With the green grass and the sky. + He murmured ancient music + His red heart burned to sing + Because his perfect conquest + Had grown a weary thing. + + No chant of gilded triumph— + His lonely song was made + Of Art's deliberate freedom; + Of minor chords arrayed + In soft and shadowy colors + That once were radiant flowers:— + The Rose of Sharon, bleeding + In Olive-shadowed bowers:— + + And all the other roses + In the songs of East and West + Of love and war and worshipping, + And every shield and crest + Of thistle or of lotus + Or sacred lily wrought + In creeds and psalms and palaces + And temples of white thought:— + + <b>To be read very softly, yet in spirited response.</b> + All these he sang, half-smiling + And weeping as he smiled, + Laughing, talking to his harp + As to a new-born child:— + As though the arts forgotten + But bloomed to prophecy + These careless, fearless harp-strings, + New-crying in the sky. + <b>To be sung.</b> + "When this his hour of sorrow + For flowers and Arts of men + Has passed in ghostly music," + I asked my wild heart then— + What will he sing to-morrow, + What wonder, all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? + What will he sing to-morrow + What wonder all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Second Section ~~ Incense +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + An Argument +</h2> +<pre> + I. The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias + + We find your soft Utopias as white + As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells, + O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are + How human breasts adore alarum bells. + You house us in a hive of prigs and saints + Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law. + I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore + Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. + Promise us all our share in Agincourt + Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death, + That future ant-hills will not be too good + For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. + Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-war + Man's deathless soul will hack and hew its way, + Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fate + Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. + Never a shallow jester any more! + Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. + Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise + And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain. +</pre> +<pre> + II. The Rhymer's Reply. Incense and Splendor + + Incense and Splendor haunt me as I go. + Though my good works have been, alas, too few, + Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me, + And future ages pass in tall review. + I see the years to come as armies vast, + Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. + MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born, + Flame-like to hover o'er the moil and grime, + Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone, + Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn— + Laying new, precious pavements with a song, + Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. + I have seen lovers by those new-built walls + Clothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red. + Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love + Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. + Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers. + Passion was turned to civic strength that day— + Piling the marbles, making fairer domes + With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. + I have seen priestesses of life go by + Gliding in samite through the incense-sea— + Innocent children marching with them there, + Singing in flowered robes, "THE EARTH IS FREE": + While on the fair, deep-carved unfinished towers + Sentinels watched in armor, night and day— + Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream— + Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign +</h2> +<pre> + I look on the specious electrical light + Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, + Wickedly red or malignantly green + Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen. + Showing, while millions of souls hurry on, + The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn, + By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl, + Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl, + By maggoty motions in sickening line + Proclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine, + While there far above the steep cliffs of the street + The stars sing a message elusive and sweet. + + Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toil + His clumsy contraptions of coil upon coil + Till the thing he invents, in its use and its range, + Leads on to the marvellous CHANGE BEYOND CHANGE. + Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, + As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise. + And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, + Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. + The signs in the street and the signs in the skies + Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, + And Broadway make one with that marvellous stair + That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + In Memory of a Child +</h2> +<pre> + The angels guide him now, + And watch his curly head, + And lead him in their games, + The little boy we led. + + He cannot come to harm, + He knows more than we know, + His light is brighter far + Than daytime here below. + + His path leads on and on, + Through pleasant lawns and flowers, + His brown eyes open wide + At grass more green than ours. + + With playmates like himself, + The shining boy will sing, + Exploring wondrous woods, + Sweet with eternal spring. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Galahad, Knight Who Perished +</h2> +<pre> + A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and Interstate + Traffic in Young Girls +</pre> +<pre> + Galahad... soldier that perished... ages ago, + Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow. + Galahad... knight who perished... awaken again, + Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men. + Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea, + We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free. + Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace, + Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face + Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land, + Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand. + Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red! + Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head! + Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower, + Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power. + Leave not life's fairest to perish—strangers to thee, + Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Leaden-eyed +</h2> +<pre> + Let not young souls be smothered out before + They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride. + It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull, + Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed. + Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly, + Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap, + Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve, + Not that they die, but that they die like sheep. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie +</h2> +<pre> + (In the Beginning) + + The sun is a huntress young, + The sun is a red, red joy, + The sun is an Indian girl, + Of the tribe of the Illinois. +</pre> +<pre> + (Mid-morning) + + The sun is a smouldering fire, + That creeps through the high gray plain, + And leaves not a bush of cloud + To blossom with flowers of rain. +</pre> +<pre> + (Noon) + + The sun is a wounded deer, + That treads pale grass in the skies, + Shaking his golden horns, + Flashing his baleful eyes. +</pre> +<pre> + (Sunset) + + The sun is an eagle old, + There in the windless west. + Atop of the spirit-cliffs + He builds him a crimson nest. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Hearth Eternal +</h2> +<pre> + There dwelt a widow learned and devout, + Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill. + Three sons she had, who went to find the world. + They promised to return, but wandered still. + The cities used them well, they won their way, + Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs. + Worn out with honors, and apart from her, + They died as many a self-made exile dies. + The mother had a hearth that would not quench, + The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom. + She said to us who came with wondering eyes— + "This is a magic fire, a magic room." + The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on, + Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade, + And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light. + The neighbors peering in were half afraid. + Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came, + One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor. + They left a naked stone, but how it blazed! + And in the thunderstorm it flared the more. + And now it was that men were heard to say, + "This light should be beloved by all the town." + At last they made the slope a place of prayer, + Where marvellous thoughts from God came sweeping down. + They left their churches crumbling in the sun, + They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood; + One strength and valor only, one delight, + One laughing, brooding genius, great and good. + Now many gray-haired prodigals come home, + The place out-flames the cities of the land, + And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar, + With subtle eyes prepared to understand. + Higher and higher burns the eastern steep, + Showing the roads that march from every place, + A steady beacon o'er the weary leagues, + At dead of night it lights the traveller's face! + Thus has the widow conquered half the earth, + She who increased in faith, though all alone, + Who kept her empty house a magic place, + Has made the town a holy angel's throne. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit +</h2> +<pre> + A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois +</pre> +<pre> + Censers are swinging + Over the town; + Censers are swinging, + Look overhead! + Censers are swinging, + Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead! + + Censers, tremendous, + Gleam overhead. + Wind-harps are ringing, + Wind-harps unseen— + Calling and calling:— + "Wake from the dead. + Rise, little city, + Shine like a queen." + + Soldiers of Christ + For battle grow keen. + Heaven-sent winds + Haunt alley and lane. + Singing of life + In town-meadows green + After the toil + And battle and pain. + + Incense is pouring + Like the spring rain + Down on the mob + That moil through the street. + Blessed are they + Who behold it and gain + Power made more mighty + Thro' every defeat. + + Builders, toil on. + Make all complete. + Make Springfield wonderful. + Make her renown + Worthy this day, + Till, at God's feet, + Tranced, saved forever, + Waits the white town. + + Censers are swinging + Over the town, + Censers gigantic! + Look overhead! + Hear the winds singing:— + "Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0025"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + By the Spring, at Sunset +</h2> +<pre> + Sometimes we remember kisses, + Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: + Not always, but sometimes we remember + The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame + Of laughter and farewell. + + Beside the road + Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write, + Far from my city task, my lawful load. + + Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder, + Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night + Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder + Make bold my soul for some new wise delight. + + I write the day's event, and quench my drouth, + Pausing beside the spring with happy mind. + And now I feel those kisses on my mouth, + Hers most of all, one little friend most kind. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0026"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I Went down into the Desert +</h2> +<pre> + I went down into the desert + To meet Elijah— + Arisen from the dead. + I thought to find him in an echoing cave; + <i>For so my dream had said</i>. + + I went down into the desert + To meet John the Baptist. + I walked with feet that bled, + Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold. + <i>I spied foul fiends instead</i>. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + By him be comforted. + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + <i>And I met the devil in red</i>. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead! + I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground, + I see you there, half-buried in the sand. + I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, + <i>The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head</i>. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0027"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Love and Law +</h2> +<pre> + True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance + In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain. + The workman lays wearily granite on granite, + And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain. + + Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, + Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone. + 'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion. + With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0028"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Perfect Marriage +</h2> +<pre> + I + + I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: + Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone. + Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine— + Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine: + Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none; + Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one). +</pre> +<pre> + II + + We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweet + No longer turning to the tryst with flying feet. + We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloom + And tenderness of passion's touch, and in its room + Will come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom. + Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life! + Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife. + Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come— + It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum, + The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag— + And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag. +</pre> +<pre> + III + + We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can— + Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. + Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. + It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air— + It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh— + It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; + It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows + Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. + It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, + And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems + A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, + Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. + But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, + The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. + Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, + Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark— + Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange + Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change. +</pre> +<pre> + IV + + Love?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time— + Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime— + And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes— + Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise. + Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial— + And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile— + We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play, + Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay— + As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild, + True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0029"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Darling Daughter of Babylon +</h2> +<pre> + Too soon you wearied of our tears. + And then you danced with spangled feet, + Leading Belshazzar's chattering court + A-tinkling through the shadowy street. + With mead they came, with chants of shame. + DESIRE'S red flag before them flew. + And Istar's music moved your mouth + And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you. + + Now you could drive the royal car; + Forget our Nation's breaking load: + Now you could sleep on silver beds— + (Bitter and dark was our abode.) + And so, for many a night you laughed, + And knew not of my hopeless prayer, + Till God's own spirit whipped you forth + From Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair. + + Darling daughter of Babylon— + Rose by the black Euphrates flood— + Again your beauty grew more dear + Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. + We sang of Zion, good to know, + Where righteousness and peace abide.... + What of your second sacrilege + Carousing at Belshazzar's side? + + Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands— + Your paint and henna washed away. + Your place, you said, was with the slaves + Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. + You were a pale and holy maid + Toil-bound with us. One night you said:— + "Your God shall be my God until + I slumber with the patriarch dead." + + Pardon, daughter of Babylon, + If, on this night remembering + Our lover walks under the walls + Of hanging gardens in the spring, + A venom comes from broken hope, + From memories of your comrade-song + Until I curse your painted eyes + And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0030"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Amaranth +</h2> +<pre> + Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here.... + Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns + And the tremendous Amaranth descends + Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns? + + Does it not mean my God would have me say:— + "Whether you will or no, O city young, + Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, + Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?" + + Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep. + Such things I see, and some of them shall come + Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray, + Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb. + Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise. + Naught can delay it. Though it may not be + Just as I dream, it comes at last I know + With streets like channels of an incense-sea. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0031"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Alchemist's Petition +</h2> +<pre> + Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life + My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep + Like a white statue dropped into the deep, + Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold, + And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold. + + But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in Hell + My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth— + In such unquenched desires consumed his youth— + Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall, + Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall— + Amen. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0032"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Two Easter Stanzas +</h2> +<pre> + I + + The Hope of the Resurrection +</pre> +<pre> + Though I have watched so many mourners weep + O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep— + Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days + That passed and left me in the sun's bright rays. + Now though you go on smiling in the sun + Our love is slain, and love and you were one. + You are the first, you I have known so long, + Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong. + Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right + Amid the lilies and the candle-light. + I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear + We two may meet, confused and parted here. + Ah, when man's dearest dies, 'tis then he goes + To that old balm that heals the centuries' woes. + Then Christ's wild cry in all the streets is rife:— + "I am the Resurrection and the Life." +</pre> +<pre> + II + + We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not +</pre> +<pre> + Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning, + I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, + With golden hope my spirit still adorning. + + Our God who made you all so fair and sweet + Is three times gentle, and before his feet + Rejoicing I shall say:—"The girl you gave + Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save. + Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath + Is worth this rescue from the Second Death, + Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too + That scorned my graceless years and trophies few. + Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned + Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned. + We now as comrades through the stars may take + The rich and arduous quests I did forsake. + Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng + And quickly find that woman-soul so strong. + I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart + Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart, + A brooding secret mercy like your own + That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0033"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Traveller-heart +</h2> +<p> +(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible +Manner of Interment) +</p> +<pre> + I would be one with the dark, dark earth:— + Follow the plough with a yokel tread. + I would be part of the Indian corn, + Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead. + + I would be one with the lavish earth, + Eating the bee-stung apples red: + Walking where lambs walk on the hills; + By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. + + I would be one with the dark-bright night + When sparkling skies and the lightning wed— + Walking on with the vicious wind + By roads whence even the dogs have fled. + + I would be one with the sacred earth + On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. + Terror shall put no spears through me. + Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. + + I shall be one with all pit-black things + Finding their lowering threat unsaid: + Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,— + Oak-roots arching about my head! + + Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, + Acorns fall round my breast that bled. + Children shall weave there a flowery chain, + Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:— + + Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, + Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: + Sweet with the life of my sunburned days + When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0034"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son +</h2> +<pre> + The North Star whispers: "You are one + Of those whose course no chance can change. + You blunder, but are not undone, + Your spirit-task is fixed and strange. + + "When here you walk, a bloodless shade, + A singer all men else forget. + Your chants of hammer, forge and spade + Will move the prairie-village yet. + + "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town + Beholds your fancies on her walls, + And paints them out or tears them down, + Or bars them from her feasting-halls. + + "Yet shall the fragments still remain; + Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong + That ivy-vines will not disdain, + Haunted and trembling with your song. + + "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn, + Flame high in storms, flame white and clear; + Your ghost in gleaming robes return + And burn a deathless incense here." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0035"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Third Section ~~ A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0036"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + This Section is a Christmas Tree +</h2> +<pre> + This section is a Christmas tree: + Loaded with pretty toys for you. + Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, + The popguns painted red and blue. + No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, + But silver horns and candy sacks + And many little tinsel hearts + And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks. + For every child a gift, I hope. + The doll upon the topmost bough + Is mine. But all the rest are yours. + And I will light the candles now. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0037"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + The Sun Says his Prayers +</h2> +<pre> + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + Or else he would wither and die. + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + "For strength to climb up through the sky. + He leans on invisible angels, + And Faith is his prop and his rod. + The sky is his crystal cathedral. + And dawn is his altar to God." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0038"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) +</h2> +<pre> + I. The Lion +</pre> +<pre> + The Lion is a kingly beast. + He likes a Hindu for a feast. + And if no Hindu he can get, + The lion-family is upset. + + He cuffs his wife and bites her ears + Till she is nearly moved to tears. + Then some explorer finds the den + And all is family peace again. +</pre> +<pre> + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper +</pre> +<pre> + The Grasshopper, the grasshopper, + I will explain to you:— + He is the Brownies' racehorse, + The fairies' Kangaroo. +</pre> +<pre> + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies +</pre> +<pre> + In fairyland the little boys + Would rather fight than eat their meals. + They like to chase a gauze-winged fly + And catch and beat him till he squeals. + Sometimes they come to sleeping men + Armed with the deadly red-rose thorn, + And those that feel its fearful wound + Repent the day that they were born. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down +</pre> +<pre> + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down + Began his task in early life. + He kept so busy with his teeth + He had no time to take a wife. + + He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain + When the ambitious fit was on, + Then rested in the sawdust till + A month of idleness had gone. + + He did not move about to hunt + The coteries of mousie-men. + He was a snail-paced, stupid thing + Until he cared to gnaw again. + + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down, + When that tough foe was at his feet— + Found in the stump no angel-cake + Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat— + The forest-roof let in the sky. + "This light is worth the work," said he. + "I'll make this ancient swamp more light," + And started on another tree. +</pre> +<pre> + V. Parvenu +</pre> +<pre> + Where does Cinderella sleep? + By far-off day-dream river. + A secret place her burning Prince + Decks, while his heart-strings quiver. + + Homesick for our cinder world, + Her low-born shoulders shiver; + She longs for sleep in cinders curled— + We, for the day-dream river. +</pre> +<pre> + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly +</pre> +<pre> + Once I loved a spider + When I was born a fly, + A velvet-footed spider + With a gown of rainbow-dye. + She ate my wings and gloated. + She bound me with a hair. + She drove me to her parlor + Above her winding stair. + To educate young spiders + She took me all apart. + My ghost came back to haunt her. + I saw her eat my heart. +</pre> +<pre> + VII. Crickets on a Strike +</pre> +<pre> + The foolish queen of fairyland + From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, + Gave command to her cricket-band + To play for her when the dew-drops fell. + + But the cold dew spoiled their instruments + And they play for the foolish queen no more. + Instead those sturdy malcontents + Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0039"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + How a Little Girl Danced +</h2> +<h3> + Dedicated to Lucy Bates +</h3> +<p> +(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.) +</p> +<pre> + Oh, cabaret dancer, <i>I</i> know a dancer, + Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain. + <i>I</i> know a dancer, <i>I</i> know a dancer, + Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, + Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, + <i>I</i> know a dancer, <i>I</i> know a dancer, + Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, + A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, + With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain. + + Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, + Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: + I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, + A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:— + The music of God is her innermost brooding, + The whispering angels her footsteps sustain. + + Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing. + No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign. + You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, + A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane. + But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit + More white than Apollo and all of his train. + + I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, + Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain. + I know a dancer, I know a dancer, + Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0040"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + In Praise of Songs that Die +</h2> +<p> +After having read a Great Deal of Good Current Poetry in the Magazines +and Newspapers +</p> +<pre> + Ah, they are passing, passing by, + Wonderful songs, but born to die! + Cries from the infinite human seas, + Waves thrice-winged with harmonies. + Here I stand on a pier in the foam + Seeing the songs to the beach go home, + Dying in sand while the tide flows back, + As it flowed of old in its fated track. + Oh, hurrying tide that will not hear + Your own foam-children dying near: + Is there no refuge-house of song, + No home, no haven where songs belong? + Oh, precious hymns that come and go! + You perish, and I love you so! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0041"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Factory Windows are always Broken +</h2> +<pre> + Factory windows are always broken. + Somebody's always throwing bricks, + Somebody's always heaving cinders, + Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Other windows are let alone. + No one throws through the chapel-window + The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Something or other is going wrong. + Something is rotten—I think, in Denmark. + <i>End of the factory-window song</i>. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0042"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + To Mary Pickford +</h2> +<pre> + Moving-picture Actress +</pre> +<p> +(On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.) +</p> +<pre> + Mary Pickford, doll divine, + Year by year, and every day + At the moving-picture play, + You have been my valentine. + + Once a free-limbed page in hose, + Baby-Rosalind in flower, + Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour + How our reverent passion rose, + How our fine desire you won. + Kitchen-wench another day, + Shapeless, wooden every way. + Next, a fairy from the sun. + + Once you walked a grown-up strand + Fish-wife siren, full of lure, + Snaring with devices sure + Lads who murdered on the sand. + But on most days just a child + Dimpled as no grown-folk are, + Cold of kiss as some north star, + Violet from the valleys wild. + Snared as innocence must be, + Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead— + At the end of tortures dread + Roaring cowboys set you free. + + Fly, O song, to her to-day, + Like a cowboy cross the land. + Snatch her from Belasco's hand + And that prison called Broadway. + + All the village swains await + One dear lily-girl demure, + Saucy, dancing, cold and pure, + Elf who must return in state. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0043"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Blanche Sweet +</h2> +<pre> + Moving-picture Actress +</pre> +<p> +(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".) +</p> +<pre> + Beauty has a throne-room + In our humorous town, + Spoiling its hob-goblins, + Laughing shadows down. + Rank musicians torture + Ragtime ballads vile, + But we walk serenely + Down the odorous aisle. + We forgive the squalor + And the boom and squeal + For the Great Queen flashes + From the moving reel. + + Just a prim blonde stranger + In her early day, + Hiding brilliant weapons, + Too averse to play, + Then she burst upon us + Dancing through the night. + Oh, her maiden radiance, + Veils and roses white. + With new powers, yet cautious, + Not too smart or skilled, + That first flash of dancing + Wrought the thing she willed:— + Mobs of us made noble + By her strong desire, + By her white, uplifting, + Royal romance-fire. + + Though the tin piano + Snarls its tango rude, + Though the chairs are shaky + And the dramas crude, + Solemn are her motions, + Stately are her wiles, + Filling oafs with wisdom, + Saving souls with smiles; + 'Mid the restless actors + She is rich and slow. + She will stand like marble, + She will pause and glow, + Though the film is twitching, + Keep a peaceful reign, + Ruler of her passion, + Ruler of our pain! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0044"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Sunshine +</h2> +<h3> + For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old. Catharine Frazee Wakefield. +</h3> +<pre> + The sun gives not directly + The coal, the diamond crown; + Not in a special basket + Are these from Heaven let down. + + The sun gives not directly + The plough, man's iron friend; + Not by a path or stairway + Do tools from Heaven descend. + + Yet sunshine fashions all things + That cut or burn or fly; + And corn that seems upon the earth + Is made in the hot sky. + + The gravel of the roadbed, + The metal of the gun, + The engine of the airship + Trace somehow from the sun. + + And so your soul, my lady— + (Mere sunshine, nothing more)— + Prepares me the contraptions + I work with or adore. + + Within me cornfields rustle, + Niagaras roar their way, + Vast thunderstorms and rainbows + Are in my thought to-day. + + Ten thousand anvils sound there + By forges flaming white, + And many books I read there, + And many books I write; + + And freedom's bells are ringing, + And bird-choirs chant and fly— + The whole world works in me to-day + And all the shining sky, + + Because of one small lady + Whose smile is my chief sun. + She gives not any gift to me + Yet all gifts, giving one.... + Amen. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0045"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic +</h2> +<pre> + Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, + The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. + It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small, + And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all. + And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink, + And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think." + And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, + The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more. + O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way— + All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day, + And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom, + And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. + And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, + And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite, + My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine + Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line. + I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair, + They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. + The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew, + O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0046"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich +</h2> +<pre> + He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour + Just to invent a fancy style + To spread the celebration paint + So it would show at least a mile. + + Some things they did I will not tell. + They're not quite proper for a rhyme. + But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede + Did sure invent a sunflower time. + + One thing they did that I can tell + And not offend the ladies here:— + They took a goat to Simp's Saloon + And made it take a bath in beer. + + That ENTERprise took MANagement. + They broke a wash-tub in the fray. + But mister goat was bathed all right + And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say. + + They wore girls' pink straw hats to church + And clucked like hens. They surely did. + They bought two HOtel frying pans + And in them down the mountain slid. + + They went to Denver in good clothes, + And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake, + And cut about like jumping-jacks, + And ordered seven-dollar steak. + + They had the waiters whirling round + Just sweeping up the smear and smash. + They tried to buy the State-house flag. + They showed the Janitor the cash. + + And old Dan Tucker on a toot, + Or John Paul Jones before the breeze, + Or Indians eating fat fried dog, + Were not as happy babes as these. + + One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek + With cheerful swears the two awoke. + The Swede had twenty cents, all right. + But Gassy Thompson was clean broke. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0047"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Rhymes for Gloriana +</h2> +<pre> + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough +</pre> +<pre> + This doll upon the topmost bough, + This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, + Was taken down and brought to me + One sleety night most comfortless. + + Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash + Was gray brocade, most good to see. + The dear toy laughed, and I forgot + The ill the new year promised me. +</pre> +<pre> + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused +</pre> +<pre> + Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk— + Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure: + A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger:— + Here in my study you sing me a measure. + + Whimsy and song in my little gray study! + Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness, + Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter, + Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!" + + Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness, + Trusting her insights, ardent for living; + She would be weeping with me and be laughing, + A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!" +</pre> +<pre> + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters +</pre> +<pre> + Your pen needs but a ruffle + To be Pavlova whirling. + It surely is a scalawag + A-scamping down the page. + A pretty little May-wind + The morning buds uncurling. + And then the white sweet Russian, + The dancer of the age. + + Your pen's the Queen of Sheba, + Such serious questions bringing, + That merry rascal Solomon + Would show a sober face:— + And then again Pavlova + To set our spirits singing, + The snowy-swan bacchante + All glamour, glee and grace. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair +</pre> +<pre> + The gleaming head of one fine friend + Is bent above my little song, + So through the treasure-pits of Heaven + In fancy's shoes, I march along. + + I wander, seek and peer and ponder + In Splendor's last ensnaring lair— + 'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns + Where noble chariots gleam and flare: + + Amid the spirit-coins and gems, + The plates and cups and helms of fire— + The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven— + Where angel-misers slake desire! + + O endless treasure-pits of gold + Where silly angel-men make mirth— + I think that I am there this hour, + Though walking in the ways of earth! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0048"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Fourth Section ~~ Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech +</h2> +<a name="2H_4_0049"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Once More—To Gloriana +</h2> +<pre> + Girl with the burning golden eyes, + And red-bird song, and snowy throat: + I bring you gold and silver moons + And diamond stars, and mists that float. + I bring you moons and snowy clouds, + I bring you prairie skies to-night + To feebly praise your golden eyes + And red-bird song, and throat so white. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0050"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children +</h2> +<pre> + I. Euclid +</pre> +<pre> + Old Euclid drew a circle + On a sand-beach long ago. + He bounded and enclosed it + With angles thus and so. + His set of solemn greybeards + Nodded and argued much + Of arc and of circumference, + Diameter and such. + A silent child stood by them + From morning until noon + Because they drew such charming + Round pictures of the moon. +</pre> +<pre> + II. The Haughty Snail-king + + (What Uncle William told the Children) +</pre> +<pre> + Twelve snails went walking after night. + They'd creep an inch or so, + Then stop and bug their eyes + And blow. + Some folks... are... deadly... slow. + Twelve snails went walking yestereve, + Led by their fat old king. + They were so dull their princeling had + No sceptre, robe or ring— + Only a paper cap to wear + When nightly journeying. + + This king-snail said: "I feel a thought + Within.... It blossoms soon.... + O little courtiers of mine,... + I crave a pretty boon.... + Oh, yes... (High thoughts with effort come + And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.) + "I wish I had a yellow crown + As glistering... as... the moon." +</pre> +<pre> + III. What the Rattlesnake Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a little prairie-dog. + He shivers through the night. + He sits upon his hill and cries + For fear that <i>I</i> will bite. + + The sun's a broncho. He's afraid + Like every other thing, + And trembles, morning, noon and night, + Lest <i>I</i> should spring, and sting. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + + (What the Little Girl Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. + He bites it, day by day, + Until there's but a rim of scraps + That crumble all away. + + The South Wind is a baker. + He kneads clouds in his den, + And bakes a crisp new moon <i>that... greedy + North... Wind... eats... again!</i> +</pre> +<pre> + V. Drying their Wings + + (What the Carpenter Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a cottage with a door. + Some folks can see it plain. + Look, you may catch a glint of light, + A sparkle through the pane, + Showing the place is brighter still + Within, though bright without. + There, at a cosy open fire + Strange babes are grouped about. + The children of the wind and tide— + The urchins of the sky, + Drying their wings from storms and things + So they again can fly. +</pre> +<pre> + VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a gong, hung in the wild, + Whose song the fays hold dear. + Of course you do not hear it, child. + It takes a FAIRY ear. + + The full moon is a splendid gong + That beats as night grows still. + It sounds above the evening song + Of dove or whippoorwill. +</pre> +<pre> + VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + (What Grandpa told the Children) +</pre> +<pre> + The moon? It is a griffin's egg, + Hatching to-morrow night. + And how the little boys will watch + With shouting and delight + To see him break the shell and stretch + And creep across the sky. + The boys will laugh. The little girls, + I fear, may hide and cry. + Yet gentle will the griffin be, + Most decorous and fat, + And walk up to the milky way + And lap it like a cat. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0051"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror +</h2> +<pre> + I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor +</pre> +<pre> + No man should stand before the moon + To make sweet song thereon, + With dandified importance, + His sense of humor gone. + + Nay, let us don the motley cap, + The jester's chastened mien, + If we would woo that looking-glass + And see what should be seen. + + O mirror on fair Heaven's wall, + We find there what we bring. + So, let us smile in honest part + And deck our souls and sing. + + Yea, by the chastened jest alone + Will ghosts and terrors pass, + And fays, or suchlike friendly things, + Throw kisses through the glass. +</pre> +<pre> + II. On the Garden-wall +</pre> +<pre> + Oh, once I walked a garden + In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass. + And many orange-trees grew there + In sand as white as glass. + The curving, wide wall-border + Was marble, like the snow. + I walked that wall a fairy-prince + And, pacing quaint and slow, + Beside me were my pages, + Two giant, friendly birds. + Half-swan they were, half peacock. + They spake in courtier-words. + Their inner wings a chariot, + Their outer wings for flight, + They lifted me from dreamland. + We bade those trees good-night. + Swiftly above the stars we rode. + I looked below me soon. + The white-walled garden I had ruled + Was one lone flower—the moon. +</pre> +<pre> + III. Written for a Musician +</pre> +<pre> + Hungry for music with a desperate hunger + I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town; + The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking, + Vulgar and pitiful—my heart bowed down— + Till I remembered duller hours made noble + By strangers clad in some surprising grace. + Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight + Appearing in some unexpected place + With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face. +</pre> +<pre> + IV. The Moon is a Painter +</pre> +<pre> + He coveted her portrait. + He toiled as she grew gay. + She loved to see him labor + In that devoted way. + + And in the end it pleased her, + But bowed him more with care. + Her rose-smile showed so plainly, + Her soul-smile was not there. + + That night he groped without a lamp + To find a cloak, a book, + And on the vexing portrait + By moonrise chanced to look. + + The color-scheme was out of key, + The maiden rose-smile faint, + But through the blessed darkness + She gleamed, his friendly saint. + + The comrade, white, immortal, + His bride, and more than bride— + The citizen, the sage of mind, + For whom he lived and died. +</pre> +<pre> + V. The Encyclopaedia +</pre> +<pre> + "If I could set the moon upon + This table," said my friend, + "Among the standard poets + And brochures without end, + And noble prints of old Japan, + How empty they would seem, + By that encyclopaedia + Of whim and glittering dream." +</pre> +<pre> + VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, + A wondrous water-feast. + If I could climb the ridge and drink + And give drink to my beast; + If I could drain that keg, the flies + Would not be biting so, + My burning feet be spry again, + My mule no longer slow. + And I could rise and dig for ore, + And reach my fatherland, + And not be food for ants and hawks + And perish in the sand. +</pre> +<pre> + VII. What the Coal-heaver Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's an open furnace door + Where all can see the blast, + We shovel in our blackest griefs, + Upon that grate are cast + Our aching burdens, loves and fears + And underneath them wait + Paper and tar and pitch and pine + Called strife and blood and hate. + + Out of it all there comes a flame, + A splendid widening light. + Sorrow is turned to mystery + And Death into delight. +</pre> +<pre> + VIII. What the Moon Saw +</pre> +<pre> + Two statesmen met by moonlight. + Their ease was partly feigned. + They glanced about the prairie. + Their faces were constrained. + In various ways aforetime + They had misled the state, + Yet did it so politely + Their henchmen thought them great. + They sat beneath a hedge and spake + No word, but had a smoke. + A satchel passed from hand to hand. + Next day, the deadlock broke. +</pre> +<pre> + IX. What Semiramis Said +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a steaming chalice + Of honey and venom-wine. + A little of it sipped by night + Makes the long hours divine. + But oh, my reckless lovers, + They drain the cup and wail, + Die at my feet with shaking limbs + And tender lips all pale. + Above them in the sky it bends + Empty and gray and dread. + To-morrow night 'tis full again, + Golden, and foaming red. +</pre> +<pre> + X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said +</pre> +<pre> + Where now the huts are empty, + Where never a camp-fire glows, + In an abandoned canyon, + A Gambler's Ghost arose. + He muttered there, "The moon's a sack + Of dust." His voice rose thin: + "I wish I knew the miner-man. + I'd play, and play to win. + In every game in Cripple-creek + Of old, when stakes were high, + I held my own. Now I would play + For that sack in the sky. + The sport would not be ended there. + 'Twould rather be begun. + I'd bet my moon against his stars, + And gamble for the sun." +</pre> +<pre> + XI. The Spice-tree +</pre> +<pre> + This is the song + The spice-tree sings: + "Hunger and fire, + Hunger and fire, + Sky-born Beauty— + Spice of desire," + Under the spice-tree + Watch and wait, + Burning maidens + And lads that mate. + + The spice-tree spreads + And its boughs come down + Shadowing village and farm and town. + And none can see + But the pure of heart + The great green leaves + And the boughs descending, + And hear the song that is never ending. + + The deep roots whisper, + The branches say:— + "Love to-morrow, + And love to-day, + And till Heaven's day, + And till Heaven's day." + + The moon is a bird's nest in its branches, + The moon is hung in its topmost spaces. + And there, to-night, two doves play house + While lovers watch with uplifted faces. + Two doves go home + To their nest, the moon. + It is woven of twigs of broken light, + With threads of scarlet and threads of gray + And a lining of down for silk delight. + To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves, + Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;— + And one is the kiss I took from you, + And one is the kiss you gave to me. +</pre> +<pre> + XII. The Scissors-grinder + + (What the Tramp Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The old man had his box and wheel + For grinding knives and shears. + No doubt his bell in village streets + Was joy to children's ears. + And I bethought me of my youth + When such men came around, + And times I asked them in, quite sure + The scissors should be ground. + The old man turned and spoke to me, + His face at last in view. + And then I thought those curious eyes + Were eyes that once I knew. + + "The moon is but an emery-wheel + To whet the sword of God," + He said. "And here beside my fire + I stretch upon the sod + Each night, and dream, and watch the stars + And watch the ghost-clouds go. + And see that sword of God in Heaven + A-waving to and fro. + I see that sword each century, friend. + It means the world-war comes + With all its bloody, wicked chiefs + And hate-inflaming drums. + Men talk of peace, but I have seen + That emery-wheel turn round. + The voice of Abel cries again + To God from out the ground. + The ditches must flow red, the plague + Go stark and screaming by + Each time that sword of God takes edge + Within the midnight sky. + And those that scorned their brothers here + And sowed a wind of shame + Will reap the whirlwind as of old + And face relentless flame." + + And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, + His face at last in view. + <i>And there beside the railroad bridge + I saw the wandering Jew</i>. +</pre> +<pre> + XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl +</pre> +<pre> + My lady in her white silk shawl + Is like a lily dim, + Within the twilight of the room + Enthroned and kind and prim. + + My lady! Pale gold is her hair. + Until she smiles her face + Is pale with far Hellenic moods, + With thoughts that find no place + + In our harsh village of the West + Wherein she lives of late, + She's distant as far-hidden stars, + And cold—(almost!)—as fate. + + But when she smiles she's here again + Rosy with comrade-cheer, + A Puritan Bacchante made + To laugh around the year. + + The merry gentle moon herself, + Heart-stirring too, like her, + Wakening wild and innocent love + In every worshipper. +</pre> +<pre> + XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn +</pre> +<pre> + "Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. + "This tailor-shop sings not at all. + Chant me a word of the twilight, + Of roses that mourn in the fall. + Bring me a song like hashish + That will comfort the stale and the sad, + For I would be mending my spirit, + Forgetting these days that are bad, + Forgetting companions too shallow, + Their quarrels and arguments thin, + Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:"— + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Bring me old wines," said Aladdin. + "I have been a starved pauper too long. + Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, + Serve them with fruit and with song:— + Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans + Digged from beneath the black seas:— + New-gathered dew from the heavens + Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees, + Cups from the angels' pale tables + That will make me both handsome and wise, + For I have beheld her, the princess, + Firelight and starlight her eyes. + Pauper I am, I would woo her. + And—let me drink wine, to begin, + Though the Koran expressly forbids it." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Plan me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON, + When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains, + Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon." + "Build me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That shall cause all young lovers to sigh, + The fullness of life and of beauty, + Peace beyond peace to the eye— + A palace of foam and of opal, + Pure moonlight without and within, + Where I may enthrone my sweet lady." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. +</pre> +<pre> + XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + (What the Mendicant Said) +</pre> +<pre> + The moon's a monk, unmated, + Who walks his cell, the sky. + His strength is that of heaven-vowed men + Who all life's flames defy. + + They turn to stars or shadows, + They go like snow or dew— + Leaving behind no sorrow— + Only the arching blue. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0052"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Fifth Section +</h2> +<h3> + War. September 1, 1914 Intended to be Read Aloud +</h3> +<a name="2H_4_0053"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight +</h2> +<pre> + (In Springfield, Illinois) +</pre> +<pre> + It is portentous, and a thing of state + That here at midnight, in our little town + A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, + Near the old court-house pacing up and down, + + Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards + He lingers where his children used to play, + Or through the market, on the well-worn stones + He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. + + A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, + A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl + Make him the quaint great figure that men love, + The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. + + He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. + He is among us:—as in times before! + And we who toss and lie awake for long + Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. + + His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. + Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? + Too many peasants fight, they know not why, + Too many homesteads in black terror weep. + + The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. + He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. + He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now + The bitterness, the folly and the pain. + + He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn + Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free: + The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, + Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. + + It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, + That all his hours of travail here for men + Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace + That he may sleep upon his hill again? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0054"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + II. A Curse for Kings +</h2> +<pre> + A curse upon each king who leads his state, + No matter what his plea, to this foul game, + And may it end his wicked dynasty, + And may he die in exile and black shame. + + If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, + What punishment could Heaven devise for these + Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, + And turn their murderers loose on all the seas! + + Put back the clock of time a thousand years, + And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen, + A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, + Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene + + In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, + Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; + While Science towers above;—a witch, red-winged: + Science we looked to for the light of life. + + Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, + Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find + Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, + Each deadliest device against mankind. + + Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, + May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, + Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake, + And felon's stripes for medals and for braids. + + Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, + Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, + Who make the kind world but their game of cards, + Till millions die at turning of a hair. + + What punishment will Heaven devise for these + Who win by others' sweat and hardihood, + Who make men into stinking vultures' meat, + Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"? + + Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death + Should burn in utmost hell a million years! + —Mothers of men go on the destined wrack + To give them life, with anguish and with tears:— + + Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away? + Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, + And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: + These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings! + + All in the name of this or that grim flag, + No angel-flags in all the rag-array— + Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings + And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day! +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0055"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + III. Who Knows? +</h2> +<pre> + They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows? + They say one king is doddering and grey. + They say one king is slack and sick of mind, + A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play. + + Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place? + Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane? + Their place of maudlin, slavering conference + Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0056"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IV. To Buddha +</h2> +<pre> + Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, + Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. + And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, + Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes? + + Good comrade and philosopher and prince, + Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, + Dare they to move against your pride benign, + Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind? + +</pre> +<hr> +<pre> + But what can Europe say, when in your name + The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red? + And what can Europe say, when with a laugh + Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead? +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0057"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + V. The Unpardonable Sin +</h2> +<pre> + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:— + To speak of bloody power as right divine, + And call on God to guard each vile chief's house, + And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:— + + To go forth killing in White Mercy's name, + Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, + Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, + Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains. + + In any Church's name, to sack fair towns, + And turn each home into a screaming sty, + To make the little children fugitive, + And have their mothers for a quick death cry,— + + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: + This is the sin no purging can atone:— + To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:— + To set the face, and make the heart a stone. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0058"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VI. Above the Battle's Front +</h2> +<pre> + St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John— + Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, + Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, + And walked upon the water and the land, + + If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings + For sober conclave, ere their battle great, + Would they for one deep instant then discern + Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate? + + If you should float above the battle's front, + Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay, + Bearing a fifth within your regal train, + The Son of David in his strange array— + + If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven, + Would they have hearts to see or understand? + ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know, + Thorn-crowned above the water and the land. +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0059"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings +</h2> +<pre> + Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, + On sunny days have found you weak and still, + Though I have often held your girlish head + Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill:— + + Under the blessing of your Psyche-wings + I hide to-night like one small broken bird, + So soothed I half-forget the world gone mad:— + And all the winds of war are now unheard. + + My heaven-doubting pennons feel your hands + With touch most delicate so circling round, + That for an hour I dream that God is good. + And in your shadow, Mercy's ways abound. + + I thought myself the guard of your frail state, + And yet I come to-night a helpless guest, + Hiding beneath your giant Psyche-wings, + Against the pallor of your wondrous breast. +</pre> +<p> +[End of original text.] +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0060"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + Biographical Note: +</h2> +<h3> + Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931): +</h3> +<p> +(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel'). +</p> +<p> +"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known +poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William +Booth Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914). +</p> +<p> +Lindsay himself considered his drawings and his prose writings to be as +important as his verse, all coming together to form a whole. His +"Collected Poems" (1925) gives a good selection. +</p> +<hr> +<p> +From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917): +</p> +<p> +"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, +Ohio. He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, +Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time +after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical +relation to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, +Illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "The +Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, +pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his +own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, taking as scrip for the +journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", made a pilgrimage on foot +through several Western States going as far afield as New Mexico. The +story of this journey is given in his volume, "Adventures while +Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention +in poetry by "General William Booth Enters into Heaven", a poem which +became the title of his first volume, in 1913. His second volume was +"The Congo", published in 1914. He is attempting to restore to poetry +its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly +from the selections contained in this anthology." +</p> + + +<br><br> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 1021-h.htm or 1021-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1021/ + +Produced by Alan R. 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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: The Congo and Other Poems + +Author: Vachel Lindsay + +Posting Date: July 23, 2008 [EBook #1021] +Release Date: August, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS + +By Vachel Lindsay + +[Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Illinois Artist. 1879-1931.] + + +With an introduction by Harriet Monroe Editor of "Poetry" + +[Notes: The 'stage-directions' given in "The Congo" and those +poems which are meant to be read aloud, are traditionally printed to the +right side of the first line it refers to. This is possible, but +impracticable, to imitate in a simple ASCII text. Therefore these +'stage-directions' are given on the line BEFORE the first line they +refer to, and are furthermore indented 20 spaces and enclosed by #s to +keep it clear to the reader which parts are text and which parts +directions.] + +[This electronic text was transcribed from a reprint of the original +edition, which was first published in New York, in September, 1914. Due +to a great deal of irregularity between titles in the table of contents +and in the text of the original, there are some slight differences from +the original in these matters--with the more complete titles replacing +cropped ones. In one case they are different enough that both are +given, and "Twenty Poems in which...." was originally "Twenty Moon +Poems" in the table of contents--the odd thing about both these titles +is that there are actually twenty-TWO moon poems.] + + + + + +THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS + + + + +Introduction. By Harriet Monroe + + + +When 'Poetry, A Magazine of Verse', was first published in Chicago in +the autumn of 1912, an Illinois poet, Vachel Lindsay, was, quite +appropriately, one of its first discoveries. It may be not quite without +significance that the issue of January, 1913, which led off with +'General William Booth Enters into Heaven', immediately followed the +number in which the great poet of Bengal, Rabindra Nath Tagore, was +first presented to the American public, and that these two antipodal +poets soon appeared in person among the earliest visitors to the editor. +For the coming together of East and West may prove to be the great event +of the approaching era, and if the poetry of the now famous Bengali +laureate garners the richest wisdom and highest spirituality of his +ancient race, so one may venture to believe that the young Illinois +troubadour brings from Lincoln's city an authentic strain of the lyric +message of this newer world. + +It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to mention Mr. Lindsay's loyalty to the +people of his place and hour, or the training in sympathy with their +aims and ideals which he has achieved through vagabondish wanderings in +the Middle West. And we may permit time to decide how far he expresses +their emotion. But it may be opportune to emphasize his plea for poetry +as a song art, an art appealing to the ear rather than the eye. The +first section of this volume is especially an effort to restore poetry +to its proper place--the audience-chamber, and take it out of the +library, the closet. In the library it has become, so far as the people +are concerned, almost a lost art, and perhaps it can be restored to the +people only through a renewal of its appeal to the ear. + +I am tempted to quote from Mr. Lindsay's explanatory note which +accompanied three of these poems when they were first printed in +'Poetry'. He said: + +"Mr. Yeats asked me recently in Chicago, 'What are we going to do to +restore the primitive singing of poetry?' I find what Mr. Yeats means +by 'the primitive singing of poetry' in Professor Edward Bliss Reed's +new volume on 'The English Lyric'. He says in his chapter on the +definition of the lyric: 'With the Greeks "song" was an all-embracing +term. It included the crooning of the nurse to the child... the +half-sung chant of the mower or sailor... the formal ode sung by the poet. +In all Greek lyrics, even in the choral odes, music was the handmaid of +verse.... The poet himself composed the accompaniment. Euripides was +censured because Iophon had assisted him in the musical setting of some +of his dramas.' Here is pictured a type of Greek work which survives in +American vaudeville, where every line may be two-thirds spoken and +one-third sung, the entire rendering, musical and elocutionary, depending +upon the improvising power and sure instinct of the performer. + +"I respectfully submit these poems as experiments in which I endeavor to +carry this vaudeville form back towards the old Greek precedent of the +half-chanted lyric. In this case the one-third of music must be added +by the instinct of the reader. He must be Iophon. And he can easily be +Iophon if he brings to bear upon the piece what might be called the +Higher Vaudeville imagination.... + +"Big general contrasts between the main sections should be the rule of +the first attempts at improvising. It is the hope of the writer that +after two or three readings each line will suggest its own separate +touch of melody to the reader who has become accustomed to the cadences. +Let him read what he likes read, and sing what he likes sung." + +It was during this same visit in Chicago, at 'Poetry's' banquet on the +evening of March first, 1914, that Mr. Yeats honored Mr. Lindsay by +addressing his after-dinner talk primarily to him as "a fellow +craftsman", and by saying of 'General Booth': + +"This poem is stripped bare of ornament; it has an earnest simplicity, a +strange beauty, and you know Bacon said, 'There is no excellent beauty +without strangeness.'" + +This recognition from the distinguished Irish poet tempts me to hint at +the cosmopolitan aspects of such racily local art as Mr. Lindsay's. The +subject is too large for a merely introductory word, but the reader may +be invited to reflect upon it. If Mr. Lindsay's poetry should cross the +ocean, it would not be the first time that our most indigenous art has +reacted upon the art of older nations. Besides Poe--who, though +indigenous in ways too subtle for brief analysis, yet passed all +frontiers in his swift, sad flight--the two American artists of widest +influence, Whitman and Whistler, have been intensely American in +temperament and in the special spiritual quality of their art. + +If Whistler was the first great artist to accept the modern message in +Oriental art, if Whitman was the first great modern poet to discard the +limitations of conventional form: if both were more free, more +individual, than their contemporaries, this was the expression of their +Americanism, which may perhaps be defined as a spiritual independence +and love of adventure inherited from the pioneers. Foreign artists are +usually the first to recognize this new tang; one detects the influence +of the great dead poet and dead painter in all modern art which looks +forward instead of back; and their countrymen, our own contemporary +poets and painters, often express indirectly, through French influences, +a reaction which they are reluctant to confess directly. + +A lighter phase of this foreign enthusiasm for the American tang is +confessed by Signor Marinetti, the Italian "futurist", when in his +article on 'Futurism and the Theatre', in 'The Mask', he urges the +revolutionary value of "American eccentrics", citing the fundamental +primitive quality in their vaudeville art. This may be another statement +of Mr. Lindsay's plea for a closer relation between the poet and his +audience, for a return to the healthier open-air conditions, and +immediate personal contacts, in the art of the Greeks and of primitive +nations. Such conditions and contacts may still be found, if the world +only knew it, in the wonderful song-dances of the Hopis and others of +our aboriginal tribes. They may be found, also, in a measure, in the +quick response between artist and audience in modern vaudeville. They +are destined to a wider and higher influence; in fact, the development +of that influence, the return to primitive sympathies between artist and +audience, which may make possible once more the assertion of primitive +creative power, is recognized as the immediate movement in modern art. +It is a movement strong enough to persist in spite of extravagances and +absurdities; strong enough, it may be hoped, to fulfil its purpose and +revitalize the world. + +It is because Mr. Lindsay's poetry seems to be definitely in that +movement that it is, I think, important. + +Harriet Monroe. + + + + + +Table of Contents + + + + Introduction. By Harriet Monroe + + + First Section + + Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. + + The Congo + The Santa Fe Trail + The Firemen's Ball + The Master of the Dance + The Mysterious Cat + A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten + Yankee Doodle + The Black Hawk War of the Artists + The Jingo and the Minstrel + I Heard Immanuel Singing + + + Second Section + + Incense + + An Argument + A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign + In Memory of a Child + Galahad, Knight Who Perished + The Leaden-eyed + An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie + The Hearth Eternal + The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit + By the Spring, at Sunset + I Went down into the Desert + Love and Law + The Perfect Marriage + Darling Daughter of Babylon + The Amaranth + The Alchemist's Petition + Two Easter Stanzas + The Traveller-heart + The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son + + + Third Section + + A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" + + This Section is a Christmas Tree + The Sun Says his Prayers + Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) + I. The Lion + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down + V. Parvenu + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly + VII. Crickets on a Strike + How a Little Girl Danced + In Praise of Songs that Die + Factory Windows are always Broken + To Mary Pickford + Blanche Sweet + Sunshine + An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic + When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich + Rhymes for Gloriana + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair + + + Fourth Section + + Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech + + Once More--To Gloriana + + First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children + I. Euclid + II. The Haughty Snail-king + III. What the Rattlesnake Said + IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + V. Drying their Wings + VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said + VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror + I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor + II. On the Garden-wall + III. Written for a Musician + IV. The Moon is a Painter + V. The Encyclopaedia + VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said + VII. What the Coal-heaver Said + VIII. What the Moon Saw + IX. What Semiramis Said + X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said + XI. The Spice-tree + XII. The Scissors-grinder + XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl + XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn + XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + + Fifth Section + War. September 1, 1914 + Intended to be Read Aloud + + I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight + II. A Curse for Kings + III. Who Knows? + IV. To Buddha + V. The Unpardonable Sin + VI. Above the Battle's Front + VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings + + + + + +First Section ~~ Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. + + + + + +The Congo + +A Study of the Negro Race + + + + I. Their Basic Savagery + + Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, + Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, + # A deep rolling bass. # + Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, + Pounded on the table, + Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, + Hard as they were able, + Boom, boom, BOOM, + With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. + I could not turn from their revel in derision. + # More deliberate. Solemnly chanted. # + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + Then along that riverbank + A thousand miles + Tattooed cannibals danced in files; + Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song + # A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket. # + And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. + And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, + "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, + "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, + Harry the uplands, + Steal all the cattle, + Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, + Bing. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + # With a philosophic pause. # + A roaring, epic, rag-time tune + From the mouth of the Congo + To the Mountains of the Moon. + Death is an Elephant, + # Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre. # + Torch-eyed and horrible, + Foam-flanked and terrible. + BOOM, steal the pygmies, + BOOM, kill the Arabs, + BOOM, kill the white men, + HOO, HOO, HOO. + # Like the wind in the chimney. # + Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost + Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. + Hear how the demons chuckle and yell + Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. + Listen to the creepy proclamation, + Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, + Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, + Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:-- + "Be careful what you do, + # All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. + Light accents very light. Last line whispered. # + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." + + + II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits + + # Rather shrill and high. # + Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call + Danced the juba in their gambling-hall + And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, + And guyed the policemen and laughed them down + With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + # Read exactly as in first section. # + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, + CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + # Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. + Keep as light-footed as possible. # + A negro fairyland swung into view, + A minstrel river + Where dreams come true. + The ebony palace soared on high + Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. + The inlaid porches and casements shone + With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. + And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore + At the baboon butler in the agate door, + And the well-known tunes of the parrot band + That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. + + # With pomposity. # + A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came + Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, + Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust + And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. + And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call + And danced the juba from wall to wall. + # With a great deliberation and ghostliness. # + But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng + With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:-- + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."... + # With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp. # + Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, + Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, + Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, + And tall silk hats that were red as wine. + # With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm. # + And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, + Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, + Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, + And bells on their ankles and little black feet. + And the couples railed at the chant and the frown + Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. + (O rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile.) + + The cake-walk royalty then began + To walk for a cake that was tall as a man + To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + # With a touch of negro dialect, + and as rapidly as possible toward the end. # + While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, + And sang with the scalawags prancing there:-- + "Walk with care, walk with care, + Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, + And all of the other + Gods of the Congo, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Beware, beware, walk with care, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, + Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, + BOOM." + # Slow philosophic calm. # + Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while + That made those glowering witch-men smile. + + + III. The Hope of their Religion + + # Heavy bass. With a literal imitation + of camp-meeting racket, and trance. # + A good old negro in the slums of the town + Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. + Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, + His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. + Beat on the Bible till he wore it out + Starting the jubilee revival shout. + And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, + And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, + And they all repented, a thousand strong + From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong + And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room + With "glory, glory, glory," + And "Boom, boom, BOOM." + # Exactly as in the first section. + Begin with terror and power, end with joy. # + THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK + CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil + And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. + In bright white steele they were seated round + And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. + And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high + Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:-- + # Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand + harps and voices". # + "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; + Never again will he hoo-doo you, + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + # With growing deliberation and joy. # + Then along that river, a thousand miles + The vine-snared trees fell down in files. + Pioneer angels cleared the way + For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, + For sacred capitals, for temples clean. + Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. + # In a rather high key--as delicately as possible. # + There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed + A million boats of the angels sailed + With oars of silver, and prows of blue + And silken pennants that the sun shone through. + 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation. + Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation + And on through the backwoods clearing flew:-- + # To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices". # + "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. + Never again will he hoo-doo you. + Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, + And only the vulture dared again + By the far, lone mountains of the moon + To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:-- + # Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper. # + "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, + Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. + Mumbo... Jumbo... will... hoo-doo... you." + + + +This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion +in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death of +Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ who +perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo. See "A Master +Builder on the Congo", by Andrew F. Hensey, published by Fleming H. +Revell. + + + + +The Santa Fe Trail + + (A Humoresque) + + +I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He +answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, lark, or +thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane." + + + I. In which a Racing Auto comes from the East + + # To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune. # + This is the order of the music of the morning:-- + First, from the far East comes but a crooning. + The crooning turns to a sunrise singing. + Hark to the _calm_-horn, _balm_-horn, _psalm_-horn. + Hark to the _faint_-horn, _quaint_-horn, _saint_-horn.... + + # To be sung or read with great speed. # + Hark to the _pace_-horn, _chase_-horn, _race_-horn. + And the holy veil of the dawn has gone. + Swiftly the brazen car comes on. + It burns in the East as the sunrise burns. + I see great flashes where the far trail turns. + Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons. + It drinks gasoline from big red flagons. + Butting through the delicate mists of the morning, + It comes like lightning, goes past roaring. + It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing, + Dodge the cyclones, + Count the milestones, + On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills-- + Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills.... + # To be read or sung in a rolling bass, + with some deliberation. # + Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, + Ho for the _gay_-horn, _bark_-horn, _bay_-horn. + _Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas, + A million men have found you before us._ + + + II. In which Many Autos pass Westward + + # In an even, deliberate, narrative manner. # + I want live things in their pride to remain. + I will not kill one grasshopper vain + Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. + I let him out, give him one chance more. + Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, + Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. + + I am a tramp by the long trail's border, + Given to squalor, rags and disorder. + I nap and amble and yawn and look, + Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book, + Recite to the children, explore at my ease, + Work when I work, beg when I please, + Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare + To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare, + And get me a place to sleep in the hay + At the end of a live-and-let-live day. + + I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds + A whisper and a feasting, all one needs: + The whisper of the strawberries, white and red + Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead. + + But I would not walk all alone till I die + Without some life-drunk horns going by. + Up round this apple-earth they come + Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:-- + Cars in a plain realistic row. + And fair dreams fade + When the raw horns blow. + + On each snapping pennant + A big black name:-- + The careering city + Whence each car came. + # Like a train-caller in a Union Depot. # + They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah, + Tallahassee and Texarkana. + They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, + They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee. + Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston, + Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin. + Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo. + Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo. + Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi, + Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami. + Ho for Kansas, land that restores us + When houses choke us, and great books bore us! + While I watch the highroad + And look at the sky, + While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur + Roll their legions without rain + Over the blistering Kansas plain-- + While I sit by the milestone + And watch the sky, + The United States + Goes by. + + # To be given very harshly, + with a snapping explosiveness. # + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. + Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. + Way down the road, trilling like a toad, + Here comes the _dice_-horn, here comes the _vice_-horn, + Here comes the _snarl_-horn, _brawl_-horn, _lewd_-horn, + Followed by the _prude_-horn, bleak and squeaking:-- + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + Here comes the _hod_-horn, _plod_-horn, _sod_-horn, + Nevermore-to-_roam_-horn, _loam_-horn, _home_-horn. + (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + # To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper. # + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:-- + "Love and life, + Eternal youth-- + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." + # Louder and louder, faster and faster. # + WHILE SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD, + DRIVEN AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL-FIEND'S OX-GOAD, + SCREAMING TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST, + CARRY OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST, + HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST. + THE HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS, + THE SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS. + # In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation. # + And then, in an instant, + Ye modern men, + Behold the procession once again, + # With a snapping explosiveness. # + Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, + Listen to the _wise_-horn, desperate-to-_advise_-horn, + Listen to the _fast_-horn, _kill_-horn, _blast_-horn.... + # To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper. # + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns:-- + Love and life, + Eternal youth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth. + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + # To be brawled in the beginning with a + snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant. # + The mufflers open on a score of cars + With wonderful thunder, + CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, + CRACK-CRACK-CRACK,... + Listen to the gold-horn... + Old-horn... + Cold-horn... + And all of the tunes, till the night comes down + On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town. + # To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune + as the first five lines. # + Then far in the west, as in the beginning, + Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating, + Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn, + Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.... + + # This section beginning sonorously, + ending in a languorous whisper. # + They are hunting the goals that they understand:-- + San Francisco and the brown sea-sand. + My goal is the mystery the beggars win. + I am caught in the web the night-winds spin. + The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me. + I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree. + And now I hear, as I sit all alone + In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone, + The souls of the tall corn gathering round + And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground. + Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells. + Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells. + Listen to the whistling flutes without price + Of myriad prophets out of paradise. + Harken to the wonder + That the night-air carries.... + Listen... to... the... whisper... + Of... the... prairie... fairies + Singing o'er the fairy plain:-- + # To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song-- + but very slowly. # + "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + Love and glory, + Stars and rain, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet...." + + + + +The Firemen's Ball + + + + Section One + + "Give the engines room, + Give the engines room." + Louder, faster + The little band-master + Whips up the fluting, + Hurries up the tooting. + He thinks that he stands, + # To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass + of fire-engines pumping. # + The reins in his hands, + In the fire-chief's place + In the night alarm chase. + The cymbals whang, + The kettledrums bang:-- + # In this passage the reading or chanting + is shriller and higher. # + "Clear the street, + Clear the street, + Clear the street--Boom, boom. + In the evening gloom, + In the evening gloom, + Give the engines room, + Give the engines room, + Lest souls be trapped + In a terrible tomb." + The sparks and the pine-brands + Whirl on high + From the black and reeking alleys + To the wide red sky. + Hear the hot glass crashing, + Hear the stone steps hissing. + Coal black streams + Down the gutters pour. + There are cries for help + From a far fifth floor. + For a longer ladder + Hear the fire-chief call. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + # To be read or chanted in a heavy bass. # + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Faster, faster + The red flames come. + "Hum grum," say the engines, + "Hum grum grum." + # Shriller and higher. # + "Buzz, buzz," + Says the crowd. + "See, see," + Calls the crowd. + "Look out," + Yelps the crowd + And the high walls fall:-- + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + Listen to the music + Of the firemen's ball. + # Heavy bass. # + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of doom," + Say the ding-dong doom-bells. + Whangaranga, whangaranga, + Whang, whang, whang, + Clang, clang, clangaranga, + # Bass, much slower. # + Clang, clang, clang. + Clang--a--ranga-- + Clang--a--ranga-- + Clang, + Clang, + Clang. + Listen--to--the--music-- + Of the firemen's ball-- + + + Section Two + + "Many's the heart that's breaking + If we could read them all + After the ball is over." (An old song.) + + + # To be read or sung slowly and softly, + in the manner of lustful, insinuating music. # + Scornfully, gaily + The bandmaster sways, + Changing the strain + That the wild band plays. + With a red and royal intoxication, + A tangle of sounds + And a syncopation, + Sweeping and bending + From side to side, + Master of dreams, + With a peacock pride. + A lord of the delicate flowers of delight + He drives compunction + Back through the night. + Dreams he's a soldier + Plumed and spurred, + And valiant lads + Arise at his word, + Flaying the sober + Thoughts he hates, + Driving them back + From the dream-town gates. + How can the languorous + Dancers know + The red dreams come + # To be read or chanted slowly and softly + in the manner of lustful insinuating music. # + When the good dreams go? + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells, + "NIGHT + Of love," + Call the silver joy-bells. + "Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + Sing low, now, violins, + Sing, sing low, + Blow gently, wood-wind, + Mellow and slow. + Like midnight poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + Their eyes flash power, + Their lips are dumb. + Faster and faster + Their pulses come, + Though softer now + The drum-beats fall. + Honey and wine, + Honey and wine. + 'Tis the firemen's ball, + 'Tis the firemen's ball. + + # With a climax of whispered mourning. # + "I am slain," + Cries true-love + There in the shadow. + "And I die," + Cries true-love, + There laid low. + "When the fire-dreams come, + The wise dreams go." + # Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in + a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. + Then gradually musical and sonorous. # + BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED + BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER. + And now great gongs whang, + Sharper, faster, + And kettledrums rattle + And hide the shame + With a swish and a swirk + In dead love's name. + Red and crimson + And scarlet and rose + Magical poppies + The sweethearts bloom. + The scarlet stays + When the rose-flush goes, + And love lies low + In a marble tomb. + "'Tis the + NIGHT + Of doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + "NIGHT + Of Doom," + Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + # Sharply interrupting in a very high key. # + Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. + "'Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year." + # Heavy bass. # + CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG. + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... A... RANGA... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S BALL... + LISTEN... TO... THE... MUSIC... + OF... THE... FIREMEN'S... BALL.... + + + Section Three + +In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed +before the reader. + +(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: "There Buddha thus addressed +his disciples: 'Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is +it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, +with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with +the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering +and despair.... A disciple,... becoming weary of all that, +divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.'") + + + # To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service. # + I once knew a teacher, + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the young men + "Wine is a fire." + Who said to the merchants:-- + "Gold is a flame + That sears and tortures + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire + Who said to the soldiers, + "Hate is a fire." + Who said to the statesmen:-- + "Power is a flame + That flays and blisters + If you play at the game." + I once knew a teacher + Who turned from desire, + Who said to the lordly, + + "Pride is a fire." + Who thus warned the revellers:-- + "Life is a flame. + Be cold as the dew + Would you win at the game + With hearts like the stars, + With hearts like the stars." + # Interrupting very loudly for the last time. # + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE, + SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE. + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + Clear the streets, + BOOM, BOOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, + LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED + IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. + SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE + TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:-- + "THERE GOES THE ALARM, + THERE GOES THE ALARM. + THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, + THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, + AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER'S IRON ARM." + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... CLANG.... + CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA.... + CLANG... CLANG... _CLANG_.... + + + + +The Master of the Dance + + + +A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and +improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher. + + + I + + A master deep-eyed + Ere his manhood was ripe, + He sang like a thrush, + He could play any pipe. + So dull in the school + That he scarcely could spell, + He read but a bit, + And he figured not well. + A bare-footed fool, + Shod only with grace; + Long hair streaming down + Round a wind-hardened face; + He smiled like a girl, + Or like clear winter skies, + A virginal light + Making stars of his eyes. + In swiftness and poise, + A proud child of the deer, + A white fawn he was, + Yet a fawn without fear. + No youth thought him vain, + Or made mock of his hair, + Or laughed when his ways + Were most curiously fair. + A mastiff at fight, + He could strike to the earth + The envious one + Who would challenge his worth. + However we bowed + To the schoolmaster mild, + Our spirits went out + To the fawn-footed child. + His beckoning led + Our troop to the brush. + We found nothing there + But a wind and a hush. + He sat by a stone + And he looked on the ground, + As if in the weeds + There was something profound. + His pipe seemed to neigh, + Then to bleat like a sheep, + Then sound like a stream + Or a waterfall deep. + It whispered strange tales, + Human words it spoke not. + Told fair things to come, + And our marvellous lot + If now with fawn-steps + Unshod we advanced + To the midst of the grove + And in reverence danced. + We obeyed as he piped + Soft grass to young feet, + Was a medicine mighty, + A remedy meet. + Our thin blood awoke, + It grew dizzy and wild, + Though scarcely a word + Moved the lips of a child. + Our dance gave allegiance, + It set us apart, + We tripped a strange measure, + Uplifted of heart. + + + II + + We thought to be proud + Of our fawn everywhere. + We could hardly see how + Simple books were a care. + No rule of the school + This strange student could tame. + He was banished one day, + While we quivered with shame. + He piped back our love + On a moon-silvered night, + Enticed us once more + To the place of delight. + A greeting he sang + And it made our blood beat, + It tramped upon custom + And mocked at defeat. + He builded a fire + And we tripped in a ring, + The embers our books + And the fawn our good king. + And now we approached + All the mysteries rare + That shadowed his eyelids + And blew through his hair. + That spell now was peace + The deep strength of the trees, + The children of nature + We clambered her knees. + Our breath and our moods + Were in tune with her own, + Tremendous her presence, + Eternal her throne. + The ostracized child + Our white foreheads kissed, + Our bodies and souls + Became lighter than mist. + Sweet dresses like snow + Our small lady-loves wore, + Like moonlight the thoughts + That our bosoms upbore. + Like a lily the touch + Of each cold little hand. + The loves of the stars + We could now understand. + O quivering air! + O the crystalline night! + O pauses of awe + And the faces swan-white! + O ferns in the dusk! + O forest-shrined hour! + O earth that sent upward + The thrill and the power, + To lift us like leaves, + A delirious whirl, + The masterful boy + And the delicate girl! + What child that strange night-time + Can ever forget? + His fealty due + And his infinite debt + To the folly divine, + To the exquisite rule + Of the perilous master, + The fawn-footed fool? + + + III + + Now soldiers we seem, + And night brings a new thing, + A terrible ire, + As of thunder awing. + A warrior power, + That old chivalry stirred, + When knights took up arms, + As the maidens gave word. + THE END OF OUR WAR, + WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD. + WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT + BUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD! + _Near, nearer that war, + And that ecstasy comes, + We hear the trees beating + Invisible drums. + The fields of the night + Are starlit above, + Our girls are white torches + Of conquest and love. + No nerve without will, + And no breast without breath, + We whirl with the planets + That never know death!_ + + + + +The Mysterious Cat + + + +A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted +by George Mather Richards. + + + I saw a proud, mysterious cat, + I saw a proud, mysterious cat + Too proud to catch a mouse or rat-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + But catnip she would eat, and purr, + But catnip she would eat, and purr. + And goldfish she did much prefer-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + I saw a cat--'twas but a dream, + I saw a cat--'twas but a dream + Who scorned the slave that brought her cream-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + Unless the slave were dressed in style, + Unless the slave were dressed in style + And knelt before her all the while-- + Mew, mew, mew. + + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Did you ever hear of a thing like that? + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. + Mew... mew... mew. + + + + +A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten + + + +To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken +in a snappy, matter-of-fact way. + + + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + Here lies a kitten good, who kept + A kitten's proper place. + He stole no pantry eatables, + Nor scratched the baby's face. + _He let the alley-cats alone_. + He had no yowling vice. + His shirt was always laundried well, + He freed the house of mice. + Until his death he had not caused + His little mistress tears, + He wore his ribbon prettily, + _He washed behind his ears_. + Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + + + + +Yankee Doodle + + + +This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural +painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a +slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an +entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday. + + + Dawn this morning burned all red + Watching them in wonder. + There I saw our spangled flag + Divide the clouds asunder. + Then there followed Washington. + Ah, he rode from glory, + Cold and mighty as his name + And stern as Freedom's story. + Unsubdued by burning dawn + Led his continentals. + Vast they were, and strange to see + In gray old regimentals:-- + Marching still with bleeding feet, + Bleeding feet and jesting-- + Marching from the judgment throne + With energy unresting. + How their merry quickstep played-- + Silver, sharp, sonorous, + Piercing through with prophecy + The demons' rumbling chorus-- + Behold the ancient powers of sin + And slavery before them!-- + Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, + The pit-black clouds hung o'er them. + Plagues that rose to blast the day + Fiend and tiger faces, + Monsters plotting bloodshed for + The patient toiling races. + Round the dawn their cannon raged, + Hurling bolts of thunder, + Yet before our spangled flag + Their host was cut asunder. + Like a mist they fled away.... + Ended wrath and roaring. + Still our restless soldier-host + From East to West went pouring. + + High beside the sun of noon + They bore our banner splendid. + All its days of stain and shame + And heaviness were ended. + Men were swelling now the throng + From great and lowly station-- + Valiant citizens to-day + Of every tribe and nation. + Not till night their rear-guard came, + Down the west went marching, + And left behind the sunset-rays + In beauty overarching. + War-god banners lead us still, + Rob, enslave and harry + Let us rather choose to-day + The flag the angels carry-- + Flag we love, but brighter far-- + Soul of it made splendid: + Let its days of stain and shame + And heaviness be ended. + Let its fifes fill all the sky, + Redeemed souls marching after, + Hills and mountains shake with song, + While seas roll on in laughter. + + + + +The Black Hawk War of the Artists + +Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois + + + +To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry. + + + Hawk of the Rocks, + Yours is our cause to-day. + Watching your foes + Here in our war array, + Young men we stand, + Wolves of the West at bay. + _Power, power for war + Comes from these trees divine; + Power from the boughs, + Boughs where the dew-beads shine, + Power from the cones-- + Yea, from the breath of the pine!_ + + Power to restore + All that the white hand mars. + See the dead east + Crushed with the iron cars-- + Chimneys black + Blinding the sun and stars! + + Hawk of the pines, + Hawk of the plain-winds fleet, + You shall be king + There in the iron street, + Factory and forge + Trodden beneath your feet. + + There will proud trees + Grow as they grow by streams. + There will proud thoughts + Walk as in warrior dreams. + There will proud deeds + Bloom as when battle gleams! + + Warriors of Art, + We will hold council there, + Hewing in stone + Things to the trapper fair, + Painting the gray + Veils that the spring moons wear, + This our revenge, + This one tremendous change: + Making new towns, + Lit with a star-fire strange, + Wild as the dawn + Gilding the bison-range. + + All the young men + Chanting your cause that day, + Red-men, new-made + Out of the Saxon clay, + Strong and redeemed, + Bold in your war-array! + + + + +The Jingo and the Minstrel + +An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese +People + + + +Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty: Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of +all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her +greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven +Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most +beautiful mountain. + + + # The minstrel speaks. # + "Now do you know of Avalon + That sailors call Japan? + She holds as rare a chivalry + As ever bled for man. + King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hill + Where Iyeyasu lies, + And there the broad Pendragon flag + In deathless splendor flies." + + # The jingo answers. # + _"Nay, minstrel, but the great ships come + From out the sunset sea. + We cannot greet the souls they bring + With welcome high and free. + How can the Nippon nondescripts + That weird and dreadful band + Be aught but what we find them here:-- + The blasters of the land?"_ + + # The minstrel replies. # + "First race, first men from anywhere + To face you, eye to eye. + For _that_ do you curse Avalon + And raise a hue and cry? + These toilers cannot kiss your hand, + Or fawn with hearts bowed down. + Be glad for them, and Avalon, + And Arthur's ghostly crown. + + "No doubt your guests, with sage debate + In grave things gentlemen + Will let your trade and farms alone + And turn them back again. + But why should brawling braggarts rise + With hasty words of shame + To drive them back like dogs and swine + Who in due honor came?" + + # The jingo answers. # + _"We cannot give them honor, sir. + We give them scorn for scorn. + And Rumor steals around the world + All white-skinned men to warn + Against this sleek silk-merchant here + And viler coolie-man + And wrath within the courts of war + Brews on against Japan!"_ + + # The minstrel replies. # + "Must Avalon, with hope forlorn, + Her back against the wall, + Have lived her brilliant life in vain + While ruder tribes take all? + Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts, + A ghost with spear and crown, + Behind the great Pendragon flag + And be again cut down? + + "Tho Europe's self shall move against + High Jimmu Tenno's throne + The Forty-seven Ronin Men + Will not be found alone. + For Percival and Bedivere + And Nogi side by side + Will stand,--with mourning Merlin there, + Tho all go down in pride. + + "But has the world the envious dream-- + Ah, such things cannot be,-- + To tear their fairy-land like silk + And toss it in the sea? + Must venom rob the future day + The ultimate world-man + Of rare Bushido, code of codes, + The fair heart of Japan? + + "Go, be the guest of Avalon. + Believe me, it lies there + Behind the mighty gray sea-wall + Where heathen bend in prayer: + Where peasants lift adoring eyes + To Fuji's crown of snow. + King Arthur's knights will be your hosts, + So cleanse your heart, and go. + + "And you will find but gardens sweet + Prepared beyond the seas, + And you will find but gentlefolk + Beneath the cherry-trees. + So walk you worthy of your Christ + Tho church bells do not sound, + And weave the bands of brotherhood + On Jimmu Tenno's ground." + + + + +I Heard Immanuel Singing + + + +(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his +heart in Heaven.) + +This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the +well-known tune:-- + + "Last night I lay a-sleeping, + There came a dream so fair, + I stood in Old Jerusalem + Beside the temple there,--" etc. + +Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily. It is here given to +suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it. + + + # To be sung. # + I heard Immanuel singing + Within his own good lands, + I saw him bend above his harp. + I watched his wandering hands + Lost amid the harp-strings; + Sweet, sweet I heard him play. + His wounds were altogether healed. + Old things had passed away. + + All things were new, but music. + The blood of David ran + Within the Son of David, + Our God, the Son of Man. + He was ruddy like a shepherd. + His bold young face, how fair. + Apollo of the silver bow + Had not such flowing hair. + + # To be read very softly, but in spirited response. # + I saw Immanuel singing + On a tree-girdled hill. + The glad remembering branches + Dimly echoed still + The grand new song proclaiming + The Lamb that had been slain. + New-built, the Holy City + Gleamed in the murmuring plain. + + The crowning hours were over. + The pageants all were past. + Within the many mansions + The hosts, grown still at last, + In homes of holy mystery + Slept long by crooning springs + Or waked to peaceful glory, + A universe of Kings. + + # To be sung. # + He left his people happy. + He wandered free to sigh + Alone in lowly friendship + With the green grass and the sky. + He murmured ancient music + His red heart burned to sing + Because his perfect conquest + Had grown a weary thing. + + No chant of gilded triumph-- + His lonely song was made + Of Art's deliberate freedom; + Of minor chords arrayed + In soft and shadowy colors + That once were radiant flowers:-- + The Rose of Sharon, bleeding + In Olive-shadowed bowers:-- + + And all the other roses + In the songs of East and West + Of love and war and worshipping, + And every shield and crest + Of thistle or of lotus + Or sacred lily wrought + In creeds and psalms and palaces + And temples of white thought:-- + + # To be read very softly, yet in spirited response. # + All these he sang, half-smiling + And weeping as he smiled, + Laughing, talking to his harp + As to a new-born child:-- + As though the arts forgotten + But bloomed to prophecy + These careless, fearless harp-strings, + New-crying in the sky. + # To be sung. # + "When this his hour of sorrow + For flowers and Arts of men + Has passed in ghostly music," + I asked my wild heart then-- + What will he sing to-morrow, + What wonder, all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? + What will he sing to-morrow + What wonder all his own + Alone, set free, rejoicing, + With a green hill for his throne? + + + + + +Second Section ~~ Incense + + + + + +An Argument + + + + I. The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias + + We find your soft Utopias as white + As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells, + O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are + How human breasts adore alarum bells. + You house us in a hive of prigs and saints + Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law. + I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore + Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. + Promise us all our share in Agincourt + Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death, + That future ant-hills will not be too good + For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. + Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-war + Man's deathless soul will hack and hew its way, + Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fate + Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. + Never a shallow jester any more! + Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. + Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise + And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain. + + + II. The Rhymer's Reply. Incense and Splendor + + Incense and Splendor haunt me as I go. + Though my good works have been, alas, too few, + Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me, + And future ages pass in tall review. + I see the years to come as armies vast, + Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. + MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born, + Flame-like to hover o'er the moil and grime, + Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone, + Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn-- + Laying new, precious pavements with a song, + Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. + I have seen lovers by those new-built walls + Clothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red. + Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love + Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. + Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers. + Passion was turned to civic strength that day-- + Piling the marbles, making fairer domes + With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. + I have seen priestesses of life go by + Gliding in samite through the incense-sea-- + Innocent children marching with them there, + Singing in flowered robes, "THE EARTH IS FREE": + While on the fair, deep-carved unfinished towers + Sentinels watched in armor, night and day-- + Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream-- + Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array! + + + + +A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign + + + + I look on the specious electrical light + Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, + Wickedly red or malignantly green + Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen. + Showing, while millions of souls hurry on, + The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn, + By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl, + Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl, + By maggoty motions in sickening line + Proclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine, + While there far above the steep cliffs of the street + The stars sing a message elusive and sweet. + + Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toil + His clumsy contraptions of coil upon coil + Till the thing he invents, in its use and its range, + Leads on to the marvellous CHANGE BEYOND CHANGE. + Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, + As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise. + And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, + Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. + The signs in the street and the signs in the skies + Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, + And Broadway make one with that marvellous stair + That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer. + + + + +In Memory of a Child + + + + The angels guide him now, + And watch his curly head, + And lead him in their games, + The little boy we led. + + He cannot come to harm, + He knows more than we know, + His light is brighter far + Than daytime here below. + + His path leads on and on, + Through pleasant lawns and flowers, + His brown eyes open wide + At grass more green than ours. + + With playmates like himself, + The shining boy will sing, + Exploring wondrous woods, + Sweet with eternal spring. + + + + +Galahad, Knight Who Perished + + A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and Interstate + Traffic in Young Girls + + + + Galahad... soldier that perished... ages ago, + Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow. + Galahad... knight who perished... awaken again, + Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men. + Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea, + We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free. + Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace, + Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face + Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land, + Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand. + Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red! + Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head! + Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower, + Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power. + Leave not life's fairest to perish--strangers to thee, + Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea! + + + + +The Leaden-eyed + + + + Let not young souls be smothered out before + They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride. + It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull, + Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed. + Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly, + Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap, + Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve, + Not that they die, but that they die like sheep. + + + + +An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie + + + + (In the Beginning) + + The sun is a huntress young, + The sun is a red, red joy, + The sun is an Indian girl, + Of the tribe of the Illinois. + + + (Mid-morning) + + The sun is a smouldering fire, + That creeps through the high gray plain, + And leaves not a bush of cloud + To blossom with flowers of rain. + + + (Noon) + + The sun is a wounded deer, + That treads pale grass in the skies, + Shaking his golden horns, + Flashing his baleful eyes. + + + (Sunset) + + The sun is an eagle old, + There in the windless west. + Atop of the spirit-cliffs + He builds him a crimson nest. + + + + +The Hearth Eternal + + + + There dwelt a widow learned and devout, + Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill. + Three sons she had, who went to find the world. + They promised to return, but wandered still. + The cities used them well, they won their way, + Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs. + Worn out with honors, and apart from her, + They died as many a self-made exile dies. + The mother had a hearth that would not quench, + The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom. + She said to us who came with wondering eyes-- + "This is a magic fire, a magic room." + The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on, + Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade, + And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light. + The neighbors peering in were half afraid. + Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came, + One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor. + They left a naked stone, but how it blazed! + And in the thunderstorm it flared the more. + And now it was that men were heard to say, + "This light should be beloved by all the town." + At last they made the slope a place of prayer, + Where marvellous thoughts from God came sweeping down. + They left their churches crumbling in the sun, + They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood; + One strength and valor only, one delight, + One laughing, brooding genius, great and good. + Now many gray-haired prodigals come home, + The place out-flames the cities of the land, + And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar, + With subtle eyes prepared to understand. + Higher and higher burns the eastern steep, + Showing the roads that march from every place, + A steady beacon o'er the weary leagues, + At dead of night it lights the traveller's face! + Thus has the widow conquered half the earth, + She who increased in faith, though all alone, + Who kept her empty house a magic place, + Has made the town a holy angel's throne. + + + + +The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit + + A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois + + + + Censers are swinging + Over the town; + Censers are swinging, + Look overhead! + Censers are swinging, + Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead! + + Censers, tremendous, + Gleam overhead. + Wind-harps are ringing, + Wind-harps unseen-- + Calling and calling:-- + "Wake from the dead. + Rise, little city, + Shine like a queen." + + Soldiers of Christ + For battle grow keen. + Heaven-sent winds + Haunt alley and lane. + Singing of life + In town-meadows green + After the toil + And battle and pain. + + Incense is pouring + Like the spring rain + Down on the mob + That moil through the street. + Blessed are they + Who behold it and gain + Power made more mighty + Thro' every defeat. + + Builders, toil on. + Make all complete. + Make Springfield wonderful. + Make her renown + Worthy this day, + Till, at God's feet, + Tranced, saved forever, + Waits the white town. + + Censers are swinging + Over the town, + Censers gigantic! + Look overhead! + Hear the winds singing:-- + "Heaven comes down. + City, dead city, + Awake from the dead." + + + + +By the Spring, at Sunset + + + + Sometimes we remember kisses, + Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: + Not always, but sometimes we remember + The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame + Of laughter and farewell. + + Beside the road + Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write, + Far from my city task, my lawful load. + + Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder, + Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night + Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder + Make bold my soul for some new wise delight. + + I write the day's event, and quench my drouth, + Pausing beside the spring with happy mind. + And now I feel those kisses on my mouth, + Hers most of all, one little friend most kind. + + + + +I Went down into the Desert + + + + I went down into the desert + To meet Elijah-- + Arisen from the dead. + I thought to find him in an echoing cave; + _For so my dream had said_. + + I went down into the desert + To meet John the Baptist. + I walked with feet that bled, + Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold. + _I spied foul fiends instead_. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + By him be comforted. + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + _And I met the devil in red_. + + I went down into the desert + To meet my God. + O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead! + I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground, + I see you there, half-buried in the sand. + I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, + _The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head_. + + + + +Love and Law + + + + True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance + In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain. + The workman lays wearily granite on granite, + And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain. + + Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, + Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone. + 'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion. + With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne. + + + + +The Perfect Marriage + + + + I + + I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: + Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone. + Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine-- + Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine: + Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none; + Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one). + + + II + + We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweet + No longer turning to the tryst with flying feet. + We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloom + And tenderness of passion's touch, and in its room + Will come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom. + Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life! + Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife. + Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come-- + It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum, + The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag-- + And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag. + + + III + + We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can-- + Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. + Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. + It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air-- + It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh-- + It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; + It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows + Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. + It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, + And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems + A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, + Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. + But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, + The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. + Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, + Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark-- + Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange + Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change. + + + IV + + Love?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time-- + Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime-- + And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes-- + Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise. + Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial-- + And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile-- + We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play, + Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay-- + As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild, + True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled! + + + + +Darling Daughter of Babylon + + + + Too soon you wearied of our tears. + And then you danced with spangled feet, + Leading Belshazzar's chattering court + A-tinkling through the shadowy street. + With mead they came, with chants of shame. + DESIRE'S red flag before them flew. + And Istar's music moved your mouth + And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you. + + Now you could drive the royal car; + Forget our Nation's breaking load: + Now you could sleep on silver beds-- + (Bitter and dark was our abode.) + And so, for many a night you laughed, + And knew not of my hopeless prayer, + Till God's own spirit whipped you forth + From Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair. + + Darling daughter of Babylon-- + Rose by the black Euphrates flood-- + Again your beauty grew more dear + Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. + We sang of Zion, good to know, + Where righteousness and peace abide.... + What of your second sacrilege + Carousing at Belshazzar's side? + + Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands-- + Your paint and henna washed away. + Your place, you said, was with the slaves + Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. + You were a pale and holy maid + Toil-bound with us. One night you said:-- + "Your God shall be my God until + I slumber with the patriarch dead." + + Pardon, daughter of Babylon, + If, on this night remembering + Our lover walks under the walls + Of hanging gardens in the spring, + A venom comes from broken hope, + From memories of your comrade-song + Until I curse your painted eyes + And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. + + + + +The Amaranth + + + + Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here.... + Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns + And the tremendous Amaranth descends + Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns? + + Does it not mean my God would have me say:-- + "Whether you will or no, O city young, + Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, + Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?" + + Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep. + Such things I see, and some of them shall come + Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray, + Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb. + Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise. + Naught can delay it. Though it may not be + Just as I dream, it comes at last I know + With streets like channels of an incense-sea. + + + + +The Alchemist's Petition + + + + Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life + My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep + Like a white statue dropped into the deep, + Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold, + And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold. + + But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in Hell + My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth-- + In such unquenched desires consumed his youth-- + Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall, + Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall-- + Amen. + + + + +Two Easter Stanzas + + + + I + + The Hope of the Resurrection + + + Though I have watched so many mourners weep + O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep-- + Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days + That passed and left me in the sun's bright rays. + Now though you go on smiling in the sun + Our love is slain, and love and you were one. + You are the first, you I have known so long, + Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong. + Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right + Amid the lilies and the candle-light. + I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear + We two may meet, confused and parted here. + Ah, when man's dearest dies, 'tis then he goes + To that old balm that heals the centuries' woes. + Then Christ's wild cry in all the streets is rife:-- + "I am the Resurrection and the Life." + + + + II + + We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not + + + Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning, + I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, + With golden hope my spirit still adorning. + + Our God who made you all so fair and sweet + Is three times gentle, and before his feet + Rejoicing I shall say:--"The girl you gave + Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save. + Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath + Is worth this rescue from the Second Death, + Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too + That scorned my graceless years and trophies few. + Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned + Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned. + We now as comrades through the stars may take + The rich and arduous quests I did forsake. + Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng + And quickly find that woman-soul so strong. + I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart + Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart, + A brooding secret mercy like your own + That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne. + + + + +The Traveller-heart + +(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible +Manner of Interment) + + + + I would be one with the dark, dark earth:-- + Follow the plough with a yokel tread. + I would be part of the Indian corn, + Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead. + + I would be one with the lavish earth, + Eating the bee-stung apples red: + Walking where lambs walk on the hills; + By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. + + I would be one with the dark-bright night + When sparkling skies and the lightning wed-- + Walking on with the vicious wind + By roads whence even the dogs have fled. + + I would be one with the sacred earth + On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. + Terror shall put no spears through me. + Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. + + I shall be one with all pit-black things + Finding their lowering threat unsaid: + Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,-- + Oak-roots arching about my head! + + Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, + Acorns fall round my breast that bled. + Children shall weave there a flowery chain, + Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:-- + + Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, + Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: + Sweet with the life of my sunburned days + When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red. + + + + +The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son + + + + The North Star whispers: "You are one + Of those whose course no chance can change. + You blunder, but are not undone, + Your spirit-task is fixed and strange. + + "When here you walk, a bloodless shade, + A singer all men else forget. + Your chants of hammer, forge and spade + Will move the prairie-village yet. + + "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town + Beholds your fancies on her walls, + And paints them out or tears them down, + Or bars them from her feasting-halls. + + "Yet shall the fragments still remain; + Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong + That ivy-vines will not disdain, + Haunted and trembling with your song. + + "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn, + Flame high in storms, flame white and clear; + Your ghost in gleaming robes return + And burn a deathless incense here." + + + + +Third Section ~~ A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" + + + + + +This Section is a Christmas Tree + + + + This section is a Christmas tree: + Loaded with pretty toys for you. + Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, + The popguns painted red and blue. + No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, + But silver horns and candy sacks + And many little tinsel hearts + And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks. + For every child a gift, I hope. + The doll upon the topmost bough + Is mine. But all the rest are yours. + And I will light the candles now. + + + + +The Sun Says his Prayers + + + + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + Or else he would wither and die. + "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, + "For strength to climb up through the sky. + He leans on invisible angels, + And Faith is his prop and his rod. + The sky is his crystal cathedral. + And dawn is his altar to God." + + + + +Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) + + + + I. The Lion + + + The Lion is a kingly beast. + He likes a Hindu for a feast. + And if no Hindu he can get, + The lion-family is upset. + + He cuffs his wife and bites her ears + Till she is nearly moved to tears. + Then some explorer finds the den + And all is family peace again. + + + + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper + + + The Grasshopper, the grasshopper, + I will explain to you:-- + He is the Brownies' racehorse, + The fairies' Kangaroo. + + + + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies + + + In fairyland the little boys + Would rather fight than eat their meals. + They like to chase a gauze-winged fly + And catch and beat him till he squeals. + Sometimes they come to sleeping men + Armed with the deadly red-rose thorn, + And those that feel its fearful wound + Repent the day that they were born. + + + + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down + + + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down + Began his task in early life. + He kept so busy with his teeth + He had no time to take a wife. + + He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain + When the ambitious fit was on, + Then rested in the sawdust till + A month of idleness had gone. + + He did not move about to hunt + The coteries of mousie-men. + He was a snail-paced, stupid thing + Until he cared to gnaw again. + + The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down, + When that tough foe was at his feet-- + Found in the stump no angel-cake + Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat-- + The forest-roof let in the sky. + "This light is worth the work," said he. + "I'll make this ancient swamp more light," + And started on another tree. + + + + V. Parvenu + + + Where does Cinderella sleep? + By far-off day-dream river. + A secret place her burning Prince + Decks, while his heart-strings quiver. + + Homesick for our cinder world, + Her low-born shoulders shiver; + She longs for sleep in cinders curled-- + We, for the day-dream river. + + + + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly + + + Once I loved a spider + When I was born a fly, + A velvet-footed spider + With a gown of rainbow-dye. + She ate my wings and gloated. + She bound me with a hair. + She drove me to her parlor + Above her winding stair. + To educate young spiders + She took me all apart. + My ghost came back to haunt her. + I saw her eat my heart. + + + + VII. Crickets on a Strike + + + The foolish queen of fairyland + From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, + Gave command to her cricket-band + To play for her when the dew-drops fell. + + But the cold dew spoiled their instruments + And they play for the foolish queen no more. + Instead those sturdy malcontents + Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. + + + + +How a Little Girl Danced + +Dedicated to Lucy Bates + +(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.) + + + + Oh, cabaret dancer, _I_ know a dancer, + Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain. + _I_ know a dancer, _I_ know a dancer, + Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, + Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, + _I_ know a dancer, _I_ know a dancer, + Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, + A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, + With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain. + + Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, + Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: + I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, + A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:-- + The music of God is her innermost brooding, + The whispering angels her footsteps sustain. + + Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing. + No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign. + You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, + A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane. + But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit + More white than Apollo and all of his train. + + I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, + Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain. + I know a dancer, I know a dancer, + Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: + Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, + With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + + + +In Praise of Songs that Die + +After having read a Great Deal of Good Current Poetry in the Magazines +and Newspapers + + + + Ah, they are passing, passing by, + Wonderful songs, but born to die! + Cries from the infinite human seas, + Waves thrice-winged with harmonies. + Here I stand on a pier in the foam + Seeing the songs to the beach go home, + Dying in sand while the tide flows back, + As it flowed of old in its fated track. + Oh, hurrying tide that will not hear + Your own foam-children dying near: + Is there no refuge-house of song, + No home, no haven where songs belong? + Oh, precious hymns that come and go! + You perish, and I love you so! + + + + +Factory Windows are always Broken + + + + Factory windows are always broken. + Somebody's always throwing bricks, + Somebody's always heaving cinders, + Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Other windows are let alone. + No one throws through the chapel-window + The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. + + Factory windows are always broken. + Something or other is going wrong. + Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark. + _End of the factory-window song_. + + + + +To Mary Pickford + + Moving-picture Actress + +(On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.) + + + + Mary Pickford, doll divine, + Year by year, and every day + At the moving-picture play, + You have been my valentine. + + Once a free-limbed page in hose, + Baby-Rosalind in flower, + Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour + How our reverent passion rose, + How our fine desire you won. + Kitchen-wench another day, + Shapeless, wooden every way. + Next, a fairy from the sun. + + Once you walked a grown-up strand + Fish-wife siren, full of lure, + Snaring with devices sure + Lads who murdered on the sand. + But on most days just a child + Dimpled as no grown-folk are, + Cold of kiss as some north star, + Violet from the valleys wild. + Snared as innocence must be, + Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead-- + At the end of tortures dread + Roaring cowboys set you free. + + Fly, O song, to her to-day, + Like a cowboy cross the land. + Snatch her from Belasco's hand + And that prison called Broadway. + + All the village swains await + One dear lily-girl demure, + Saucy, dancing, cold and pure, + Elf who must return in state. + + + + +Blanche Sweet + + Moving-picture Actress + +(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".) + + + + Beauty has a throne-room + In our humorous town, + Spoiling its hob-goblins, + Laughing shadows down. + Rank musicians torture + Ragtime ballads vile, + But we walk serenely + Down the odorous aisle. + We forgive the squalor + And the boom and squeal + For the Great Queen flashes + From the moving reel. + + Just a prim blonde stranger + In her early day, + Hiding brilliant weapons, + Too averse to play, + Then she burst upon us + Dancing through the night. + Oh, her maiden radiance, + Veils and roses white. + With new powers, yet cautious, + Not too smart or skilled, + That first flash of dancing + Wrought the thing she willed:-- + Mobs of us made noble + By her strong desire, + By her white, uplifting, + Royal romance-fire. + + Though the tin piano + Snarls its tango rude, + Though the chairs are shaky + And the dramas crude, + Solemn are her motions, + Stately are her wiles, + Filling oafs with wisdom, + Saving souls with smiles; + 'Mid the restless actors + She is rich and slow. + She will stand like marble, + She will pause and glow, + Though the film is twitching, + Keep a peaceful reign, + Ruler of her passion, + Ruler of our pain! + + + + +Sunshine + +For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old. Catharine Frazee Wakefield. + + + + The sun gives not directly + The coal, the diamond crown; + Not in a special basket + Are these from Heaven let down. + + The sun gives not directly + The plough, man's iron friend; + Not by a path or stairway + Do tools from Heaven descend. + + Yet sunshine fashions all things + That cut or burn or fly; + And corn that seems upon the earth + Is made in the hot sky. + + The gravel of the roadbed, + The metal of the gun, + The engine of the airship + Trace somehow from the sun. + + And so your soul, my lady-- + (Mere sunshine, nothing more)-- + Prepares me the contraptions + I work with or adore. + + Within me cornfields rustle, + Niagaras roar their way, + Vast thunderstorms and rainbows + Are in my thought to-day. + + Ten thousand anvils sound there + By forges flaming white, + And many books I read there, + And many books I write; + + And freedom's bells are ringing, + And bird-choirs chant and fly-- + The whole world works in me to-day + And all the shining sky, + + Because of one small lady + Whose smile is my chief sun. + She gives not any gift to me + Yet all gifts, giving one.... + Amen. + + + + +An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic + + + + Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, + The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. + It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small, + And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all. + And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink, + And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think." + And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, + The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more. + O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way-- + All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day, + And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom, + And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. + And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, + And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite, + My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine + Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line. + I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair, + They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. + The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew, + O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew! + + + + +When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich + + + + He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour + Just to invent a fancy style + To spread the celebration paint + So it would show at least a mile. + + Some things they did I will not tell. + They're not quite proper for a rhyme. + But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede + Did sure invent a sunflower time. + + One thing they did that I can tell + And not offend the ladies here:-- + They took a goat to Simp's Saloon + And made it take a bath in beer. + + That ENTERprise took MANagement. + They broke a wash-tub in the fray. + But mister goat was bathed all right + And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say. + + They wore girls' pink straw hats to church + And clucked like hens. They surely did. + They bought two HOtel frying pans + And in them down the mountain slid. + + They went to Denver in good clothes, + And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake, + And cut about like jumping-jacks, + And ordered seven-dollar steak. + + They had the waiters whirling round + Just sweeping up the smear and smash. + They tried to buy the State-house flag. + They showed the Janitor the cash. + + And old Dan Tucker on a toot, + Or John Paul Jones before the breeze, + Or Indians eating fat fried dog, + Were not as happy babes as these. + + One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek + With cheerful swears the two awoke. + The Swede had twenty cents, all right. + But Gassy Thompson was clean broke. + + + + +Rhymes for Gloriana + + + + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough + + + This doll upon the topmost bough, + This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, + Was taken down and brought to me + One sleety night most comfortless. + + Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash + Was gray brocade, most good to see. + The dear toy laughed, and I forgot + The ill the new year promised me. + + + + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused + + + Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk-- + Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure: + A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger:-- + Here in my study you sing me a measure. + + Whimsy and song in my little gray study! + Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness, + Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter, + Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!" + + Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness, + Trusting her insights, ardent for living; + She would be weeping with me and be laughing, + A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!" + + + + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters + + + Your pen needs but a ruffle + To be Pavlova whirling. + It surely is a scalawag + A-scamping down the page. + A pretty little May-wind + The morning buds uncurling. + And then the white sweet Russian, + The dancer of the age. + + Your pen's the Queen of Sheba, + Such serious questions bringing, + That merry rascal Solomon + Would show a sober face:-- + And then again Pavlova + To set our spirits singing, + The snowy-swan bacchante + All glamour, glee and grace. + + + + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair + + + The gleaming head of one fine friend + Is bent above my little song, + So through the treasure-pits of Heaven + In fancy's shoes, I march along. + + I wander, seek and peer and ponder + In Splendor's last ensnaring lair-- + 'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns + Where noble chariots gleam and flare: + + Amid the spirit-coins and gems, + The plates and cups and helms of fire-- + The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven-- + Where angel-misers slake desire! + + O endless treasure-pits of gold + Where silly angel-men make mirth-- + I think that I am there this hour, + Though walking in the ways of earth! + + + + + +Fourth Section ~~ Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech + + + + + +Once More--To Gloriana + + + + Girl with the burning golden eyes, + And red-bird song, and snowy throat: + I bring you gold and silver moons + And diamond stars, and mists that float. + I bring you moons and snowy clouds, + I bring you prairie skies to-night + To feebly praise your golden eyes + And red-bird song, and throat so white. + + + + +First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children + + + + I. Euclid + + + Old Euclid drew a circle + On a sand-beach long ago. + He bounded and enclosed it + With angles thus and so. + His set of solemn greybeards + Nodded and argued much + Of arc and of circumference, + Diameter and such. + A silent child stood by them + From morning until noon + Because they drew such charming + Round pictures of the moon. + + + + II. The Haughty Snail-king + + (What Uncle William told the Children) + + + Twelve snails went walking after night. + They'd creep an inch or so, + Then stop and bug their eyes + And blow. + Some folks... are... deadly... slow. + Twelve snails went walking yestereve, + Led by their fat old king. + They were so dull their princeling had + No sceptre, robe or ring-- + Only a paper cap to wear + When nightly journeying. + + This king-snail said: "I feel a thought + Within.... It blossoms soon.... + O little courtiers of mine,... + I crave a pretty boon.... + Oh, yes... (High thoughts with effort come + And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.) + "I wish I had a yellow crown + As glistering... as... the moon." + + + + III. What the Rattlesnake Said + + + The moon's a little prairie-dog. + He shivers through the night. + He sits upon his hill and cries + For fear that _I_ will bite. + + The sun's a broncho. He's afraid + Like every other thing, + And trembles, morning, noon and night, + Lest _I_ should spring, and sting. + + + + IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + + (What the Little Girl Said) + + + The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. + He bites it, day by day, + Until there's but a rim of scraps + That crumble all away. + + The South Wind is a baker. + He kneads clouds in his den, + And bakes a crisp new moon _that... greedy + North... Wind... eats... again!_ + + + + V. Drying their Wings + + (What the Carpenter Said) + + + The moon's a cottage with a door. + Some folks can see it plain. + Look, you may catch a glint of light, + A sparkle through the pane, + Showing the place is brighter still + Within, though bright without. + There, at a cosy open fire + Strange babes are grouped about. + The children of the wind and tide-- + The urchins of the sky, + Drying their wings from storms and things + So they again can fly. + + + + VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said + + + The moon's a gong, hung in the wild, + Whose song the fays hold dear. + Of course you do not hear it, child. + It takes a FAIRY ear. + + The full moon is a splendid gong + That beats as night grows still. + It sounds above the evening song + Of dove or whippoorwill. + + + + VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + (What Grandpa told the Children) + + + The moon? It is a griffin's egg, + Hatching to-morrow night. + And how the little boys will watch + With shouting and delight + To see him break the shell and stretch + And creep across the sky. + The boys will laugh. The little girls, + I fear, may hide and cry. + Yet gentle will the griffin be, + Most decorous and fat, + And walk up to the milky way + And lap it like a cat. + + + + +Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror + + + + I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor + + + No man should stand before the moon + To make sweet song thereon, + With dandified importance, + His sense of humor gone. + + Nay, let us don the motley cap, + The jester's chastened mien, + If we would woo that looking-glass + And see what should be seen. + + O mirror on fair Heaven's wall, + We find there what we bring. + So, let us smile in honest part + And deck our souls and sing. + + Yea, by the chastened jest alone + Will ghosts and terrors pass, + And fays, or suchlike friendly things, + Throw kisses through the glass. + + + + II. On the Garden-wall + + + Oh, once I walked a garden + In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass. + And many orange-trees grew there + In sand as white as glass. + The curving, wide wall-border + Was marble, like the snow. + I walked that wall a fairy-prince + And, pacing quaint and slow, + Beside me were my pages, + Two giant, friendly birds. + Half-swan they were, half peacock. + They spake in courtier-words. + Their inner wings a chariot, + Their outer wings for flight, + They lifted me from dreamland. + We bade those trees good-night. + Swiftly above the stars we rode. + I looked below me soon. + The white-walled garden I had ruled + Was one lone flower--the moon. + + + + III. Written for a Musician + + + Hungry for music with a desperate hunger + I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town; + The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking, + Vulgar and pitiful--my heart bowed down-- + Till I remembered duller hours made noble + By strangers clad in some surprising grace. + Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight + Appearing in some unexpected place + With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face. + + + + IV. The Moon is a Painter + + + He coveted her portrait. + He toiled as she grew gay. + She loved to see him labor + In that devoted way. + + And in the end it pleased her, + But bowed him more with care. + Her rose-smile showed so plainly, + Her soul-smile was not there. + + That night he groped without a lamp + To find a cloak, a book, + And on the vexing portrait + By moonrise chanced to look. + + The color-scheme was out of key, + The maiden rose-smile faint, + But through the blessed darkness + She gleamed, his friendly saint. + + The comrade, white, immortal, + His bride, and more than bride-- + The citizen, the sage of mind, + For whom he lived and died. + + + + V. The Encyclopaedia + + + "If I could set the moon upon + This table," said my friend, + "Among the standard poets + And brochures without end, + And noble prints of old Japan, + How empty they would seem, + By that encyclopaedia + Of whim and glittering dream." + + + + VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said + + + The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, + A wondrous water-feast. + If I could climb the ridge and drink + And give drink to my beast; + If I could drain that keg, the flies + Would not be biting so, + My burning feet be spry again, + My mule no longer slow. + And I could rise and dig for ore, + And reach my fatherland, + And not be food for ants and hawks + And perish in the sand. + + + + VII. What the Coal-heaver Said + + + The moon's an open furnace door + Where all can see the blast, + We shovel in our blackest griefs, + Upon that grate are cast + Our aching burdens, loves and fears + And underneath them wait + Paper and tar and pitch and pine + Called strife and blood and hate. + + Out of it all there comes a flame, + A splendid widening light. + Sorrow is turned to mystery + And Death into delight. + + + + VIII. What the Moon Saw + + + Two statesmen met by moonlight. + Their ease was partly feigned. + They glanced about the prairie. + Their faces were constrained. + In various ways aforetime + They had misled the state, + Yet did it so politely + Their henchmen thought them great. + They sat beneath a hedge and spake + No word, but had a smoke. + A satchel passed from hand to hand. + Next day, the deadlock broke. + + + + IX. What Semiramis Said + + + The moon's a steaming chalice + Of honey and venom-wine. + A little of it sipped by night + Makes the long hours divine. + But oh, my reckless lovers, + They drain the cup and wail, + Die at my feet with shaking limbs + And tender lips all pale. + Above them in the sky it bends + Empty and gray and dread. + To-morrow night 'tis full again, + Golden, and foaming red. + + + + X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said + + + Where now the huts are empty, + Where never a camp-fire glows, + In an abandoned canyon, + A Gambler's Ghost arose. + He muttered there, "The moon's a sack + Of dust." His voice rose thin: + "I wish I knew the miner-man. + I'd play, and play to win. + In every game in Cripple-creek + Of old, when stakes were high, + I held my own. Now I would play + For that sack in the sky. + The sport would not be ended there. + 'Twould rather be begun. + I'd bet my moon against his stars, + And gamble for the sun." + + + + XI. The Spice-tree + + + This is the song + The spice-tree sings: + "Hunger and fire, + Hunger and fire, + Sky-born Beauty-- + Spice of desire," + Under the spice-tree + Watch and wait, + Burning maidens + And lads that mate. + + The spice-tree spreads + And its boughs come down + Shadowing village and farm and town. + And none can see + But the pure of heart + The great green leaves + And the boughs descending, + And hear the song that is never ending. + + The deep roots whisper, + The branches say:-- + "Love to-morrow, + And love to-day, + And till Heaven's day, + And till Heaven's day." + + The moon is a bird's nest in its branches, + The moon is hung in its topmost spaces. + And there, to-night, two doves play house + While lovers watch with uplifted faces. + Two doves go home + To their nest, the moon. + It is woven of twigs of broken light, + With threads of scarlet and threads of gray + And a lining of down for silk delight. + To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves, + Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;-- + And one is the kiss I took from you, + And one is the kiss you gave to me. + + + + XII. The Scissors-grinder + + (What the Tramp Said) + + + The old man had his box and wheel + For grinding knives and shears. + No doubt his bell in village streets + Was joy to children's ears. + And I bethought me of my youth + When such men came around, + And times I asked them in, quite sure + The scissors should be ground. + The old man turned and spoke to me, + His face at last in view. + And then I thought those curious eyes + Were eyes that once I knew. + + "The moon is but an emery-wheel + To whet the sword of God," + He said. "And here beside my fire + I stretch upon the sod + Each night, and dream, and watch the stars + And watch the ghost-clouds go. + And see that sword of God in Heaven + A-waving to and fro. + I see that sword each century, friend. + It means the world-war comes + With all its bloody, wicked chiefs + And hate-inflaming drums. + Men talk of peace, but I have seen + That emery-wheel turn round. + The voice of Abel cries again + To God from out the ground. + The ditches must flow red, the plague + Go stark and screaming by + Each time that sword of God takes edge + Within the midnight sky. + And those that scorned their brothers here + And sowed a wind of shame + Will reap the whirlwind as of old + And face relentless flame." + + And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, + His face at last in view. + _And there beside the railroad bridge + I saw the wandering Jew_. + + + + XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl + + + My lady in her white silk shawl + Is like a lily dim, + Within the twilight of the room + Enthroned and kind and prim. + + My lady! Pale gold is her hair. + Until she smiles her face + Is pale with far Hellenic moods, + With thoughts that find no place + + In our harsh village of the West + Wherein she lives of late, + She's distant as far-hidden stars, + And cold--(almost!)--as fate. + + But when she smiles she's here again + Rosy with comrade-cheer, + A Puritan Bacchante made + To laugh around the year. + + The merry gentle moon herself, + Heart-stirring too, like her, + Wakening wild and innocent love + In every worshipper. + + + + XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn + + + "Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. + "This tailor-shop sings not at all. + Chant me a word of the twilight, + Of roses that mourn in the fall. + Bring me a song like hashish + That will comfort the stale and the sad, + For I would be mending my spirit, + Forgetting these days that are bad, + Forgetting companions too shallow, + Their quarrels and arguments thin, + Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:"-- + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Bring me old wines," said Aladdin. + "I have been a starved pauper too long. + Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, + Serve them with fruit and with song:-- + Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans + Digged from beneath the black seas:-- + New-gathered dew from the heavens + Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees, + Cups from the angels' pale tables + That will make me both handsome and wise, + For I have beheld her, the princess, + Firelight and starlight her eyes. + Pauper I am, I would woo her. + And--let me drink wine, to begin, + Though the Koran expressly forbids it." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + "Plan me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON, + When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains, + Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon." + "Build me a dome," said Aladdin, + "That shall cause all young lovers to sigh, + The fullness of life and of beauty, + Peace beyond peace to the eye-- + A palace of foam and of opal, + Pure moonlight without and within, + Where I may enthrone my sweet lady." + "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + + + XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + (What the Mendicant Said) + + + The moon's a monk, unmated, + Who walks his cell, the sky. + His strength is that of heaven-vowed men + Who all life's flames defy. + + They turn to stars or shadows, + They go like snow or dew-- + Leaving behind no sorrow-- + Only the arching blue. + + + + +Fifth Section + +War. September 1, 1914 Intended to be Read Aloud + + + + + +I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight + + (In Springfield, Illinois) + + + + It is portentous, and a thing of state + That here at midnight, in our little town + A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, + Near the old court-house pacing up and down, + + Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards + He lingers where his children used to play, + Or through the market, on the well-worn stones + He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. + + A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, + A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl + Make him the quaint great figure that men love, + The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. + + He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. + He is among us:--as in times before! + And we who toss and lie awake for long + Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. + + His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. + Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? + Too many peasants fight, they know not why, + Too many homesteads in black terror weep. + + The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. + He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. + He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now + The bitterness, the folly and the pain. + + He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn + Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free: + The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, + Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. + + It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, + That all his hours of travail here for men + Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace + That he may sleep upon his hill again? + + + + +II. A Curse for Kings + + + + A curse upon each king who leads his state, + No matter what his plea, to this foul game, + And may it end his wicked dynasty, + And may he die in exile and black shame. + + If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, + What punishment could Heaven devise for these + Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, + And turn their murderers loose on all the seas! + + Put back the clock of time a thousand years, + And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen, + A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, + Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene + + In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, + Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; + While Science towers above;--a witch, red-winged: + Science we looked to for the light of life. + + Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, + Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find + Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, + Each deadliest device against mankind. + + Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, + May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, + Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake, + And felon's stripes for medals and for braids. + + Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, + Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, + Who make the kind world but their game of cards, + Till millions die at turning of a hair. + + What punishment will Heaven devise for these + Who win by others' sweat and hardihood, + Who make men into stinking vultures' meat, + Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"? + + Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death + Should burn in utmost hell a million years! + --Mothers of men go on the destined wrack + To give them life, with anguish and with tears:-- + + Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away? + Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, + And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: + These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings! + + All in the name of this or that grim flag, + No angel-flags in all the rag-array-- + Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings + And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day! + + + + +III. Who Knows? + + + + They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows? + They say one king is doddering and grey. + They say one king is slack and sick of mind, + A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play. + + Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place? + Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane? + Their place of maudlin, slavering conference + Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? + + + + +IV. To Buddha + + + + Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, + Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. + And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, + Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes? + + Good comrade and philosopher and prince, + Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, + Dare they to move against your pride benign, + Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind? + + ***** + + But what can Europe say, when in your name + The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red? + And what can Europe say, when with a laugh + Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead? + + + + +V. The Unpardonable Sin + + + + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:-- + To speak of bloody power as right divine, + And call on God to guard each vile chief's house, + And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:-- + + To go forth killing in White Mercy's name, + Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, + Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, + Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains. + + In any Church's name, to sack fair towns, + And turn each home into a screaming sty, + To make the little children fugitive, + And have their mothers for a quick death cry,-- + + This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: + This is the sin no purging can atone:-- + To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:-- + To set the face, and make the heart a stone. + + + + +VI. Above the Battle's Front + + + + St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John-- + Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, + Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, + And walked upon the water and the land, + + If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings + For sober conclave, ere their battle great, + Would they for one deep instant then discern + Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate? + + If you should float above the battle's front, + Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay, + Bearing a fifth within your regal train, + The Son of David in his strange array-- + + If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven, + Would they have hearts to see or understand? + ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know, + Thorn-crowned above the water and the land. + + + + +VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings + + + + Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, + On sunny days have found you weak and still, + Though I have often held your girlish head + Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill:-- + + Under the blessing of your Psyche-wings + I hide to-night like one small broken bird, + So soothed I half-forget the world gone mad:-- + And all the winds of war are now unheard. + + My heaven-doubting pennons feel your hands + With touch most delicate so circling round, + That for an hour I dream that God is good. + And in your shadow, Mercy's ways abound. + + I thought myself the guard of your frail state, + And yet I come to-night a helpless guest, + Hiding beneath your giant Psyche-wings, + Against the pallor of your wondrous breast. + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +Biographical Note: + +Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931): + +(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel'). + +"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known +poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William +Booth Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914). + +Lindsay himself considered his drawings and his prose writings to be as +important as his verse, all coming together to form a whole. His +"Collected Poems" (1925) gives a good selection. + +***** + +From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917): + +"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, +Ohio. He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, +Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time +after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical +relation to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, +Illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "The +Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, +pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his +own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, taking as scrip for the +journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", made a pilgrimage on foot +through several Western States going as far afield as New Mexico. The +story of this journey is given in his volume, "Adventures while +Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention +in poetry by "General William Booth Enters into Heaven", a poem which +became the title of his first volume, in 1913. His second volume was +"The Congo", published in 1914. He is attempting to restore to poetry +its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly +from the selections contained in this anthology." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONGO AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 1021.txt or 1021.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1021/ + +Produced by Alan R. 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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. + + + + + +The Congo and Other Poems +By Vachel Lindsay [Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Illinois Artist. 1879-1931.] + + +[Note on text: Due to the distinctions made by the author +between emphasis by capitalization and emphasis by use of italics, +especially in those poems intended to be read aloud, +italicized words, phrases, and sections are marked by asterisks (*). +Lines longer than 78 characters are broken, and the continuation +is indented two spaces. Also, a great many obvious errors +have been corrected. These are mostly errors in punctuation, +often inconsistent with other parts of the text -- a few were typos.] + +[More notes: The `stage-directions' given in "The Congo" and those poems +which are meant to be read aloud, are traditionally printed to the right side +of the first line it refers to. This is possible, but impracticable, +to imitate in a simple ASCII text. Therefore these `stage-directions' +are given on the line BEFORE the first line they refer to, and are furthermore +indented 20 spaces and enclosed by #s to keep it clear to the reader +which parts are text and which parts directions.] + +[This electronic text was transcribed from a reprint of the original edition, +which was first published in New York, in September, 1914. +Due to a great deal of irregularity between titles in the table of contents +and in the text of the original, there are some slight differences +from the original in these matters -- with the more complete titles +replacing cropped ones. In one case they are different enough +that both are given, and "Twenty Poems in which. . . ." was originally +"Twenty Moon Poems" in the table of contents -- the odd thing +about both these titles is that there are actually twenty-TWO moon poems.] + + + + + +The Congo and Other Poems + +By Vachel Lindsay + +With an introduction by +Harriet Monroe +Editor of "Poetry" + + + + + +Introduction. By Harriet Monroe + + + +When `Poetry, A Magazine of Verse', was first published in Chicago +in the autumn of 1912, an Illinois poet, Vachel Lindsay, +was, quite appropriately, one of its first discoveries. +It may be not quite without significance that the issue of January, 1913, +which led off with `General William Booth Enters into Heaven', +immediately followed the number in which the great poet of Bengal, +Rabindra Nath Tagore, was first presented to the American public, +and that these two antipodal poets soon appeared in person among the earliest +visitors to the editor. For the coming together of East and West +may prove to be the great event of the approaching era, +and if the poetry of the now famous Bengali laureate +garners the richest wisdom and highest spirituality of his ancient race, +so one may venture to believe that the young Illinois troubadour +brings from Lincoln's city an authentic strain of the lyric message +of this newer world. + +It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to mention Mr. Lindsay's loyalty +to the people of his place and hour, or the training in sympathy +with their aims and ideals which he has achieved through +vagabondish wanderings in the Middle West. And we may permit time +to decide how far he expresses their emotion. But it may be opportune +to emphasize his plea for poetry as a song art, an art appealing to the ear +rather than the eye. The first section of this volume is especially an effort +to restore poetry to its proper place -- the audience-chamber, +and take it out of the library, the closet. In the library it has become, +so far as the people are concerned, almost a lost art, +and perhaps it can be restored to the people only through +a renewal of its appeal to the ear. + +I am tempted to quote from Mr. Lindsay's explanatory note +which accompanied three of these poems when they were first printed +in `Poetry'. He said: + +"Mr. Yeats asked me recently in Chicago, `What are we going to do +to restore the primitive singing of poetry?' I find what Mr. Yeats means by +`the primitive singing of poetry' in Professor Edward Bliss Reed's new volume +on `The English Lyric'. He says in his chapter on the definition +of the lyric: `With the Greeks "song" was an all-embracing term. +It included the crooning of the nurse to the child . . . +the half-sung chant of the mower or sailor . . . the formal ode +sung by the poet. In all Greek lyrics, even in the choral odes, +music was the handmaid of verse. . . . The poet himself +composed the accompaniment. Euripides was censured because +Iophon had assisted him in the musical setting of some of his dramas.' +Here is pictured a type of Greek work which survives in American vaudeville, +where every line may be two-thirds spoken and one-third sung, +the entire rendering, musical and elocutionary, depending upon +the improvising power and sure instinct of the performer. + +"I respectfully submit these poems as experiments in which I endeavor +to carry this vaudeville form back towards the old Greek precedent +of the half-chanted lyric. In this case the one-third of music +must be added by the instinct of the reader. He must be Iophon. +And he can easily be Iophon if he brings to bear upon the piece +what might be called the Higher Vaudeville imagination. . . . + +"Big general contrasts between the main sections should be the rule +of the first attempts at improvising. It is the hope of the writer +that after two or three readings each line will suggest +its own separate touch of melody to the reader who has become +accustomed to the cadences. Let him read what he likes read, +and sing what he likes sung." + +It was during this same visit in Chicago, at `Poetry's' banquet +on the evening of March first, 1914, that Mr. Yeats honored Mr. Lindsay +by addressing his after-dinner talk primarily to him as "a fellow craftsman", +and by saying of `General Booth': + +"This poem is stripped bare of ornament; it has an earnest simplicity, +a strange beauty, and you know Bacon said, `There is no excellent beauty +without strangeness.'" + +This recognition from the distinguished Irish poet tempts me to hint +at the cosmopolitan aspects of such racily local art as Mr. Lindsay's. +The subject is too large for a merely introductory word, +but the reader may be invited to reflect upon it. If Mr. Lindsay's poetry +should cross the ocean, it would not be the first time +that our most indigenous art has reacted upon the art of older nations. +Besides Poe -- who, though indigenous in ways too subtle for brief analysis, +yet passed all frontiers in his swift, sad flight -- the two American artists +of widest influence, Whitman and Whistler, have been intensely American +in temperament and in the special spiritual quality of their art. + +If Whistler was the first great artist to accept the modern message +in Oriental art, if Whitman was the first great modern poet +to discard the limitations of conventional form: if both were more free, +more individual, than their contemporaries, this was +the expression of their Americanism, which may perhaps be defined +as a spiritual independence and love of adventure inherited from the pioneers. +Foreign artists are usually the first to recognize this new tang; +one detects the influence of the great dead poet and dead painter +in all modern art which looks forward instead of back; +and their countrymen, our own contemporary poets and painters, +often express indirectly, through French influences, +a reaction which they are reluctant to confess directly. + +A lighter phase of this foreign enthusiasm for the American tang +is confessed by Signor Marinetti, the Italian "futurist", +when in his article on `Futurism and the Theatre', in `The Mask', +he urges the revolutionary value of "American eccentrics", +citing the fundamental primitive quality in their vaudeville art. +This may be another statement of Mr. Lindsay's plea for a closer relation +between the poet and his audience, for a return to the healthier +open-air conditions, and immediate personal contacts, in the art of the Greeks +and of primitive nations. Such conditions and contacts may still be found, +if the world only knew it, in the wonderful song-dances of the Hopis +and others of our aboriginal tribes. They may be found, also, in a measure, +in the quick response between artist and audience in modern vaudeville. +They are destined to a wider and higher influence; in fact, +the development of that influence, the return to primitive sympathies +between artist and audience, which may make possible once more +the assertion of primitive creative power, is recognized as +the immediate movement in modern art. It is a movement strong enough +to persist in spite of extravagances and absurdities; strong enough, +it may be hoped, to fulfil its purpose and revitalize the world. + +It is because Mr. Lindsay's poetry seems to be definitely in that movement +that it is, I think, important. + + Harriet Monroe. + + + + + +Table of Contents + + + +Introduction. By Harriet Monroe + + + First Section + + Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. + +The Congo +The Santa Fe Trail +The Firemen's Ball +The Master of the Dance +The Mysterious Cat +A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten +Yankee Doodle +The Black Hawk War of the Artists +The Jingo and the Minstrel +I Heard Immanuel Singing + + + Second Section + + Incense + +An Argument +A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign +In Memory of a Child +Galahad, Knight Who Perished +The Leaden-eyed +An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie +The Hearth Eternal +The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit +By the Spring, at Sunset +I Went down into the Desert +Love and Law +The Perfect Marriage +Darling Daughter of Babylon +The Amaranth +The Alchemist's Petition +Two Easter Stanzas +The Traveller-heart +The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son + + + Third Section + + A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" + +This Section is a Christmas Tree +The Sun Says his Prayers +Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) + I. The Lion + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down + V. Parvenu + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly + VII. Crickets on a Strike +How a Little Girl Danced +In Praise of Songs that Die +Factory Windows are always Broken +To Mary Pickford +Blanche Sweet +Sunshine +An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic +When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich +Rhymes for Gloriana + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair + + + Fourth Section + + Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech + +Once More -- To Gloriana + + First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children +I. Euclid +II. The Haughty Snail-king +III. What the Rattlesnake Said +IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky +V. Drying their Wings +VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said +VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror +I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor +II. On the Garden-wall +III. Written for a Musician +IV. The Moon is a Painter +V. The Encyclopaedia +VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said +VII. What the Coal-heaver Said +VIII. What the Moon Saw +IX. What Semiramis Said +X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said +XI. The Spice-tree +XII. The Scissors-grinder +XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl +XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn +XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + + Fifth Section + War. September 1, 1914 + Intended to be Read Aloud + +I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight +II. A Curse for Kings +III. Who Knows? +IV. To Buddha +V. The Unpardonable Sin +VI. Above the Battle's Front +VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings + + + + + + First Section + + Poems intended to be read aloud, or chanted. + + + + + +The Congo + + A Study of the Negro Race + + + + I. Their Basic Savagery + +Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, +Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, + # A deep rolling bass. # +Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, +Pounded on the table, +Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, +Hard as they were able, +Boom, boom, BOOM, +With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, +Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. +THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. +I could not turn from their revel in derision. + # More deliberate. Solemnly chanted. # +THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, +CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. +Then along that riverbank +A thousand miles +Tattooed cannibals danced in files; +Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song + # A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket. # +And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. +And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, +"BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, +"Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, +Harry the uplands, +Steal all the cattle, +Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, +Bing. +Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + # With a philosophic pause. # +A roaring, epic, rag-time tune +From the mouth of the Congo +To the Mountains of the Moon. +Death is an Elephant, + # Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre. # +Torch-eyed and horrible, +Foam-flanked and terrible. +BOOM, steal the pygmies, +BOOM, kill the Arabs, +BOOM, kill the white men, +HOO, HOO, HOO. + # Like the wind in the chimney. # +Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost +Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. +Hear how the demons chuckle and yell +Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. +Listen to the creepy proclamation, +Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, +Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, +Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play: -- +"Be careful what you do, + # All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. + Light accents very light. Last line whispered. # +Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, +And all of the other +Gods of the Congo, +Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, +Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, +Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." + + + II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits + + # Rather shrill and high. # +Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call +Danced the juba in their gambling-hall +And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, +And guyed the policemen and laughed them down +With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. + # Read exactly as in first section. # +THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, +CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. + # Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. + Keep as light-footed as possible. # +A negro fairyland swung into view, +A minstrel river +Where dreams come true. +The ebony palace soared on high +Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. +The inlaid porches and casements shone +With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. +And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore +At the baboon butler in the agate door, +And the well-known tunes of the parrot band +That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. + + # With pomposity. # +A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came +Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, +Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust +And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. +And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call +And danced the juba from wall to wall. + # With a great deliberation and ghostliness. # +But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng +With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: -- +"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." . . . + # With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp. # +Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, +Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, +Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, +And tall silk hats that were red as wine. + # With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm. # +And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, +Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, +Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, +And bells on their ankles and little black feet. +And the couples railed at the chant and the frown +Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. +(O rare was the revel, and well worth while +That made those glowering witch-men smile.) + +The cake-walk royalty then began +To walk for a cake that was tall as a man +To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," + # With a touch of negro dialect, + and as rapidly as possible toward the end. # +While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, +And sang with the scalawags prancing there: -- +"Walk with care, walk with care, +Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, +And all of the other +Gods of the Congo, +Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. +Beware, beware, walk with care, +Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. +Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, +Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, +Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, +BOOM." + # Slow philosophic calm. # +Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while +That made those glowering witch-men smile. + + + III. The Hope of their Religion + + # Heavy bass. With a literal imitation + of camp-meeting racket, and trance. # +A good old negro in the slums of the town +Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. +Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, +His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. +Beat on the Bible till he wore it out +Starting the jubilee revival shout. +And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, +And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, +And they all repented, a thousand strong +From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong +And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room +With "glory, glory, glory," +And "Boom, boom, BOOM." + # Exactly as in the first section. + Begin with terror and power, end with joy. # +THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK +CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. +And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil +And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. +In bright white steele they were seated round +And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. +And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high +Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: -- + # Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand + harps and voices". # +"Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; +Never again will he hoo-doo you, +Never again will he hoo-doo you." + + # With growing deliberation and joy. # +Then along that river, a thousand miles +The vine-snared trees fell down in files. +Pioneer angels cleared the way +For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, +For sacred capitals, for temples clean. +Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. + # In a rather high key -- as delicately as possible. # +There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed +A million boats of the angels sailed +With oars of silver, and prows of blue +And silken pennants that the sun shone through. +'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation. +Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation +And on through the backwoods clearing flew: -- + # To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices". # +"Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. +Never again will he hoo-doo you. +Never again will he hoo-doo you." + +Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, +And only the vulture dared again +By the far, lone mountains of the moon +To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: -- + # Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper. # +"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, +Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. +Mumbo . . . Jumbo . . . will . . . hoo-doo . . . you." + + + + This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion + in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death + of Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ + who perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo. + See "A Master Builder on the Congo", by Andrew F. Hensey, + published by Fleming H. Revell. + + + + +The Santa Fe Trail + + (A Humoresque) + + + +I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" +He answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, +lark, or thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane." + + + I. In which a Racing Auto comes from the East + + # To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune. # +This is the order of the music of the morning: -- +First, from the far East comes but a crooning. +The crooning turns to a sunrise singing. +Hark to the *calm*-horn, *balm*-horn, *psalm*-horn. +Hark to the *faint*-horn, *quaint*-horn, *saint*-horn. . . . + + # To be sung or read with great speed. # +Hark to the *pace*-horn, *chase*-horn, *race*-horn. +And the holy veil of the dawn has gone. +Swiftly the brazen car comes on. +It burns in the East as the sunrise burns. +I see great flashes where the far trail turns. +Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons. +It drinks gasoline from big red flagons. +Butting through the delicate mists of the morning, +It comes like lightning, goes past roaring. +It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing, +Dodge the cyclones, +Count the milestones, +On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills -- +Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills. . . . + # To be read or sung in a rolling bass, + with some deliberation. # +Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, +Ho for the *gay*-horn, *bark*-horn, *bay*-horn. +*Ho for Kansas, land that restores us +When houses choke us, and great books bore us! +Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas, +A million men have found you before us.* + + + II. In which Many Autos pass Westward + + # In an even, deliberate, narrative manner. # +I want live things in their pride to remain. +I will not kill one grasshopper vain +Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. +I let him out, give him one chance more. +Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, +Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. + +I am a tramp by the long trail's border, +Given to squalor, rags and disorder. +I nap and amble and yawn and look, +Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book, +Recite to the children, explore at my ease, +Work when I work, beg when I please, +Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare +To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare, +And get me a place to sleep in the hay +At the end of a live-and-let-live day. + +I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds +A whisper and a feasting, all one needs: +The whisper of the strawberries, white and red +Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead. + +But I would not walk all alone till I die +Without some life-drunk horns going by. +Up round this apple-earth they come +Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb: -- +Cars in a plain realistic row. +And fair dreams fade +When the raw horns blow. + +On each snapping pennant +A big black name: -- +The careering city +Whence each car came. + # Like a train-caller in a Union Depot. # +They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah, +Tallahassee and Texarkana. +They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, +They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee. +Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston, +Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin. +Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo. +Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo. +Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi, +Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami. +Ho for Kansas, land that restores us +When houses choke us, and great books bore us! +While I watch the highroad +And look at the sky, +While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur +Roll their legions without rain +Over the blistering Kansas plain -- +While I sit by the milestone +And watch the sky, +The United States +Goes by. + + # To be given very harshly, + with a snapping explosiveness. # +Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. +Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. +Way down the road, trilling like a toad, +Here comes the *dice*-horn, here comes the *vice*-horn, +Here comes the *snarl*-horn, *brawl*-horn, *lewd*-horn, +Followed by the *prude*-horn, bleak and squeaking: -- +(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) +Here comes the *hod*-horn, *plod*-horn, *sod*-horn, +Nevermore-to-*roam*-horn, *loam*-horn, *home*-horn. +(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) + # To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper. # + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns: -- + "Love and life, + Eternal youth -- + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." + # Louder and louder, faster and faster. # +WHILE SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD, +DRIVEN AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL-FIEND'S OX-GOAD, +SCREAMING TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST, +CARRY OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST, +HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST. +THE HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS, +THE SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS. + # In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation. # +And then, in an instant, +Ye modern men, +Behold the procession once again, + # With a snapping explosiveness. # +Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, +Listen to the *wise*-horn, desperate-to-*advise*-horn, +Listen to the *fast*-horn, *kill*-horn, *blast*-horn. . . . + # To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper. # + Far away the Rachel-Jane + Not defeated by the horns + Sings amid a hedge of thorns: -- + Love and life, + Eternal youth, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, + Dew and glory, + Love and truth. + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + # To be brawled in the beginning with a + snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant. # +The mufflers open on a score of cars +With wonderful thunder, +CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, +CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, +CRACK-CRACK-CRACK, . . . +Listen to the gold-horn . . . +Old-horn . . . +Cold-horn . . . +And all of the tunes, till the night comes down +On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town. + # To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune + as the first five lines. # +Then far in the west, as in the beginning, +Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating, +Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn, +Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn. . . . + + # This section beginning sonorously, + ending in a languorous whisper. # +They are hunting the goals that they understand: -- +San Francisco and the brown sea-sand. +My goal is the mystery the beggars win. +I am caught in the web the night-winds spin. +The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me. +I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree. +And now I hear, as I sit all alone +In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone, +The souls of the tall corn gathering round +And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground. +Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells. +Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells. +Listen to the whistling flutes without price +Of myriad prophets out of paradise. +Harken to the wonder +That the night-air carries. . . . +Listen . . . to . . . the . . . whisper . . . +Of . . . the . . . prairie . . . fairies + Singing o'er the fairy plain: -- + # To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song -- + but very slowly. # + "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. + Love and glory, + Stars and rain, + Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. . . ." + + + + +The Firemen's Ball + + + + Section One + +"Give the engines room, +Give the engines room." +Louder, faster +The little band-master +Whips up the fluting, +Hurries up the tooting. +He thinks that he stands, + # To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass + of fire-engines pumping. # +The reins in his hands, +In the fire-chief's place +In the night alarm chase. +The cymbals whang, +The kettledrums bang: -- + # In this passage the reading or chanting + is shriller and higher. # +"Clear the street, +Clear the street, +Clear the street -- Boom, boom. +In the evening gloom, +In the evening gloom, +Give the engines room, +Give the engines room, +Lest souls be trapped +In a terrible tomb." +The sparks and the pine-brands +Whirl on high +From the black and reeking alleys +To the wide red sky. +Hear the hot glass crashing, +Hear the stone steps hissing. +Coal black streams +Down the gutters pour. +There are cries for help +From a far fifth floor. +For a longer ladder +Hear the fire-chief call. +Listen to the music +Of the firemen's ball. +Listen to the music +Of the firemen's ball. + # To be read or chanted in a heavy bass. # +"'Tis the +NIGHT +Of doom," +Say the ding-dong doom-bells. +"NIGHT +Of doom," +Say the ding-dong doom-bells. +Faster, faster +The red flames come. +"Hum grum," say the engines, +"Hum grum grum." + # Shriller and higher. # +"Buzz, buzz," +Says the crowd. +"See, see," +Calls the crowd. +"Look out," +Yelps the crowd +And the high walls fall: -- +Listen to the music +Of the firemen's ball. +Listen to the music +Of the firemen's ball. + # Heavy bass. # +"'Tis the +NIGHT +Of doom," +Say the ding-dong doom-bells. +"NIGHT +Of doom," +Say the ding-dong doom-bells. +Whangaranga, whangaranga, +Whang, whang, whang, +Clang, clang, clangaranga, + # Bass, much slower. # +Clang, clang, clang. +Clang--a--ranga-- +Clang--a--ranga-- +Clang, +Clang, +Clang. +Listen -- to -- the -- music -- +Of the firemen's ball -- + + + Section Two + +"Many's the heart that's breaking +If we could read them all +After the ball is over." (An old song.) + + + # To be read or sung slowly and softly, + in the manner of lustful, insinuating music. # +Scornfully, gaily +The bandmaster sways, +Changing the strain +That the wild band plays. +With a red and royal intoxication, +A tangle of sounds +And a syncopation, +Sweeping and bending +From side to side, +Master of dreams, +With a peacock pride. +A lord of the delicate flowers of delight +He drives compunction +Back through the night. +Dreams he's a soldier +Plumed and spurred, +And valiant lads +Arise at his word, +Flaying the sober +Thoughts he hates, +Driving them back +From the dream-town gates. +How can the languorous +Dancers know +The red dreams come + # To be read or chanted slowly and softly + in the manner of lustful insinuating music. # +When the good dreams go? +"'Tis the +NIGHT +Of love," +Call the silver joy-bells, +"NIGHT +Of love," +Call the silver joy-bells. +"Honey and wine, +Honey and wine. +Sing low, now, violins, +Sing, sing low, +Blow gently, wood-wind, +Mellow and slow. +Like midnight poppies +The sweethearts bloom. +Their eyes flash power, +Their lips are dumb. +Faster and faster +Their pulses come, +Though softer now +The drum-beats fall. +Honey and wine, +Honey and wine. +'Tis the firemen's ball, +'Tis the firemen's ball. + + # With a climax of whispered mourning. # +"I am slain," +Cries true-love +There in the shadow. +"And I die," +Cries true-love, +There laid low. +"When the fire-dreams come, +The wise dreams go." + # Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in + a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. + Then gradually musical and sonorous. # +BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED +BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER. +And now great gongs whang, +Sharper, faster, +And kettledrums rattle +And hide the shame +With a swish and a swirk +In dead love's name. +Red and crimson +And scarlet and rose +Magical poppies +The sweethearts bloom. +The scarlet stays +When the rose-flush goes, +And love lies low +In a marble tomb. +"'Tis the +NIGHT +Of doom," +Call the ding-dong doom-bells. +"NIGHT +Of Doom," +Call the ding-dong doom-bells. + # Sharply interrupting in a very high key. # + Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. + "'Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year." + # Heavy bass. # +CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, +CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. +CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA . . . +CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA . . . +CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . +LISTEN . . . TO . . . THE . . . MUSIC . . . +OF . . . THE . . . FIREMEN'S BALL . . . +LISTEN . . . TO . . . THE . . . MUSIC . . . +OF . . . THE . . . FIREMEN'S . . . BALL. . . . + + + Section Three + +In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece +is placed before the reader. + +(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: "There Buddha +thus addressed his disciples: `Everything, O mendicants, is burning. +With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning +with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. +It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, +grief, lamentation, suffering and despair. . . . A disciple, . . . +becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. +By absence of passion, he is made free.'") + + + # To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service. # +I once knew a teacher, +Who turned from desire, +Who said to the young men +"Wine is a fire." +Who said to the merchants: -- +"Gold is a flame +That sears and tortures +If you play at the game." +I once knew a teacher +Who turned from desire +Who said to the soldiers, +"Hate is a fire." +Who said to the statesmen: -- +"Power is a flame +That flays and blisters +If you play at the game." +I once knew a teacher +Who turned from desire, +Who said to the lordly, + +"Pride is a fire." +Who thus warned the revellers: -- +"Life is a flame. +Be cold as the dew +Would you win at the game +With hearts like the stars, +With hearts like the stars." + # Interrupting very loudly for the last time. # +SO BEWARE, +SO BEWARE, +SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE. +Clear the streets, +BOOM, BOOM, +Clear the streets, +BOOM, BOOM, +GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, +GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, +LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED +IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. +SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE +TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE: -- +"THERE GOES THE ALARM, +THERE GOES THE ALARM. +THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, +THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, +AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER'S IRON ARM." +CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . +CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. . . . +CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . +CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. . . . +CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . +CLANG . . . CLANG . . . *CLANG*. . . . + + + + +The Master of the Dance + + + +A chant to which it is intended a group of children +shall dance and improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher. + + + I + +A master deep-eyed +Ere his manhood was ripe, +He sang like a thrush, +He could play any pipe. +So dull in the school +That he scarcely could spell, +He read but a bit, +And he figured not well. +A bare-footed fool, +Shod only with grace; +Long hair streaming down +Round a wind-hardened face; +He smiled like a girl, +Or like clear winter skies, +A virginal light +Making stars of his eyes. +In swiftness and poise, +A proud child of the deer, +A white fawn he was, +Yet a fawn without fear. +No youth thought him vain, +Or made mock of his hair, +Or laughed when his ways +Were most curiously fair. +A mastiff at fight, +He could strike to the earth +The envious one +Who would challenge his worth. +However we bowed +To the schoolmaster mild, +Our spirits went out +To the fawn-footed child. +His beckoning led +Our troop to the brush. +We found nothing there +But a wind and a hush. +He sat by a stone +And he looked on the ground, +As if in the weeds +There was something profound. +His pipe seemed to neigh, +Then to bleat like a sheep, +Then sound like a stream +Or a waterfall deep. +It whispered strange tales, +Human words it spoke not. +Told fair things to come, +And our marvellous lot +If now with fawn-steps +Unshod we advanced +To the midst of the grove +And in reverence danced. +We obeyed as he piped +Soft grass to young feet, +Was a medicine mighty, +A remedy meet. +Our thin blood awoke, +It grew dizzy and wild, +Though scarcely a word +Moved the lips of a child. +Our dance gave allegiance, +It set us apart, +We tripped a strange measure, +Uplifted of heart. + + + II + +We thought to be proud +Of our fawn everywhere. +We could hardly see how +Simple books were a care. +No rule of the school +This strange student could tame. +He was banished one day, +While we quivered with shame. +He piped back our love +On a moon-silvered night, +Enticed us once more +To the place of delight. +A greeting he sang +And it made our blood beat, +It tramped upon custom +And mocked at defeat. +He builded a fire +And we tripped in a ring, +The embers our books +And the fawn our good king. +And now we approached +All the mysteries rare +That shadowed his eyelids +And blew through his hair. +That spell now was peace +The deep strength of the trees, +The children of nature +We clambered her knees. +Our breath and our moods +Were in tune with her own, +Tremendous her presence, +Eternal her throne. +The ostracized child +Our white foreheads kissed, +Our bodies and souls +Became lighter than mist. +Sweet dresses like snow +Our small lady-loves wore, +Like moonlight the thoughts +That our bosoms upbore. +Like a lily the touch +Of each cold little hand. +The loves of the stars +We could now understand. +O quivering air! +O the crystalline night! +O pauses of awe +And the faces swan-white! +O ferns in the dusk! +O forest-shrined hour! +O earth that sent upward +The thrill and the power, +To lift us like leaves, +A delirious whirl, +The masterful boy +And the delicate girl! +What child that strange night-time +Can ever forget? +His fealty due +And his infinite debt +To the folly divine, +To the exquisite rule +Of the perilous master, +The fawn-footed fool? + + + III + +Now soldiers we seem, +And night brings a new thing, +A terrible ire, +As of thunder awing. +A warrior power, +That old chivalry stirred, +When knights took up arms, +As the maidens gave word. +THE END OF OUR WAR, +WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD. +WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT +BUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD! +*Near, nearer that war, +And that ecstasy comes, +We hear the trees beating +Invisible drums. +The fields of the night +Are starlit above, +Our girls are white torches +Of conquest and love. +No nerve without will, +And no breast without breath, +We whirl with the planets +That never know death!* + + + + +The Mysterious Cat + + + +A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture +painted by George Mather Richards. + + +I saw a proud, mysterious cat, +I saw a proud, mysterious cat +Too proud to catch a mouse or rat -- +Mew, mew, mew. + +But catnip she would eat, and purr, +But catnip she would eat, and purr. +And goldfish she did much prefer -- +Mew, mew, mew. + +I saw a cat -- 'twas but a dream, +I saw a cat -- 'twas but a dream +Who scorned the slave that brought her cream -- +Mew, mew, mew. + +Unless the slave were dressed in style, +Unless the slave were dressed in style +And knelt before her all the while -- +Mew, mew, mew. + +Did you ever hear of a thing like that? +Did you ever hear of a thing like that? +Did you ever hear of a thing like that? +Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. +Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. +Oh, what a proud mysterious cat. +Mew . . . mew . . . mew. + + + + +A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten + + + +To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken +in a snappy, matter-of-fact way. + + +Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. +Here lies a kitten good, who kept +A kitten's proper place. +He stole no pantry eatables, +Nor scratched the baby's face. +*He let the alley-cats alone*. +He had no yowling vice. +His shirt was always laundried well, +He freed the house of mice. +Until his death he had not caused +His little mistress tears, +He wore his ribbon prettily, +*He washed behind his ears*. +Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. + + + + +Yankee Doodle + + + +This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting +on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, +more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment +on the evening of Washington's Birthday. + + +Dawn this morning burned all red +Watching them in wonder. +There I saw our spangled flag +Divide the clouds asunder. +Then there followed Washington. +Ah, he rode from glory, +Cold and mighty as his name +And stern as Freedom's story. +Unsubdued by burning dawn +Led his continentals. +Vast they were, and strange to see +In gray old regimentals: -- +Marching still with bleeding feet, +Bleeding feet and jesting -- +Marching from the judgment throne +With energy unresting. +How their merry quickstep played -- +Silver, sharp, sonorous, +Piercing through with prophecy +The demons' rumbling chorus -- +Behold the ancient powers of sin +And slavery before them! -- +Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, +The pit-black clouds hung o'er them. +Plagues that rose to blast the day +Fiend and tiger faces, +Monsters plotting bloodshed for +The patient toiling races. +Round the dawn their cannon raged, +Hurling bolts of thunder, +Yet before our spangled flag +Their host was cut asunder. +Like a mist they fled away. . . . +Ended wrath and roaring. +Still our restless soldier-host +From East to West went pouring. + +High beside the sun of noon +They bore our banner splendid. +All its days of stain and shame +And heaviness were ended. +Men were swelling now the throng +From great and lowly station -- +Valiant citizens to-day +Of every tribe and nation. +Not till night their rear-guard came, +Down the west went marching, +And left behind the sunset-rays +In beauty overarching. +War-god banners lead us still, +Rob, enslave and harry +Let us rather choose to-day +The flag the angels carry -- +Flag we love, but brighter far -- +Soul of it made splendid: +Let its days of stain and shame +And heaviness be ended. +Let its fifes fill all the sky, +Redeemed souls marching after, +Hills and mountains shake with song, +While seas roll on in laughter. + + + + +The Black Hawk War of the Artists + + Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois + + + +To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry. + + +Hawk of the Rocks, +Yours is our cause to-day. +Watching your foes +Here in our war array, +Young men we stand, +Wolves of the West at bay. + *Power, power for war + Comes from these trees divine; + Power from the boughs, + Boughs where the dew-beads shine, + Power from the cones -- + Yea, from the breath of the pine!* + +Power to restore +All that the white hand mars. +See the dead east +Crushed with the iron cars -- +Chimneys black +Blinding the sun and stars! + +Hawk of the pines, +Hawk of the plain-winds fleet, +You shall be king +There in the iron street, +Factory and forge +Trodden beneath your feet. + +There will proud trees +Grow as they grow by streams. +There will proud thoughts +Walk as in warrior dreams. +There will proud deeds +Bloom as when battle gleams! + +Warriors of Art, +We will hold council there, +Hewing in stone +Things to the trapper fair, +Painting the gray +Veils that the spring moons wear, +This our revenge, +This one tremendous change: +Making new towns, +Lit with a star-fire strange, +Wild as the dawn +Gilding the bison-range. + +All the young men +Chanting your cause that day, +Red-men, new-made +Out of the Saxon clay, +Strong and redeemed, +Bold in your war-array! + + + + +The Jingo and the Minstrel + + An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill + with the Japanese People + + + +Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty: Jimmu Tenno, +ancestor of all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; +Iyeyasu, her greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; +The Forty-seven Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; +Fuji, her most beautiful mountain. + + + # The minstrel speaks. # +"Now do you know of Avalon + That sailors call Japan? +She holds as rare a chivalry + As ever bled for man. +King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hill + Where Iyeyasu lies, +And there the broad Pendragon flag + In deathless splendor flies." + + # The jingo answers. # +*"Nay, minstrel, but the great ships come + From out the sunset sea. +We cannot greet the souls they bring + With welcome high and free. +How can the Nippon nondescripts + That weird and dreadful band +Be aught but what we find them here: -- + The blasters of the land?"* + + # The minstrel replies. # +"First race, first men from anywhere + To face you, eye to eye. +For *that* do you curse Avalon + And raise a hue and cry? +These toilers cannot kiss your hand, + Or fawn with hearts bowed down. +Be glad for them, and Avalon, + And Arthur's ghostly crown. + +"No doubt your guests, with sage debate + In grave things gentlemen +Will let your trade and farms alone + And turn them back again. +But why should brawling braggarts rise + With hasty words of shame +To drive them back like dogs and swine + Who in due honor came?" + + # The jingo answers. # +*"We cannot give them honor, sir. + We give them scorn for scorn. +And Rumor steals around the world + All white-skinned men to warn +Against this sleek silk-merchant here + And viler coolie-man +And wrath within the courts of war + Brews on against Japan!"* + + # The minstrel replies. # +"Must Avalon, with hope forlorn, + Her back against the wall, +Have lived her brilliant life in vain + While ruder tribes take all? +Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts, + A ghost with spear and crown, +Behind the great Pendragon flag + And be again cut down? + +"Tho Europe's self shall move against + High Jimmu Tenno's throne +The Forty-seven Ronin Men + Will not be found alone. +For Percival and Bedivere + And Nogi side by side +Will stand, -- with mourning Merlin there, + Tho all go down in pride. + +"But has the world the envious dream -- + Ah, such things cannot be, -- +To tear their fairy-land like silk + And toss it in the sea? +Must venom rob the future day + The ultimate world-man +Of rare Bushido, code of codes, + The fair heart of Japan? + +"Go, be the guest of Avalon. + Believe me, it lies there +Behind the mighty gray sea-wall + Where heathen bend in prayer: +Where peasants lift adoring eyes + To Fuji's crown of snow. +King Arthur's knights will be your hosts, + So cleanse your heart, and go. + +"And you will find but gardens sweet + Prepared beyond the seas, +And you will find but gentlefolk + Beneath the cherry-trees. +So walk you worthy of your Christ + Tho church bells do not sound, +And weave the bands of brotherhood + On Jimmu Tenno's ground." + + + + +I Heard Immanuel Singing + + + +(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart +in Heaven.) + +This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, +to the well-known tune: -- + + "Last night I lay a-sleeping, + There came a dream so fair, + I stood in Old Jerusalem + Beside the temple there, --" etc. + +Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily. It is here given +to suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it. + + + # To be sung. # +I heard Immanuel singing +Within his own good lands, +I saw him bend above his harp. +I watched his wandering hands +Lost amid the harp-strings; +Sweet, sweet I heard him play. +His wounds were altogether healed. +Old things had passed away. + +All things were new, but music. +The blood of David ran +Within the Son of David, +Our God, the Son of Man. +He was ruddy like a shepherd. +His bold young face, how fair. +Apollo of the silver bow +Had not such flowing hair. + + # To be read very softly, but in spirited response. # +I saw Immanuel singing +On a tree-girdled hill. +The glad remembering branches +Dimly echoed still +The grand new song proclaiming +The Lamb that had been slain. +New-built, the Holy City +Gleamed in the murmuring plain. + +The crowning hours were over. +The pageants all were past. +Within the many mansions +The hosts, grown still at last, +In homes of holy mystery +Slept long by crooning springs +Or waked to peaceful glory, +A universe of Kings. + + # To be sung. # +He left his people happy. +He wandered free to sigh +Alone in lowly friendship +With the green grass and the sky. +He murmured ancient music +His red heart burned to sing +Because his perfect conquest +Had grown a weary thing. + +No chant of gilded triumph -- +His lonely song was made +Of Art's deliberate freedom; +Of minor chords arrayed +In soft and shadowy colors +That once were radiant flowers: -- +The Rose of Sharon, bleeding +In Olive-shadowed bowers: -- + +And all the other roses +In the songs of East and West +Of love and war and worshipping, +And every shield and crest +Of thistle or of lotus +Or sacred lily wrought +In creeds and psalms and palaces +And temples of white thought: -- + + # To be read very softly, yet in spirited response. # +All these he sang, half-smiling +And weeping as he smiled, +Laughing, talking to his harp +As to a new-born child: -- +As though the arts forgotten +But bloomed to prophecy +These careless, fearless harp-strings, +New-crying in the sky. + # To be sung. # +"When this his hour of sorrow +For flowers and Arts of men +Has passed in ghostly music," +I asked my wild heart then -- +What will he sing to-morrow, +What wonder, all his own +Alone, set free, rejoicing, +With a green hill for his throne? +What will he sing to-morrow +What wonder all his own +Alone, set free, rejoicing, +With a green hill for his throne? + + + + + + Second Section + + Incense + + + + + +An Argument + + + + I. The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias + +We find your soft Utopias as white +As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells, +O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are +How human breasts adore alarum bells. +You house us in a hive of prigs and saints +Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law. +I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore +Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. +Promise us all our share in Agincourt +Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death, +That future ant-hills will not be too good +For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. +Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-war +Man's deathless soul will hack and hew its way, +Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fate +Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. +Never a shallow jester any more! +Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. +Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise +And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain. + + + II. The Rhymer's Reply. Incense and Splendor + +Incense and Splendor haunt me as I go. +Though my good works have been, alas, too few, +Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me, +And future ages pass in tall review. +I see the years to come as armies vast, +Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. +MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born, +Flame-like to hover o'er the moil and grime, +Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone, +Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn -- +Laying new, precious pavements with a song, +Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. +I have seen lovers by those new-built walls +Clothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red. +Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love +Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. +Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers. +Passion was turned to civic strength that day -- +Piling the marbles, making fairer domes +With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. +I have seen priestesses of life go by +Gliding in samite through the incense-sea -- +Innocent children marching with them there, +Singing in flowered robes, "THE EARTH IS FREE": +While on the fair, deep-carved unfinished towers +Sentinels watched in armor, night and day -- +Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream -- +Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array! + + + + +A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertising Sign + + + +I look on the specious electrical light +Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, +Wickedly red or malignantly green +Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen. +Showing, while millions of souls hurry on, +The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn, +By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl, +Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl, +By maggoty motions in sickening line +Proclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine, +While there far above the steep cliffs of the street +The stars sing a message elusive and sweet. + +Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toil +His clumsy contraptions of coil upon coil +Till the thing he invents, in its use and its range, +Leads on to the marvellous CHANGE BEYOND CHANGE. +Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, +As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise. +And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, +Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. +The signs in the street and the signs in the skies +Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, +And Broadway make one with that marvellous stair +That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer. + + + + +In Memory of a Child + + + +The angels guide him now, +And watch his curly head, +And lead him in their games, +The little boy we led. + +He cannot come to harm, +He knows more than we know, +His light is brighter far +Than daytime here below. + +His path leads on and on, +Through pleasant lawns and flowers, +His brown eyes open wide +At grass more green than ours. + +With playmates like himself, +The shining boy will sing, +Exploring wondrous woods, +Sweet with eternal spring. + + + + +Galahad, Knight Who Perished + + A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and Interstate + Traffic in Young Girls + + + +Galahad . . . soldier that perished . . . ages ago, +Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow. +Galahad . . . knight who perished . . . awaken again, +Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men. +Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea, +We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free. +Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace, +Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face +Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land, +Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand. +Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red! +Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head! +Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower, +Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power. +Leave not life's fairest to perish -- strangers to thee, +Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea! + + + + +The Leaden-eyed + + + +Let not young souls be smothered out before +They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride. +It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull, +Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed. +Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly, +Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap, +Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve, +Not that they die, but that they die like sheep. + + + + +An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie + + + + (In the Beginning) + +The sun is a huntress young, +The sun is a red, red joy, +The sun is an Indian girl, +Of the tribe of the Illinois. + + + (Mid-morning) + +The sun is a smouldering fire, +That creeps through the high gray plain, +And leaves not a bush of cloud +To blossom with flowers of rain. + + + (Noon) + +The sun is a wounded deer, +That treads pale grass in the skies, +Shaking his golden horns, +Flashing his baleful eyes. + + + (Sunset) + +The sun is an eagle old, +There in the windless west. +Atop of the spirit-cliffs +He builds him a crimson nest. + + + + +The Hearth Eternal + + + +There dwelt a widow learned and devout, +Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill. +Three sons she had, who went to find the world. +They promised to return, but wandered still. +The cities used them well, they won their way, +Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs. +Worn out with honors, and apart from her, +They died as many a self-made exile dies. +The mother had a hearth that would not quench, +The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom. +She said to us who came with wondering eyes -- +"This is a magic fire, a magic room." +The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on, +Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade, +And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light. +The neighbors peering in were half afraid. +Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came, +One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor. +They left a naked stone, but how it blazed! +And in the thunderstorm it flared the more. +And now it was that men were heard to say, +"This light should be beloved by all the town." +At last they made the slope a place of prayer, +Where marvellous thoughts from God came sweeping down. +They left their churches crumbling in the sun, +They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood; +One strength and valor only, one delight, +One laughing, brooding genius, great and good. +Now many gray-haired prodigals come home, +The place out-flames the cities of the land, +And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar, +With subtle eyes prepared to understand. +Higher and higher burns the eastern steep, +Showing the roads that march from every place, +A steady beacon o'er the weary leagues, +At dead of night it lights the traveller's face! +Thus has the widow conquered half the earth, +She who increased in faith, though all alone, +Who kept her empty house a magic place, +Has made the town a holy angel's throne. + + + + +The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit + + A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois + + + +Censers are swinging +Over the town; +Censers are swinging, +Look overhead! +Censers are swinging, +Heaven comes down. +City, dead city, +Awake from the dead! + +Censers, tremendous, +Gleam overhead. +Wind-harps are ringing, +Wind-harps unseen -- +Calling and calling: -- +"Wake from the dead. +Rise, little city, +Shine like a queen." + +Soldiers of Christ +For battle grow keen. +Heaven-sent winds +Haunt alley and lane. +Singing of life +In town-meadows green +After the toil +And battle and pain. + +Incense is pouring +Like the spring rain +Down on the mob +That moil through the street. +Blessed are they +Who behold it and gain +Power made more mighty +Thro' every defeat. + +Builders, toil on. +Make all complete. +Make Springfield wonderful. +Make her renown +Worthy this day, +Till, at God's feet, +Tranced, saved forever, +Waits the white town. + +Censers are swinging +Over the town, +Censers gigantic! +Look overhead! +Hear the winds singing: -- +"Heaven comes down. +City, dead city, +Awake from the dead." + + + + +By the Spring, at Sunset + + + +Sometimes we remember kisses, +Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: +Not always, but sometimes we remember +The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame +Of laughter and farewell. + + Beside the road +Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write, +Far from my city task, my lawful load. + +Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder, +Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night +Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder +Make bold my soul for some new wise delight. + +I write the day's event, and quench my drouth, +Pausing beside the spring with happy mind. +And now I feel those kisses on my mouth, +Hers most of all, one little friend most kind. + + + + +I Went down into the Desert + + + +I went down into the desert +To meet Elijah -- +Arisen from the dead. +I thought to find him in an echoing cave; +*For so my dream had said*. + +I went down into the desert +To meet John the Baptist. +I walked with feet that bled, +Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold. +*I spied foul fiends instead*. + +I went down into the desert +To meet my God. +By him be comforted. +I went down into the desert +To meet my God. +*And I met the devil in red*. + +I went down into the desert +To meet my God. +O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead! +I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground, +I see you there, half-buried in the sand. +I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, +*The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head*. + + + + +Love and Law + + + +True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance +In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain. +The workman lays wearily granite on granite, +And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain. + +Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, +Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone. +'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion. +With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne. + + + + +The Perfect Marriage + + + + I + +I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: +Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone. +Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine -- +Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine: +Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none; +Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one). + + + II + +We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweet +No longer turning to the tryst with flying feet. +We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloom +And tenderness of passion's touch, and in its room +Will come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom. +Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life! +Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife. +Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come -- +It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum, +The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag -- +And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag. + + + III + +We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can -- +Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. +Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. +It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air -- +It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh -- +It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; +It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows +Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. +It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, +And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems +A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, +Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. +But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, +The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. +Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, +Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark -- +Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange +Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change. + + + IV + +Love? . . . we will scarcely love our babes full many a time -- +Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime -- +And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes -- +Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise. +Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial -- +And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile -- +We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play, +Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay -- +As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild, +True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled! + + + + +Darling Daughter of Babylon + + + +Too soon you wearied of our tears. +And then you danced with spangled feet, +Leading Belshazzar's chattering court +A-tinkling through the shadowy street. +With mead they came, with chants of shame. +DESIRE'S red flag before them flew. +And Istar's music moved your mouth +And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you. + +Now you could drive the royal car; +Forget our Nation's breaking load: +Now you could sleep on silver beds -- +(Bitter and dark was our abode.) +And so, for many a night you laughed, +And knew not of my hopeless prayer, +Till God's own spirit whipped you forth +From Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair. + +Darling daughter of Babylon -- +Rose by the black Euphrates flood -- +Again your beauty grew more dear +Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. +We sang of Zion, good to know, +Where righteousness and peace abide. . . . +What of your second sacrilege +Carousing at Belshazzar's side? + +Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands -- +Your paint and henna washed away. +Your place, you said, was with the slaves +Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. +You were a pale and holy maid +Toil-bound with us. One night you said: -- +"Your God shall be my God until +I slumber with the patriarch dead." + +Pardon, daughter of Babylon, +If, on this night remembering +Our lover walks under the walls +Of hanging gardens in the spring, +A venom comes from broken hope, +From memories of your comrade-song +Until I curse your painted eyes +And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. + + + + +The Amaranth + + + +Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here. . . . +Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns +And the tremendous Amaranth descends +Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns? + +Does it not mean my God would have me say: -- +"Whether you will or no, O city young, +Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, +Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?" + +Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep. +Such things I see, and some of them shall come +Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray, +Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb. +Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise. +Naught can delay it. Though it may not be +Just as I dream, it comes at last I know +With streets like channels of an incense-sea. + + + + +The Alchemist's Petition + + + +Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life +My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep +Like a white statue dropped into the deep, +Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold, +And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold. + +But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in Hell +My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth -- +In such unquenched desires consumed his youth -- +Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall, +Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall -- + Amen. + + + + +Two Easter Stanzas + + + + I + + The Hope of the Resurrection + + +Though I have watched so many mourners weep +O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep -- +Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days +That passed and left me in the sun's bright rays. +Now though you go on smiling in the sun +Our love is slain, and love and you were one. +You are the first, you I have known so long, +Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong. +Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right +Amid the lilies and the candle-light. +I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear +We two may meet, confused and parted here. +Ah, when man's dearest dies, 'tis then he goes +To that old balm that heals the centuries' woes. +Then Christ's wild cry in all the streets is rife: -- +"I am the Resurrection and the Life." + + + + II + + We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not + + +Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning, +I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, +With golden hope my spirit still adorning. + +Our God who made you all so fair and sweet +Is three times gentle, and before his feet +Rejoicing I shall say: -- "The girl you gave +Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save. +Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath +Is worth this rescue from the Second Death, +Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too +That scorned my graceless years and trophies few. +Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned +Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned. +We now as comrades through the stars may take +The rich and arduous quests I did forsake. +Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng +And quickly find that woman-soul so strong. +I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart +Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart, +A brooding secret mercy like your own +That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne. + + + + +The Traveller-heart + + (To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible + Manner of Interment) + + + +I would be one with the dark, dark earth: -- +Follow the plough with a yokel tread. +I would be part of the Indian corn, +Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead. + +I would be one with the lavish earth, +Eating the bee-stung apples red: +Walking where lambs walk on the hills; +By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. + +I would be one with the dark-bright night +When sparkling skies and the lightning wed -- +Walking on with the vicious wind +By roads whence even the dogs have fled. + +I would be one with the sacred earth +On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. +Terror shall put no spears through me. +Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. + +I shall be one with all pit-black things +Finding their lowering threat unsaid: +Stars for my pillow there in the gloom, -- +Oak-roots arching about my head! + +Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, +Acorns fall round my breast that bled. +Children shall weave there a flowery chain, +Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed: -- + +Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, +Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: +Sweet with the life of my sunburned days +When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red. + + + + +The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son + + + +The North Star whispers: "You are one +Of those whose course no chance can change. +You blunder, but are not undone, +Your spirit-task is fixed and strange. + +"When here you walk, a bloodless shade, +A singer all men else forget. +Your chants of hammer, forge and spade +Will move the prairie-village yet. + +"That young, stiff-necked, reviling town +Beholds your fancies on her walls, +And paints them out or tears them down, +Or bars them from her feasting-halls. + +"Yet shall the fragments still remain; +Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong +That ivy-vines will not disdain, +Haunted and trembling with your song. + +"Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn, +Flame high in storms, flame white and clear; +Your ghost in gleaming robes return +And burn a deathless incense here." + + + + + + Third Section + + A Miscellany called "the Christmas Tree" + + + + + +This Section is a Christmas Tree + + + +This section is a Christmas tree: +Loaded with pretty toys for you. +Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, +The popguns painted red and blue. +No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, +But silver horns and candy sacks +And many little tinsel hearts +And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks. +For every child a gift, I hope. +The doll upon the topmost bough +Is mine. But all the rest are yours. +And I will light the candles now. + + + + +The Sun Says his Prayers + + + +"The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, +Or else he would wither and die. +"The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, +"For strength to climb up through the sky. +He leans on invisible angels, +And Faith is his prop and his rod. +The sky is his crystal cathedral. +And dawn is his altar to God." + + + + +Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were) + + + + I. The Lion + + +The Lion is a kingly beast. +He likes a Hindu for a feast. +And if no Hindu he can get, +The lion-family is upset. + +He cuffs his wife and bites her ears +Till she is nearly moved to tears. +Then some explorer finds the den +And all is family peace again. + + + + II. An Explanation of the Grasshopper + + +The Grasshopper, the grasshopper, +I will explain to you: -- +He is the Brownies' racehorse, +The fairies' Kangaroo. + + + + III. The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies + + +In fairyland the little boys +Would rather fight than eat their meals. +They like to chase a gauze-winged fly +And catch and beat him till he squeals. +Sometimes they come to sleeping men +Armed with the deadly red-rose thorn, +And those that feel its fearful wound +Repent the day that they were born. + + + + IV. The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down + + +The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down +Began his task in early life. +He kept so busy with his teeth +He had no time to take a wife. + +He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain +When the ambitious fit was on, +Then rested in the sawdust till +A month of idleness had gone. + +He did not move about to hunt +The coteries of mousie-men. +He was a snail-paced, stupid thing +Until he cared to gnaw again. + +The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down, +When that tough foe was at his feet -- +Found in the stump no angel-cake +Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat -- +The forest-roof let in the sky. +"This light is worth the work," said he. +"I'll make this ancient swamp more light," +And started on another tree. + + + + V. Parvenu + + +Where does Cinderella sleep? +By far-off day-dream river. +A secret place her burning Prince +Decks, while his heart-strings quiver. + +Homesick for our cinder world, +Her low-born shoulders shiver; +She longs for sleep in cinders curled -- +We, for the day-dream river. + + + + VI. The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly + + +Once I loved a spider +When I was born a fly, +A velvet-footed spider +With a gown of rainbow-dye. +She ate my wings and gloated. +She bound me with a hair. +She drove me to her parlor +Above her winding stair. +To educate young spiders +She took me all apart. +My ghost came back to haunt her. +I saw her eat my heart. + + + + VII. Crickets on a Strike + + +The foolish queen of fairyland +From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, +Gave command to her cricket-band +To play for her when the dew-drops fell. + +But the cold dew spoiled their instruments +And they play for the foolish queen no more. +Instead those sturdy malcontents +Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. + + + + +How a Little Girl Danced + + Dedicated to Lucy Bates + + (Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.) + + + +Oh, cabaret dancer, *I* know a dancer, +Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain. +*I* know a dancer, *I* know a dancer, +Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: +Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, +With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + +Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, +Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, +*I* know a dancer, *I* know a dancer, +Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, +A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, +With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain. + +Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, +Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: +I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, +A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein: -- +The music of God is her innermost brooding, +The whispering angels her footsteps sustain. + +Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing. +No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign. +You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, +A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane. +But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit +More white than Apollo and all of his train. + +I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, +Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain. +I know a dancer, I know a dancer, +Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: +Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, +With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain. + + + + +In Praise of Songs that Die + + After having read a Great Deal of Good Current Poetry + in the Magazines and Newspapers + + + +Ah, they are passing, passing by, +Wonderful songs, but born to die! +Cries from the infinite human seas, +Waves thrice-winged with harmonies. +Here I stand on a pier in the foam +Seeing the songs to the beach go home, +Dying in sand while the tide flows back, +As it flowed of old in its fated track. +Oh, hurrying tide that will not hear +Your own foam-children dying near: +Is there no refuge-house of song, +No home, no haven where songs belong? +Oh, precious hymns that come and go! +You perish, and I love you so! + + + + +Factory Windows are always Broken + + + +Factory windows are always broken. +Somebody's always throwing bricks, +Somebody's always heaving cinders, +Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. + +Factory windows are always broken. +Other windows are let alone. +No one throws through the chapel-window +The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. + +Factory windows are always broken. +Something or other is going wrong. +Something is rotten -- I think, in Denmark. +*End of the factory-window song*. + + + + +To Mary Pickford + + Moving-picture Actress + + (On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.) + + + +Mary Pickford, doll divine, +Year by year, and every day +At the moving-picture play, +You have been my valentine. + +Once a free-limbed page in hose, +Baby-Rosalind in flower, +Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour +How our reverent passion rose, +How our fine desire you won. +Kitchen-wench another day, +Shapeless, wooden every way. +Next, a fairy from the sun. + +Once you walked a grown-up strand +Fish-wife siren, full of lure, +Snaring with devices sure +Lads who murdered on the sand. +But on most days just a child +Dimpled as no grown-folk are, +Cold of kiss as some north star, +Violet from the valleys wild. +Snared as innocence must be, +Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead -- +At the end of tortures dread +Roaring cowboys set you free. + +Fly, O song, to her to-day, +Like a cowboy cross the land. +Snatch her from Belasco's hand +And that prison called Broadway. + +All the village swains await +One dear lily-girl demure, +Saucy, dancing, cold and pure, +Elf who must return in state. + + + + +Blanche Sweet + + Moving-picture Actress + + (After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".) + + + +Beauty has a throne-room +In our humorous town, +Spoiling its hob-goblins, +Laughing shadows down. +Rank musicians torture +Ragtime ballads vile, +But we walk serenely +Down the odorous aisle. +We forgive the squalor +And the boom and squeal +For the Great Queen flashes +From the moving reel. + +Just a prim blonde stranger +In her early day, +Hiding brilliant weapons, +Too averse to play, +Then she burst upon us +Dancing through the night. +Oh, her maiden radiance, +Veils and roses white. +With new powers, yet cautious, +Not too smart or skilled, +That first flash of dancing +Wrought the thing she willed: -- +Mobs of us made noble +By her strong desire, +By her white, uplifting, +Royal romance-fire. + +Though the tin piano +Snarls its tango rude, +Though the chairs are shaky +And the dramas crude, +Solemn are her motions, +Stately are her wiles, +Filling oafs with wisdom, +Saving souls with smiles; +'Mid the restless actors +She is rich and slow. +She will stand like marble, +She will pause and glow, +Though the film is twitching, +Keep a peaceful reign, +Ruler of her passion, +Ruler of our pain! + + + + +Sunshine + + For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old. Catharine Frazee Wakefield. + + + +The sun gives not directly + The coal, the diamond crown; +Not in a special basket + Are these from Heaven let down. + +The sun gives not directly + The plough, man's iron friend; +Not by a path or stairway + Do tools from Heaven descend. + +Yet sunshine fashions all things + That cut or burn or fly; +And corn that seems upon the earth + Is made in the hot sky. + +The gravel of the roadbed, + The metal of the gun, +The engine of the airship + Trace somehow from the sun. + +And so your soul, my lady -- + (Mere sunshine, nothing more) -- +Prepares me the contraptions + I work with or adore. + +Within me cornfields rustle, + Niagaras roar their way, +Vast thunderstorms and rainbows + Are in my thought to-day. + +Ten thousand anvils sound there + By forges flaming white, +And many books I read there, + And many books I write; + +And freedom's bells are ringing, + And bird-choirs chant and fly -- +The whole world works in me to-day + And all the shining sky, + +Because of one small lady + Whose smile is my chief sun. +She gives not any gift to me + Yet all gifts, giving one. . . . + Amen. + + + + +An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic + + + +Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, +The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. +It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small, +And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all. +And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink, +And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think." +And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, +The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more. +O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way -- +All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day, +And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom, +And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. +And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, +And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite, +My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine +Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line. +I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair, +They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. +The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew, +O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew! + + + + +When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich + + + +He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour +Just to invent a fancy style +To spread the celebration paint +So it would show at least a mile. + +Some things they did I will not tell. +They're not quite proper for a rhyme. +But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede +Did sure invent a sunflower time. + +One thing they did that I can tell +And not offend the ladies here: -- +They took a goat to Simp's Saloon +And made it take a bath in beer. + +That ENTERprise took MANagement. +They broke a wash-tub in the fray. +But mister goat was bathed all right +And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say. + +They wore girls' pink straw hats to church +And clucked like hens. They surely did. +They bought two HOtel frying pans +And in them down the mountain slid. + +They went to Denver in good clothes, +And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake, +And cut about like jumping-jacks, +And ordered seven-dollar steak. + +They had the waiters whirling round +Just sweeping up the smear and smash. +They tried to buy the State-house flag. +They showed the Janitor the cash. + +And old Dan Tucker on a toot, +Or John Paul Jones before the breeze, +Or Indians eating fat fried dog, +Were not as happy babes as these. + +One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek +With cheerful swears the two awoke. +The Swede had twenty cents, all right. +But Gassy Thompson was clean broke. + + + + +Rhymes for Gloriana + + + + I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough + + +This doll upon the topmost bough, +This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, +Was taken down and brought to me +One sleety night most comfortless. + +Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash +Was gray brocade, most good to see. +The dear toy laughed, and I forgot +The ill the new year promised me. + + + + II. On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused + + +Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk -- +Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure: +A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger: -- +Here in my study you sing me a measure. + +Whimsy and song in my little gray study! +Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness, +Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter, +Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!" + +Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness, +Trusting her insights, ardent for living; +She would be weeping with me and be laughing, +A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!" + + + + III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters + + +Your pen needs but a ruffle +To be Pavlova whirling. +It surely is a scalawag +A-scamping down the page. +A pretty little May-wind +The morning buds uncurling. +And then the white sweet Russian, +The dancer of the age. + +Your pen's the Queen of Sheba, +Such serious questions bringing, +That merry rascal Solomon +Would show a sober face: -- +And then again Pavlova +To set our spirits singing, +The snowy-swan bacchante +All glamour, glee and grace. + + + + IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair + + +The gleaming head of one fine friend +Is bent above my little song, +So through the treasure-pits of Heaven +In fancy's shoes, I march along. + +I wander, seek and peer and ponder +In Splendor's last ensnaring lair -- +'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns +Where noble chariots gleam and flare: + +Amid the spirit-coins and gems, +The plates and cups and helms of fire -- +The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven -- +Where angel-misers slake desire! + +O endless treasure-pits of gold +Where silly angel-men make mirth -- +I think that I am there this hour, +Though walking in the ways of earth! + + + + + + Fourth Section + + Twenty Poems in which the Moon is the Principal Figure of Speech + + + + + +Once More -- To Gloriana + + + +Girl with the burning golden eyes, +And red-bird song, and snowy throat: +I bring you gold and silver moons +And diamond stars, and mists that float. +I bring you moons and snowy clouds, +I bring you prairie skies to-night +To feebly praise your golden eyes +And red-bird song, and throat so white. + + + + + First Section: Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children + + + +I. Euclid + + +Old Euclid drew a circle +On a sand-beach long ago. +He bounded and enclosed it +With angles thus and so. +His set of solemn greybeards +Nodded and argued much +Of arc and of circumference, +Diameter and such. +A silent child stood by them +From morning until noon +Because they drew such charming +Round pictures of the moon. + + + +II. The Haughty Snail-king + + (What Uncle William told the Children) + + +Twelve snails went walking after night. +They'd creep an inch or so, +Then stop and bug their eyes +And blow. +Some folks . . . are . . . deadly . . . slow. +Twelve snails went walking yestereve, +Led by their fat old king. +They were so dull their princeling had +No sceptre, robe or ring -- +Only a paper cap to wear +When nightly journeying. + +This king-snail said: "I feel a thought +Within. . . . It blossoms soon. . . . +O little courtiers of mine, . . . +I crave a pretty boon. . . . +Oh, yes . . . (High thoughts with effort come +And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.) +"I wish I had a yellow crown +As glistering . . . as . . . the moon." + + + +III. What the Rattlesnake Said + + +The moon's a little prairie-dog. +He shivers through the night. +He sits upon his hill and cries +For fear that *I* will bite. + +The sun's a broncho. He's afraid +Like every other thing, +And trembles, morning, noon and night, +Lest *I* should spring, and sting. + + + +IV. The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky + + (What the Little Girl Said) + + +The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. +He bites it, day by day, +Until there's but a rim of scraps +That crumble all away. + +The South Wind is a baker. +He kneads clouds in his den, +And bakes a crisp new moon *that . . . greedy +North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!* + + + +V. Drying their Wings + + (What the Carpenter Said) + + +The moon's a cottage with a door. +Some folks can see it plain. +Look, you may catch a glint of light, +A sparkle through the pane, +Showing the place is brighter still +Within, though bright without. +There, at a cosy open fire +Strange babes are grouped about. +The children of the wind and tide -- +The urchins of the sky, +Drying their wings from storms and things +So they again can fly. + + + +VI. What the Gray-winged Fairy Said + + +The moon's a gong, hung in the wild, +Whose song the fays hold dear. +Of course you do not hear it, child. +It takes a FAIRY ear. + +The full moon is a splendid gong +That beats as night grows still. +It sounds above the evening song +Of dove or whippoorwill. + + + +VII. Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be + + (What Grandpa told the Children) + + +The moon? It is a griffin's egg, +Hatching to-morrow night. +And how the little boys will watch +With shouting and delight +To see him break the shell and stretch +And creep across the sky. +The boys will laugh. The little girls, +I fear, may hide and cry. +Yet gentle will the griffin be, +Most decorous and fat, +And walk up to the milky way +And lap it like a cat. + + + + + Second Section: The Moon is a Mirror + + + +I. Prologue. A Sense of Humor + + +No man should stand before the moon +To make sweet song thereon, +With dandified importance, +His sense of humor gone. + +Nay, let us don the motley cap, +The jester's chastened mien, +If we would woo that looking-glass +And see what should be seen. + +O mirror on fair Heaven's wall, +We find there what we bring. +So, let us smile in honest part +And deck our souls and sing. + +Yea, by the chastened jest alone +Will ghosts and terrors pass, +And fays, or suchlike friendly things, +Throw kisses through the glass. + + + +II. On the Garden-wall + + +Oh, once I walked a garden +In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass. +And many orange-trees grew there +In sand as white as glass. +The curving, wide wall-border +Was marble, like the snow. +I walked that wall a fairy-prince +And, pacing quaint and slow, +Beside me were my pages, +Two giant, friendly birds. +Half-swan they were, half peacock. +They spake in courtier-words. +Their inner wings a chariot, +Their outer wings for flight, +They lifted me from dreamland. +We bade those trees good-night. +Swiftly above the stars we rode. +I looked below me soon. +The white-walled garden I had ruled +Was one lone flower -- the moon. + + + +III. Written for a Musician + + +Hungry for music with a desperate hunger +I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town; +The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking, +Vulgar and pitiful -- my heart bowed down -- +Till I remembered duller hours made noble +By strangers clad in some surprising grace. +Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight +Appearing in some unexpected place +With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face. + + + +IV. The Moon is a Painter + + +He coveted her portrait. +He toiled as she grew gay. +She loved to see him labor +In that devoted way. + +And in the end it pleased her, +But bowed him more with care. +Her rose-smile showed so plainly, +Her soul-smile was not there. + +That night he groped without a lamp +To find a cloak, a book, +And on the vexing portrait +By moonrise chanced to look. + +The color-scheme was out of key, +The maiden rose-smile faint, +But through the blessed darkness +She gleamed, his friendly saint. + +The comrade, white, immortal, +His bride, and more than bride -- +The citizen, the sage of mind, +For whom he lived and died. + + + +V. The Encyclopaedia + + +"If I could set the moon upon +This table," said my friend, +"Among the standard poets +And brochures without end, +And noble prints of old Japan, +How empty they would seem, +By that encyclopaedia +Of whim and glittering dream." + + + +VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said + + +The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, +A wondrous water-feast. +If I could climb the ridge and drink +And give drink to my beast; +If I could drain that keg, the flies +Would not be biting so, +My burning feet be spry again, +My mule no longer slow. +And I could rise and dig for ore, +And reach my fatherland, +And not be food for ants and hawks +And perish in the sand. + + + +VII. What the Coal-heaver Said + + +The moon's an open furnace door +Where all can see the blast, +We shovel in our blackest griefs, +Upon that grate are cast +Our aching burdens, loves and fears +And underneath them wait +Paper and tar and pitch and pine +Called strife and blood and hate. + +Out of it all there comes a flame, +A splendid widening light. +Sorrow is turned to mystery +And Death into delight. + + + +VIII. What the Moon Saw + + +Two statesmen met by moonlight. +Their ease was partly feigned. +They glanced about the prairie. +Their faces were constrained. +In various ways aforetime +They had misled the state, +Yet did it so politely +Their henchmen thought them great. +They sat beneath a hedge and spake +No word, but had a smoke. +A satchel passed from hand to hand. +Next day, the deadlock broke. + + + +IX. What Semiramis Said + + +The moon's a steaming chalice + Of honey and venom-wine. +A little of it sipped by night + Makes the long hours divine. +But oh, my reckless lovers, + They drain the cup and wail, +Die at my feet with shaking limbs + And tender lips all pale. +Above them in the sky it bends + Empty and gray and dread. +To-morrow night 'tis full again, + Golden, and foaming red. + + + +X. What the Ghost of the Gambler Said + + +Where now the huts are empty, +Where never a camp-fire glows, +In an abandoned canyon, +A Gambler's Ghost arose. +He muttered there, "The moon's a sack +Of dust." His voice rose thin: +"I wish I knew the miner-man. +I'd play, and play to win. +In every game in Cripple-creek +Of old, when stakes were high, +I held my own. Now I would play +For that sack in the sky. +The sport would not be ended there. +'Twould rather be begun. +I'd bet my moon against his stars, +And gamble for the sun." + + + +XI. The Spice-tree + + +This is the song +The spice-tree sings: +"Hunger and fire, +Hunger and fire, +Sky-born Beauty -- +Spice of desire," +Under the spice-tree +Watch and wait, +Burning maidens +And lads that mate. + +The spice-tree spreads +And its boughs come down +Shadowing village and farm and town. +And none can see +But the pure of heart +The great green leaves +And the boughs descending, +And hear the song that is never ending. + +The deep roots whisper, +The branches say: -- +"Love to-morrow, +And love to-day, +And till Heaven's day, +And till Heaven's day." + +The moon is a bird's nest in its branches, +The moon is hung in its topmost spaces. +And there, to-night, two doves play house +While lovers watch with uplifted faces. +Two doves go home +To their nest, the moon. +It is woven of twigs of broken light, +With threads of scarlet and threads of gray +And a lining of down for silk delight. +To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves, +Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree; -- +And one is the kiss I took from you, +And one is the kiss you gave to me. + + + +XII. The Scissors-grinder + + (What the Tramp Said) + + +The old man had his box and wheel +For grinding knives and shears. +No doubt his bell in village streets +Was joy to children's ears. +And I bethought me of my youth +When such men came around, +And times I asked them in, quite sure +The scissors should be ground. +The old man turned and spoke to me, +His face at last in view. +And then I thought those curious eyes +Were eyes that once I knew. + +"The moon is but an emery-wheel +To whet the sword of God," +He said. "And here beside my fire +I stretch upon the sod +Each night, and dream, and watch the stars +And watch the ghost-clouds go. +And see that sword of God in Heaven +A-waving to and fro. +I see that sword each century, friend. +It means the world-war comes +With all its bloody, wicked chiefs +And hate-inflaming drums. +Men talk of peace, but I have seen +That emery-wheel turn round. +The voice of Abel cries again +To God from out the ground. +The ditches must flow red, the plague +Go stark and screaming by +Each time that sword of God takes edge +Within the midnight sky. +And those that scorned their brothers here +And sowed a wind of shame +Will reap the whirlwind as of old +And face relentless flame." + +And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, +His face at last in view. +*And there beside the railroad bridge +I saw the wandering Jew*. + + + +XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl + + +My lady in her white silk shawl + Is like a lily dim, +Within the twilight of the room + Enthroned and kind and prim. + +My lady! Pale gold is her hair. + Until she smiles her face +Is pale with far Hellenic moods, + With thoughts that find no place + +In our harsh village of the West + Wherein she lives of late, +She's distant as far-hidden stars, + And cold -- (almost!) -- as fate. + +But when she smiles she's here again + Rosy with comrade-cheer, +A Puritan Bacchante made + To laugh around the year. + +The merry gentle moon herself, + Heart-stirring too, like her, +Wakening wild and innocent love + In every worshipper. + + + +XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn + + +"Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. +"This tailor-shop sings not at all. +Chant me a word of the twilight, +Of roses that mourn in the fall. +Bring me a song like hashish +That will comfort the stale and the sad, +For I would be mending my spirit, +Forgetting these days that are bad, +Forgetting companions too shallow, +Their quarrels and arguments thin, +Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:" -- +"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + +"Bring me old wines," said Aladdin. +"I have been a starved pauper too long. +Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, +Serve them with fruit and with song: -- +Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans +Digged from beneath the black seas: -- +New-gathered dew from the heavens +Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees, +Cups from the angels' pale tables +That will make me both handsome and wise, +For I have beheld her, the princess, +Firelight and starlight her eyes. +Pauper I am, I would woo her. +And -- let me drink wine, to begin, +Though the Koran expressly forbids it." +"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + +"Plan me a dome," said Aladdin, +"That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON, +When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains, +Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon." +"Build me a dome," said Aladdin, +"That shall cause all young lovers to sigh, +The fullness of life and of beauty, +Peace beyond peace to the eye -- +A palace of foam and of opal, +Pure moonlight without and within, +Where I may enthrone my sweet lady." +"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn. + + + +XV. The Strength of the Lonely + + (What the Mendicant Said) + + +The moon's a monk, unmated, +Who walks his cell, the sky. +His strength is that of heaven-vowed men +Who all life's flames defy. + +They turn to stars or shadows, +They go like snow or dew -- +Leaving behind no sorrow -- +Only the arching blue. + + + + + + Fifth Section + + War. September 1, 1914 + Intended to be Read Aloud + + + + + +I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight + + (In Springfield, Illinois) + + + +It is portentous, and a thing of state +That here at midnight, in our little town +A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, +Near the old court-house pacing up and down, + +Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards +He lingers where his children used to play, +Or through the market, on the well-worn stones +He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. + +A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, +A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl +Make him the quaint great figure that men love, +The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. + +He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. +He is among us: -- as in times before! +And we who toss and lie awake for long +Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. + +His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. +Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? +Too many peasants fight, they know not why, +Too many homesteads in black terror weep. + +The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. +He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. +He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now +The bitterness, the folly and the pain. + +He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn +Shall come; -- the shining hope of Europe free: +The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, +Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. + +It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, +That all his hours of travail here for men +Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace +That he may sleep upon his hill again? + + + + +II. A Curse for Kings + + + +A curse upon each king who leads his state, +No matter what his plea, to this foul game, +And may it end his wicked dynasty, +And may he die in exile and black shame. + +If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, +What punishment could Heaven devise for these +Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, +And turn their murderers loose on all the seas! + +Put back the clock of time a thousand years, +And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen, +A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, +Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene + +In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, +Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; +While Science towers above; -- a witch, red-winged: +Science we looked to for the light of life. + +Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, +Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find +Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, +Each deadliest device against mankind. + +Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, +May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, +Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake, +And felon's stripes for medals and for braids. + +Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, +Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, +Who make the kind world but their game of cards, +Till millions die at turning of a hair. + +What punishment will Heaven devise for these +Who win by others' sweat and hardihood, +Who make men into stinking vultures' meat, +Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"? + +Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death +Should burn in utmost hell a million years! +-- Mothers of men go on the destined wrack +To give them life, with anguish and with tears: -- + +Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away? +Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, +And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: +These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings! + +All in the name of this or that grim flag, +No angel-flags in all the rag-array -- +Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings +And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day! + + + + +III. Who Knows? + + + +They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows? +They say one king is doddering and grey. +They say one king is slack and sick of mind, +A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play. + +Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place? +Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane? +Their place of maudlin, slavering conference +Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? + + + + +IV. To Buddha + + + +Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, +Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. +And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, +Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes? + +Good comrade and philosopher and prince, +Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, +Dare they to move against your pride benign, +Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind? + + * * * * * + +But what can Europe say, when in your name +The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red? +And what can Europe say, when with a laugh +Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead? + + + + +V. The Unpardonable Sin + + + +This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: -- +To speak of bloody power as right divine, +And call on God to guard each vile chief's house, +And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine: -- + +To go forth killing in White Mercy's name, +Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, +Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, +Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains. + +In any Church's name, to sack fair towns, +And turn each home into a screaming sty, +To make the little children fugitive, +And have their mothers for a quick death cry, -- + +This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: +This is the sin no purging can atone: -- +To send forth rapine in the name of Christ: -- +To set the face, and make the heart a stone. + + + + +VI. Above the Battle's Front + + + +St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John -- +Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, +Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, +And walked upon the water and the land, + +If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings +For sober conclave, ere their battle great, +Would they for one deep instant then discern +Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate? + +If you should float above the battle's front, +Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay, +Bearing a fifth within your regal train, +The Son of David in his strange array -- + +If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven, +Would they have hearts to see or understand? +. . . Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know, +Thorn-crowned above the water and the land. + + + + +VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings + + + +Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, +On sunny days have found you weak and still, +Though I have often held your girlish head +Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill: -- + +Under the blessing of your Psyche-wings +I hide to-night like one small broken bird, +So soothed I half-forget the world gone mad: -- +And all the winds of war are now unheard. + +My heaven-doubting pennons feel your hands +With touch most delicate so circling round, +That for an hour I dream that God is good. +And in your shadow, Mercy's ways abound. + +I thought myself the guard of your frail state, +And yet I come to-night a helpless guest, +Hiding beneath your giant Psyche-wings, +Against the pallor of your wondrous breast. + + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + +Biographical Note: + +Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931): + (Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with `Rachel'). + +"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known poems, +and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William Booth +Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914). + +Lindsay himself considered his drawings and his prose writings +to be as important as his verse, all coming together to form a whole. +His "Collected Poems" (1925) gives a good selection. + +---- + +From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917): + +"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, Ohio. +He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, Chicago, +1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time +after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical relation +to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, Illinois, +issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of +"The Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, +pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, +illustrated by his own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, +taking as scrip for the journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", +made a pilgrimage on foot through several Western States +going as far afield as New Mexico. The story of this journey is given +in his volume, "Adventures while Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". +Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention in poetry by "General William Booth +Enters into Heaven", a poem which became the title of his first volume, +in 1913. His second volume was "The Congo", published in 1914. +He is attempting to restore to poetry its early appeal as a spoken art, +and his later work differs greatly from the selections contained +in this anthology." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of The Congo & Other Poems, by Lindsay + diff --git a/old/old/cngop10.zip b/old/old/cngop10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a2a80e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/cngop10.zip |