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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/1246-0.txt b/1246-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11d1697 --- /dev/null +++ b/1246-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3189 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1246 *** + +THE HOUSE OF DUST + +A Symphony + + +By Conrad Aiken + + + + To Jessie + + + NOTE + + . . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American + Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am + indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" + in Part II. + + + + + +THE HOUSE OF DUST + + + + +PART I. + + + I. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces. + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; + We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky, + We have built a city of towers. + + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + + II. + + One, from his high bright window in a tower, + Leans out, as evening falls, + And sees the advancing curtain of the shower + Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: + Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, + And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, + Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, + And silver falling from eave and tree. + + One, from his high bright window, looking down, + Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, + And thinks its towers are like a dream. + The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, + Pale roofs begin to gleam. + + Looking down from a window high in a wall + He sees us all; + Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, + Searching the sky, and going our ways again, + Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . + There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees + What we are blind to,--we who mass and crowd + From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. + + The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, + Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; + Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. + The yellow lamps wink one by one again. + The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. + + + III. + + One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, + With wave upon slowly shattering wave, + Turned to the city of towers as evening fell; + And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; + And saw how the towers darkened against the sky; + And across the distance heard the toll of a bell. + + Along the darkening road he hurried alone, + With his eyes cast down, + And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, + With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . + And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown + Here in the quiet of evening air, + These empty and voiceless places . . . + And he hurried towards the city, to enter there. + + Along the darkening road, between tall trees + That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. + Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. + Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. + And death was observed with sudden cries, + And birth with laughter and pain. + And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies + And night came down again. + + + IV. + + Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, + Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, + The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. + From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, + Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. + + They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, + Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. + And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, + And some strange shadows threw. + + And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, + Restlessly moving in each lamplit room, + From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; + From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: + From some, a dazzling desire. + + And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, + Combing with lifted arms her golden hair, + Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; + And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death + As she blew out her light. + + And there was one who turned from clamoring streets, + And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, + And looked at the windy sky, + And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze + And birds in the dead boughs cry . . . + + And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, + To mingle among the crowds again, + To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; + And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, + With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, + Hearing a sea-like murmur rise, + Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, + And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. + + + V. + + The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . + It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls + Down golden-windowed walls. + We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, + We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, + But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while + We shall lie down again. + + The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, + Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . + One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, + We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; + But whether he lives or dies we do not know. + + One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; + The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. + He sings of a house he lived in long ago. + It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; + The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. + And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, + And throwing him pennies, we bear away + A mournful echo of other times and places, + And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. + + Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; + Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; + In broken slow cascades. + The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; + Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . + + And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, + Vaguely and incoherently, some dream + Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . + A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; + Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. + + We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; + We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; + We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. + We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. + We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. + + And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, + Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, + Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; + Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream + Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. + + + VI. + + Over the darkened city, the city of towers, + The city of a thousand gates, + Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, + Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, + The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, + With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. + On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, + And dreams in white at the city's feet; + On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. + Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. + Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. + + The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea + And sails toward the far-off city, that seems + Like one vague tower. + The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, + And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him + In a quiet shower. + + Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; + Rain thrills over the roofs again; + Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; + The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; + And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, + And among whirled leaves + The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, + From wall to remoter wall, + Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound + And close grey wings and fall . . . + + . . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember + A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: + Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. + Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . + Voices about me rise . . . + + Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-- + 'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down. + We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' + A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me + Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. + I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. + + 'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled, + Thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' + 'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.' + 'I am the one you followed through crowded streets, + The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' + + 'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell + Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: + A bell that broke great memories in my brain.' + 'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you, + Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' + + 'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding + The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. + They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago. + I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, + And returned to see it again. And it was so.' + + + Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! + I am dissolved and woven again . . . + Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. + Thousands of voices weave in the rain. + + 'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking + At a dazzle of golden lights. + Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking + Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: + Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, + Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, + And turned, as she reached the door, + To smile once more . . . + Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. + Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, + Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon + On a night in June . . . + She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after; + She dances in dreams over white-waved water; + Her body is white and fragrant and cool, + Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . + I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights + Of a broken music and golden lights, + Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling + Between my hands and their white desire: + And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, + Dipping to screen a fire . . . + I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees, + But as I lean to kiss her face, + She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves, + And run in a moonless place; + And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, + And shattering trees and cracking walls, + And a net of intense white flame roars over the town, + And someone cries; and darkness falls . . . + But now she has leaned and smiled at me, + My veins are afire with music, + Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; + I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' + + He rises and moves away, he says no word, + He folds his evening paper and turns away; + I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; + Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, + And some sit motionless in their accustomed places. + + Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, + Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; + The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. + Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. + One peers out in the night for the place to change. + + Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, + It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, + Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. + The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. + Remote and hurried the great bells beat. + + 'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, + Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. + And to-day the woman I love lies dead. + I gave her roses, a ring with opals; + These hands have touched her head. + + 'I bound her to me in all soft ways, + I bound her to me in a net of days, + Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. + How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you? + There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. + + 'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . + Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city + Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' + His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. + Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. + + 'No, do not stare so--he is weak with grief, + He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; + He is confused with pain. + I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . + He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' + + The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, + The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. + We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; + And at last a silence falls. + + + VII. + + Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers + The golden lights go out . . . + The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, + In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, + We lie face down, we dream, + We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem + To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . + Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. + A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, + A vortex of soundless hours. + + 'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. + But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. + The woman is dead. + She died--you know the way. Just as we planned. + Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. + Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' + + He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. + The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. + His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. + The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. + Into the night he fades. + + Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; + Blowing the water that gleams in the street; + Blowing the rain, the sleet. + In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, + Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; + Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . + Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . + + And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing + Above their heads a goblin night go by; + Children are waked, and cry, + The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams + That her lover is caught in a burning tower, + She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . + And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, + She dreams of an evening, long ago: + Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, + Some of them softly catching afire; + And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, + Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . + The leaves are a pale and glittering green, + The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, + Shadows of dancers pass . . . + The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean + Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, + The face is beginning to change,-- + It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, + She is held and kissed. + She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . + With a smoking ghost of shame . . . + + Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain + Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . + The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; + It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; + And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams + And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. + + One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, + Who dreamed for years in a tower, + Seizes this hour + Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, + Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, + Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, + To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, + Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, + And at last is gone, + Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . + + The mother whose child was buried to-day + Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; + And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. + He would have grown as easily as a tree, + He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, + He would have been his father again . . . + His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. + She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. + + Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; + We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: + Windows rattle above our beds; + We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, + Hear sounds far off,--and dream, with quivering breath, + Our curious separate ways through life and death. + + + VIII. + + The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, + Over the pale grey tumbled towers,-- + And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. + Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, + Curls like a dream among the motionless trees + And seems to freeze. + + The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, + Whirls over sleeping faces, + Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; + And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . + + And one from his high window, looking down, + Peers at the cloud-white town, + And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . + It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain + Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. + + + + +PART II. + + + I. + + The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. + The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. + Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. + The city stirs like one that is half in dream. + + And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, + Where one by one we wake and rise. + We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, + We rub the darkness from our eyes, + + And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . + And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, + Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer + Compassionate over our towers bending. + + There, like one who gazes into a crystal, + He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; + He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, + Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. + + Each gleaming point of light is like a seed + Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. + Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, + Each hurrying face records its strange desires. + + We descend our separate stairs toward the day, + Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, + Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, + And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. + + + II. THE FULFILLED DREAM + + More towers must yet be built--more towers destroyed-- + Great rocks hoisted in air; + And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight + With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . + And so he did not mention his dream of falling + But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears + That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath + Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by + And the small tree swell beneath him . . . + He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, + Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,-- + And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail. + + Something had changed--but it was not the street-- + The street was just the same--it was himself. + Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door + The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; + The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; + The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, + Reading the morning paper . . . + + He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, + As if he knew for certain he walked to death: + But with his usual pace,--deliberate, firm, + Looking about him calmly, watching the world, + Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again + Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, + Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, + And saw the windows flashing upward past him,-- + He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror + How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . + He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. + + Was forty, then, too old for work like this? + Why should it be? He'd never been afraid-- + His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . + But dreams had meanings. + He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, + All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; + And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, + It seemed to whirl and swim, + It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . + He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; + His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; + He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten? + Because he would not need it? + + Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again + About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, + Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,-- + That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,-- + He waved his hand for signal, and up he went + In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; + Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; + Above the flattening roofs, until the sea + Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped + Giddily out, from that security, + To the red rib of iron against the sky, + And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; + And looking down one instant, saw the tree + Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, + And up again, feeling his blood go wild. + + He gave the signal; the long girder swung + Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, + Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers + Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets + Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; + He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought + A place so high in the air should be more quiet. + The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, + Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, + And felt his body go suddenly small and light; + Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; + And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree + Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, + 'By God--I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' + + + III. INTERLUDE + + The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls + On bright red roofs and walls; + The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; + We go from door to door in the streets again, + Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, + Recalling other times and places . . . + We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, + We crowd together and wait, + A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, + The ambulance drives away. + We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say + 'A man fell off the building and was killed-- + Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again + Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, + And go our separate ways, each bearing with him + A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,-- + A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. + + A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, + The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, + Wings are upon our feet. + The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, + Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. + We bear our dreams among us, bear them all, + Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, + Climb to beauty and die. + The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, + And smiles at the hostile sky. + The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. + The murderer hears a cry. + + + IV. NIGHTMARE + + 'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . + Draw three cards, and lay them down, + Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, + And think of time . . . My father was a clown, + My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; + And she was gotten with child in a strange way; + And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, + With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' + + I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain + And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. + The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. + A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. + Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. + + 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. + You will live long, love many times. + I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. + I see a shadow of secret crimes. + + 'There was a man who came intent to kill you, + And hid behind a door and waited for you; + There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. + There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, + Crawled after you, and died. + + 'There is a ghost of murder in your blood-- + Coming or past, I know not which. + And here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes, + And white-skinned as a witch . . .' + + The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling + On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. + Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; + Something is creeping at me, something vile; + + And suddenly on the wall behind her head + I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, + The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. + I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, + And hear swift steps retreat . . . + + The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. + Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. + I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. + I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; + You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . + + Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, + Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . + My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. + We loiter, dreaming together, along the street. + + + V. RETROSPECT + + Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, + Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. + A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, + Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, + And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. + + And one old man looks down from a dusty window + And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain + And desires once more to walk among those trees. + Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. + Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. + And soon the pond must freeze. + + The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, + Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; + A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. + But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears + More in his secret heart than in his ears,-- + A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. + He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, + The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,-- + Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . + And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. + + Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; + It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; + It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. + Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? + Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? + Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. + + He opened his book once more, beside the window, + And read the printed words upon that page. + The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, + The quiet words enchanted time and age. + + 'Death is never an ending, death is a change; + Death is beautiful, for death is strange; + Death is one dream out of another flowing; + Death is a chorded music, softly going + By sweet transition from key to richer key. + Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' + + + VI. ADELE AND DAVIS + + She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. + And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, + To shut out, if she could, this dingy room, + The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,-- + Yellows and greens in the dark,--she walked again + Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . + Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, + Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked + In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, + And wondered if she dared to ask for poison: + But it was late, few customers were there, + The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, + And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river, + She listened to the water slapping the wall, + And felt queer fascination in its blackness: + But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, + The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray + Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so + She dragged herself once more to home, and bed. + + Paul hadn't guessed it yet--though twice, already, + She'd fainted--once, the first time, on the stage. + So she must tell him soon--or else--get out . . . + How could she say it? That was the hideous thing. + She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, + Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, + If he refused to marry her . . . well, what? + She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, + His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words + Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent, + Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, + And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, + And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,--listen-- + There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped, + Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say? + 'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!' + 'But what I've got to say--IS--serious!' + Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, + His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying-- + He always did--and what could she do but cry? + Perhaps, then, he would guess--perhaps he wouldn't. + And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'-- + She knew she'd never tell--just say she was sick . . . + And after that, when would she dare again? + And what would he do--even suppose she told him? + + If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!-- + She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was, + Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind + To pay out Felix for never having liked her, + By making people think that it was he . . . + She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,-- + Just saying 'Felix did it--and wouldn't marry.' + And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . . + Paul would never forgive her--he'd never forgive her! + Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . . + She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. + + And then she closed her eyes and walked again + Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: + Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind + She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, + Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. + But it was late. No customers were there,-- + Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! + And then--what poison would she dare to ask for? + And if they asked her why, what would she say? + + + VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES + + Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, + Two lovers blow together like music blowing: + And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. + Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, + They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. + 'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, + They look at the great clock's golden hands, + They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: + Only, their words like music seem to play; + And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. + + 'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars + Down the smooth heaven of her memory. + She stands again by a garden wall, + The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, + Water sings from an opened tap, the bees + Glisten and murmur among the trees. + Someone calls from the house. She does not answer. + Backward she leans her head, + And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough + She sees an infinite May sky spread + A vault profoundly blue. + The voice from the house fades far away, + The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . + The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . + Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . ' + She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know + She smiles from long ago . . . + + She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him + Roars like a vast invisible sea, + Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; + He is released of weight, his body is free, + He lifts his arms to swim, + Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . + The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach + With a whirring sound like wind in bells, + He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands + Reaching his lazy hands + Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . + + 'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' + They pause and smile, not caring what they say, + If only they may talk. + The crowd flows past them like dividing waters. + Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. + + 'Pink,--to-day!'--Face turns to dream-bright face, + Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, + Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. + She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. + She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . + + Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: + Time, like a flurry of rain, + Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. + Once, long ago, one night, + She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, + Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror + A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, + Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, + She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float + In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . + + 'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, + We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, + The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. + 'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! + Look how the tower is changed and glows!' + + Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, + We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; + A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; + We tremble like wind-blown grass. + + What was this dream we had, a dream of music, + Music that rose from the opening earth like magic + And shook its beauty upon us and died away? + The long cold streets extend once more before us. + The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. + + + VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES + + Well,--it was two days after my husband died-- + Two days! And the earth still raw above him. + And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. + In number four--the room with the red wall-paper-- + Some chorus girls and men were singing that song + 'They'll soon be lighting candles + Round a box with silver handles'--and hearing them sing it + I started to cry. Just then he came along + And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, + And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled + And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down + Where I was leaning against the wall, + And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . + And I was so sad, thinking about it,-- + Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, + With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,-- + That I was happy to have him sympathize, + To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. + And before I knew it, he got me into a room + Where a table was set, and no one there, + And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, + And talked to me, telling me not to cry, + That it was all right, he'd look after me,-- + But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, + Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, + That when he turned my face between his hands, + And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, + And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me-- + Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, + Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, + And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. + For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief + Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed + As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, + To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it-- + And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! + And so we sat and talked, not talking much, + But meaning as much in silence as in words, + There in that empty room with palms about us, + That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there + I felt my future changing, day by day, + With unknown streets opening left and right, + New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, + Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, + Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains + Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,-- + And thinking of this, and through it half remembering + A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, + The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,-- + It seemed as if my brain would break in two. + My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, + And told him I must go, and said good-night-- + I couldn't see the end. How would it end? + Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? + And did I want him to--or would I rather + Look for another job?--He took my shoulders + Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, + And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, + That would have--well, I don't know; but he didn't . . + And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, + Hoping to close the door before that party + In number four should sing that song again-- + 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'-- + And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. + And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. + + + IX. INTERLUDE + + The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, + The hours go silently over our lifted faces, + We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. + Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. + We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. + + We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, + We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. + The door swings shut behind the latest comer. + We set our watches, regard the time. + + What have we done? I close my eyes, remember + The great machine whose sinister brain before me + Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. + My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. + I dropped great beams to the dusty street. + + My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, + And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. + I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. + Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. + + Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, + These walls whose windows gap against the sky, + Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble + Will build a glittering tower before we die . . . + + The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, + The young girl hums beneath her breath. + One goes out to beauty, and does not know it. + And one goes out to death. + + + X. SUDDEN DEATH + + 'Number four--the girl who died on the table-- + The girl with golden hair--' + The purpling body lies on the polished marble. + We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . + + One, who held the ether-cone, remembers + Her dark blue frightened eyes. + He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast + More hurriedly fall and rise. + Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head + Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,-- + And, suddenly, she lay dead. + + And all the dreams that hurried along her veins + Came to the darkness of a sudden wall. + Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, + They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, + Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all. + + What was her name? Where had she walked that morning? + Through what dark forest came her feet? + Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street? + + Backward he dreamed along a chain of days, + He saw her go her strange and secret ways, + Waking and sleeping, noon and night. + She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair. + She read a story by candlelight. + + Her shadow ran before her along the street, + She walked with rhythmic feet, + Turned a corner, descended a stair. + She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, + Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, + And drew deep breaths of air. + + Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music + Murmured within the walls of lighted windows. + She lifted her face to the light and danced. + The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, + Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced. + + Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, + Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid + Opened its golden heart on her breast . . . + She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, + Leaned on her partner's arm to rest. + The violins were weaving a weft of silver, + The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold, + And time was caught in a glistening pattern, + Time, too elusive to hold . . . + + Shadows of leaves fell over her face,--and sunlight: + She turned her face away. + Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness + With every step and day. + + Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, + At a great distance, across the night, + Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly + From purple light to light. + + Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, + 'I am the murderer, death. + I am the lover who keeps his appointment + At the doors of breath!' + + She rose and stared at her own reflection, + Half dreading there to find + The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, + Or reaching from behind + To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . . + Or was this in her mind? . . . + + She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered + Along the tossing strands. + Was there a stillness in this hair,-- + A quiet in these hands? + + Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes, + Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust. + She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever. + Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . . + And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed, + And music ebbed with the ebbing hours. + And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds + Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers. + + + XI. + + Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares + With purple lights in the canyoned street. + The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . . + The trodden grass in the park is covered with white, + The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . . + The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + Over the enchanted whiteness of the town, + Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, + Desires like this to forget what will not pass, + The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, + Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. + Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, + Slurred bells of grief and pain, + Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places. + He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow. + He desires to forget a million faces . . . + + In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. + The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it. + In one room fade grey violets in a vase. + Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. + In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays + The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. + His hands are trembling, his short breath fails. + + In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, + And thinks the air is fire. + The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings + With the sudden hand of desire. + + And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; + And one lies staring, and thinks of death. + And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, + And holds her breath . . . + + Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, + Coil and revolve and dream, + Vanish or gleam? + Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. + Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. + + And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; + And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, + And walls flung down . . . + And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, + And whiteness hushes the town. + + + + +PART III + + + I + + As evening falls, + And the yellow lights leap one by one + Along high walls; + And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, + The muted city seems + Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams + Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . + Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, + Flash, are extinguished, flash again, + To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain + And die away . . . + As evening falls, + A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,-- + A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . + The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, + The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, + The watchman climbs the stair . . . + The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, + And runs among them, and is beaten down; + The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; + The tired clown + Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, + Motionless in their places, + Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . . + The dancer smooths her hair, + Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door + To dance once more, + Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, + Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes. + + As darkness falls + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live tonight? Where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. + + + II. THE SCREEN MAIDEN + + You read--what is it, then that you are reading? + What music moves so silently in your mind? + Your bright hand turns the page. + I watch you from my window, unsuspected: + You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . + + . . . The poet--what was his name--? Tokkei--Tokkei-- + The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, + And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; + For his lover was dead, he never would love again. + + Rain in the dreams of the mind--rain forever-- + Rain in the sky of the heart--rain in the willows-- + But then he saw this face, this face like flame, + This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi; + And took it home with him; and with it came + + What unexpected changes, subtle as weather! + The dark room, cold as rain, + Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April, + Warmed its corners with light again, + + And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, + And the quiet lady there, + So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, + Seemed ready to loose her hair, + + And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, + The word already clear, + Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . + He held his breath to hear, + + And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, + And held a candle, and searched her face + Through all the little shadows, to see what secret + Might give so warm a grace . . . + + Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? + The eyes, half-turned aside? + The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . + The secret was denied, + + He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, + And slept; and as he slept + A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, + And chided him, and wept. + + And in the morning, waking, he remembered, + And thought the dream was strange. + Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? + He turned, and felt a change, + + As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . + Yet there was only sunlight there. + Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, + And held his breath to stare, + + And could have sworn her cheek had turned--a little . . . + Had slightly turned away . . . + Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, + Nor left his room that day. + + And that day, and for many days thereafter, + He sat alone, and thought + No lady had ever lived so beautiful + As Hiroshigi wrought . . . + + Or if she lived, no matter in what country, + By what far river or hill or lonely sea, + He would look in every face until he found her . . . + There was no other as fair as she. + + And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, + And brought her every day + Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, + And somehow, she seemed to say, + + That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, + That she was happy there; + And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, + And desired to touch her hair, + + To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly + With delicate finger-tips + The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish + Upon her lips . . . + + Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; + And night by night a dread + Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi + Was many centuries dead,-- + + And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . + Dead, and long turned to dust . . . + The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, + The peach leaves flew in a gust, + + And he would surely have died; but there one day + A wise man, white with age, + Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi + Knew more than archimage,-- + + Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, + Till partly it entered there . . . + Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . + Do all I say with care, + + And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' + So then this ghost, Tokkei, + Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, + And alone at the end of day + + Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, + And saw the quiet eyes + Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, + And knelt, and did not rise, + + And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' + Said it three times aloud. + And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense + Rose to the walls in a cloud, + + And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; + And suddenly, with a sigh, + The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, + And stood, while worlds went by, + + And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; + And the poet trembled, and said, + 'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'--'Yes, I will stay.'-- + 'But what when I am dead?' + + 'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, + And then we shall die no more.' + Music came down upon them, and spring returning, + They remembered worlds before, + + And years went over the earth, and over the sea, + And lovers were born and spoke and died, + But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, + Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . + + + III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS + + The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; + The music changes tone, you wake, remember + Deep worlds you lived before,--deep worlds hereafter + Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, + Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. + + Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. + Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. + Elaine was married and soon to have a child. + You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; + They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. + + To-morrow--what? And what of yesterday? + Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, + Through many doors to the one door of all. + Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: + Or see a skeleton fall . . . + + We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? + We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. + We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. + You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. + It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. + + This is the thing remembered I would forget-- + No matter where I go, how soft I tread, + This windy gesture menaces me with death. + Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; + Touches my throat and stops my breath. + + My fans--my jewels--the portrait of my husband-- + The torn certificate for my daughter's grave-- + These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. + They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. + They signify no crime. + + Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: + Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: + No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. + Dreams--they are madness. Staring eyes--illusion. + Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . + + + IV. ILLICIT + + Of what she said to me that night--no matter. + The strange thing came next day. + My brain was full of music--something she played me--; + I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it + Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, + Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, + Urging to restlessness: verging on grief. + I tried to play the tune, from memory,-- + But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed + And found no resolution--only hung there, + And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . . + What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? + 'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . + A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, + Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . + And someone walking alone; and someone saying + That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' + These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them + A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow + I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady? + The one who always danced in golden slippers-- + And had I danced with her,--upon this music? + Or was it further back--the unplumbed twilight + Of childhood?--No--much recenter than that. + + You know, without my telling you, how sometimes + A word or name eludes you, and you seek it + Through running ghosts of shadow,--leaping at it, + Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, + Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: + Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, + You hear it, see it flash among the branches, + And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it-- + Well, it was so I followed down this music, + Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, + Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, + Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars--; + Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, + The thing resolved itself: and I remembered + An April afternoon, eight years ago-- + Or was it nine?--no matter--call it nine-- + A room in which the last of sunlight faded; + A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; + And, she who played the same thing later, playing. + + She played this tune. And in the middle of it + Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands + Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, + With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, + One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, + And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. + + 'You know--we've got to end this--Miriam loves you . . . + If she should ever know, or even guess it,-- + What would she do?--Listen!--I'm not absurd . . . + I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women-- + To understand them--which you've never had-- + You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, + Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, + Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, + Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, + Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, + Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . + Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness + That she could neither break it--nor conclude? + It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, + Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,-- + Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . + + Well, April passed with many other evenings, + Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, + With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . + And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . + And after that, when eight deep years had passed-- + Or nine--we met once more,--by accident . . . + But was it just by accident, I wonder, + She played this tune?--Or what, then, was intended? . . . + + + V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT + + The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, + Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; + You strike a match and stare upon the flame. + The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, + And dwindles away as silently as it came. + + This melody, you say, has certain voices-- + They rise like nereids from a river, singing, + Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. + Wherever you go you bear this river with you: + A leaf falls,--and it flows, and you have pain. + + So says the tune to you--but what to me? + What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, + The violinist who suavely draws his bow? + That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. + A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. + + Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping + Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: + At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. + Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. + A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. + And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: + And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, + And the great sea shakes its walls. + And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls + This melody once more: + 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' + + So says the tune to him--but what to me? + What are the worlds I see? + What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . + I go my secret way, down secret alleys; + My errand is not so simple as it seems. + + + VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD + + This is the house. On one side there is darkness, + On one side there is light. + Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns-- + O, any number--it will still be night. + And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward + To long sonorous halls. + And here is spring forever at these windows, + With roses on the walls. + + This is her room. On one side there is music-- + On one side not a sound. + At one step she could move from love to silence, + Feel myriad darkness coiling round. + And here are balconies from which she heard you, + Your steady footsteps on the stair. + And here the glass in which she saw your shadow + As she unbound her hair. + + Here is the room--with ghostly walls dissolving-- + The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; + And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' + So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!-- + Through windy corridors of darkening end. + + Here she could stand with one dim light above her + And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, + Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. + And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, + She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. + + Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. + Your words were windows,--large enough for moonlight, + Too small to let her through. + Your letters--fragrant cloisters faint with music. + The music that assuaged her there was you. + + How many times she heard your step ascending + Yet never saw your face! + She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, + Till silence swept the place. + Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . . + You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken. + + A certain rose-leaf--sent without intention-- + Became, with time, a woven web of fire-- + She wore it, and was warm. + A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, + Became, with time, the flashings of a storm. + + Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you + Of secret idols carved in secret chambers + From all you did and said. + Nothing was done, until at last she knew you. + Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. + + How did she die?--You say, she died of poison. + Simple and swift. And much to be regretted. + You did not see her pass + So many thousand times from light to darkness, + Pausing so many times before her glass; + + You did not see how many times she hurried + To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, + Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. + You did not know how long she clung to music, + You did not hear her sing. + + Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely + From sound to silence--close, herself, those windows? + Or was it true, instead, + That darkness moved,--for once,--and so possessed her? . . . + We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. + + + VII. PORCELAIN + + You see that porcelain ranged there in the window-- + Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, + And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? + See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! + They're works of art--minutely seen and felt, + Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure + To spend your blood like this? + + Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, + If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming + Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal-- + My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting + Day after day, close to a certain window, + Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . + + Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . + Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . + Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, + Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, + Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, + You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me-- + An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, + Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, + Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, + Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. + On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night + Of two soft-patterned toads--I thought them stones, + Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,-- + Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,-- + It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. + Here,--as I coil the stems between two leaves,-- + It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, + I cried the secret between two universes . . . + A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said + Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,-- + Though with his eyes wide open,-- + And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part + Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, + Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, + Amazing leaves, folding one on another, + Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals-- + All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, + I need no hasheesh for it--it's too easy! + Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking + In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, + Violets purple as death, dripping with water, + And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. + + Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets-- + With scalloped edges gilded--here you have me + Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,-- + There's something lacking--force, or will, or passion, + I don't know what it is--and so, sometimes, + When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, + Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, + I get uneasy--just like poplar trees + Ruffling their leaves--and I begin to think + Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, + And that delicious night. Where is she now? + I meant to write--but she has moved, by this time, + And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. + Well, there is more--I'm getting old and timid-- + The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! + I never strike out boldly as I used to-- + But sit here, painting violets, and remember + That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, + Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,-- + Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,-- + Were thought so beautiful.--And so they were. + Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . + Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! + Well, I suppose such days can come but once. + Lord, how happy we were! . . . + + Here, if you only knew it, is a story-- + Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, + And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: + A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . + Who killed himself by diving against a wall. + Here is a recollection of my wife, + When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. + It's funny how things change,--just change, by growing, + Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,-- + A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; + A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . + Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! + + This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, + If you look hard enough. This, in its way, + Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you + In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, + Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . + Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist-- + You have my head before you . . . on a platter. + + + VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE + + Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower + Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: + At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . + The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. + We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. + + We are like music, each voice of it pursuing + A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, + Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. + What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . + We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. + + One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, + Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; + One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. + One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . + Upward and downward, past him there, we stream. + + One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. + Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. + A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. + He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: + A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. + + Death, from street to alley, from door to window, + Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching, + Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. + But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect? + Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? + + Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, + A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes + Down jangled streets, and dies. + The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, + Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. + + Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; + Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; + From freezing rooms as bare as rock. + The curtains are closed across deserted windows. + Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. + + Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; + Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; + Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; + Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; + Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; + + Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, + And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; + Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,-- + They are blown away like windflung chords of music, + They drift away; the sudden music has died. + + And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly + And sees the shadow of death in many faces, + And thinks the world is strange. + He desires immortal music and spring forever, + And beauty that knows no change. + + + IX. CABARET + + We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. + You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing + As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' + Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, + 'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' + + You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . . + How many others like ourselves, this instant, + Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? + How many others, laughing, sip their coffee-- + Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . + + 'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) + When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: + And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. + Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter + What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play? + + 'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,-- + Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; + No pity dims our eyes . . . + How many others, like ourselves, this instant, + See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' + + Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . + When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, + And even those most like angels creep for schemes. + The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, + Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. + + But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, + Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons + To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . + And all these others who at your conjuration + Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,-- + + Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, + Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, + Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,-- + Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting + This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, + + Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, + Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, + Lean to the music, rise, + And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion + With kindness in their eyes . . . + + They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) + 'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! + And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' + They say 'How strange it is that one such evening + Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' + + And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, + They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, + And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. + With secret symbols they play on secret passions. + With cunning eyes they see + + The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, + The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . + The pendulum on the wall + Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; + Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. + + + X. LETTER + + From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees + The soft blue starlight through the one small window, + The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,-- + And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. + + It is so long, indeed, since I have written,-- + Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,-- + That these first words I write seem cold and strange. + Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? + Altered, of course--just as I too have altered-- + And whether towards each other, or more apart, + We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter-- + Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure-- + + Pondering much on all you say in it + Of mystic consciousness--divine conversion-- + The sense of oneness with the infinite,-- + Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . + Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, + If one's to talk through this dark world contented. + But is the world so dark? Or is it rather + Our own brute minds,--in which we hurry, trembling, + Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. + + You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"-- + Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented + With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: + Even before the question grew to problem + And drove you bickering into metaphysics, + You met on lower planes the same great dragon, + Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, + In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, + One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, + The cruder first, more violent sensations, + Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted + With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,-- + Savoring all more delicate gradations + + In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, + Or thought on brain,--you passed, if I may say so, + From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. + Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, + As instruments of music, whereon our lives + Will play as we desire: and let us yield + These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves + To all experience plays . . . And so you went + From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, + Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; + And closing one by one your doors, drew in + Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, + Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. + + What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber-- + Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly + It is the last, and cunningest, resort + Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,-- + This world of lamentations, death, injustice, + Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, + Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,-- + Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, + Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: + + Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,-- + With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, + Coldly imperious,--this transient world, + What has it then to give, if not containing + Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,-- + Momentary and trivial for the most part, + Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,-- + And know how much outweighed they are by darkness. + We are like searchers in a house of darkness, + A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, + Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, + Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, + An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway + Leading to who knows what; but never seeing + The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little, + And then grow tired. No matter what we touch, + Dust is the answer--dust: dust everywhere. + If this were all--what were the use, you ask? + But this is not: for why should we be seeking, + Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, + To lift our minds, if there were only dust? + This is the central chamber you have come to: + Turning your back to the world, until you came + To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, + And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. + + Well, in a measure, so only do we all. + I am not sure that you can be refuted. + At the very last we all put faith in something,-- + You in this ghost that animates your world, + This ethical ghost,--and I, you'll say, in reason,-- + Or sensuous beauty,--or in my secret self . . . + Though as for that you put your faith in these, + As much as I do--and then, forsaking reason,-- + Ascending, you would say, to intuition,-- + You predicate this ghost of yours, as well. + Of course, you might have argued,--and you should have,-- + That no such deep appearance of design + Could shape our world without entailing purpose: + For can design exist without a purpose? + Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children + Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, + Strange patterns drawn,--circles, arcs, ellipses, + Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder? + + Did someone draw them here before we came? + Or was it just the sea?--We pore upon them, + But find no answer--only suppositions. + And if these perfect shapes are evidence + Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: + We never come upon him at his work, + He never troubles us. He stands aloof-- + Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned + With what we are or do. You, if you like, + May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, + Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing + You see, without much reason, will in law. + I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, + Happily so for us, by accident: + We go our ways untroubled save by laws + Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? + + If we were wise--which God knows we are not-- + (Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle + Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. + These brains of ours--these delicate spinal clusters-- + Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? + Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? + Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, + Until you managed to see that world as omen,-- + Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, + Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?-- + You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. + I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. + You find your pleasure in being at one with all things-- + Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling + As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too-- + With reservations. I find more varied pleasure + In understanding: and so find beauty even + In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. + + Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. + For household news--what have you heard, I wonder? + You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time-- + Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done-- + We found it out too late. His death has changed me, + Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, + Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, + Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom + To see them clearly, meditate upon them, + And understand what things flow out of them. + Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. + Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, + And bring old times with you?--If you could see me + Sitting here by the window, watching Venus + Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,-- + Just where you used to sit,--I'm sure you'd come. + This year, they say, the springtime will be early. + + + XI. CONVERSATION: UNDERTONES + + What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? + You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; + You smile a little. . . . Outside, the night goes by. + I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees. + + 'These lines--converging, they suggest such distance! + The soul is drawn away, beyond horizons. + Lured out to what? One dares not think. + Sometimes, I glimpse these infinite perspectives + In intimate talk (with such as you) and shrink . . . + + 'One feels so petty!--One feels such--emptiness!--' + You mimic horror, let fall your lifted hand, + And smile at me; with brooding tenderness . . . + Alone on darkened waters I fall and rise; + Slow waves above me break, faint waves of cries. + + 'And then these colors . . . but who would dare describe them? + This faint rose-coral pink . . this green--pistachio?-- + So insubstantial! Like the dim ghostly things + Two lovers find in love's still-twilight chambers . . . + Old peacock-fans, and fragrant silks, and rings . . . + + 'Rings, let us say, drawn from the hapless fingers + Of some great lady, many centuries nameless,-- + Or is that too sepulchral?--dulled with dust; + And necklaces that crumble if you touch them; + And gold brocades that, breathed on, fall to rust. + + 'No--I am wrong . . . it is not these I sought for--! + Why did they come to mind? You understand me-- + You know these strange vagaries of the brain!--' + --I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees; + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees; + These strange vagaries of yours are all too plain. + + 'But why perplex ourselves with tedious problems + Of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, + With all that's in our secret hearts to say!--' + Hearts?--Your pale hand softly strokes the satin. + You play deep music--know well what you play. + You stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, + You smile, with faintly perfumed lips, + You loose your thoughts like birds, + Brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . . + We know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound + In tremulous webs of sound. + + 'How beautiful is intimate talk like this!-- + It is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, + Stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, + To hear a hidden music . . . Our own vast shadows + Lean to a giant size on the windy walls, + Or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls + Echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, + Music sings far off, flows suddenly near, + And dies away like rain . . . + We walk through subterranean caves again,-- + Vaguely above us feeling + A shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, + Strange half-lit things, + Soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . . + And here a beautiful face looks down upon us; + And someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . . + Have we seen all, I wonder, in these chambers-- + Or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, + Where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . ' + + The question falls: we walk in silence together, + Thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . . + This lamp, these books, this fire + Are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness. + Deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire. + + + XII. WITCHES' SABBATH + + Now, when the moon slid under the cloud + And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, + He heard in his blood the well-known bell + Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, + Slowly beating, slowly beating, + Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: + Sometimes it swung completely round, + Horribly gasping as if for breath; + Falling down with an anguished cry . . . + Now the red bat, he mused, will fly; + Something is marked, this night, for death . . . + And while he mused, along his blood + Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, + They rose in the cavern of his brain, + Like ghosts they died away again; + And hands upon his heart were laid, + And music upon his flesh was played, + Until, as he was bidden to do, + He walked the wood he so well knew. + Through the cold dew he moved his feet, + And heard far off, as under the earth, + Discordant music in shuddering tones, + Screams of laughter, horrible mirth, + Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, + And the long-drawn wail of one in pain. + To-night, he thought, I shall die again, + We shall die again in the red-eyed fire + To meet on the edge of the wood beyond + With the placid gaze of fed desire . . . + He walked; and behind the whisper of trees, + In and out, one walked with him: + She parted the branches and peered at him, + Through lowered lids her two eyes burned, + He heard her breath, he saw her hand, + Wherever he turned his way, she turned: + Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; + Moving her white knees as he moved . . . + This is the one I have always loved; + This is the one whose bat-soul comes + To dance with me, flesh to flesh, + In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . . + + The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, + Sank down behind a rushing sky. + He heard a sweet song just begun + Abruptly shatter in tones and die. + It whirled away. Cold silence fell. + And again came tollings of a bell. + + * * * * * + + This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides + Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind. + In the clear darkness, while the moon hides, + They come like dreams, like something remembered . . + Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, + Forget these things that trouble your eyes, + Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed, + Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . . + + The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved, + What was the word you said? + Something about clear music that sang through water . . . + I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves. + Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead. + Someone lies in the garden and grieves. + Look how the branches are tossed in this air, + Flinging their green to the earth! + Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, + The moon stares down like a half-closed eye. + The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, + Oaks crash down in the darkness, + We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone. + + * * * * * + + The moon was darkened: across it flew + The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, + Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, + The witch! he said. And he heard a cry, + And another came, and another came, + And one, grown duskily red with blood, + Floated an instant across the moon, + Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . . + The earth has veins: they throb to-night, + The earth swells warm beneath my feet, + The tips of the trees grow red and bright, + The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat, + They press together, they push and sigh, + They listen to hear the great bat cry, + The great red bat with the woman's face . . . + Hurry! he said. And pace for pace + That other, who trod the dark with him, + Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands + And closed her eyes, the better to see + The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, + The fire-lit rock, the sarabands. + I am here! she said. The bough he broke-- + Was it the snapping bough that spoke? + I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed + Cold in starlight among dark leaves, + The head thrown backward as he had dreamed, + The shadowy red deep jasper mouth; + And the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts, + Passed beside him, and vanished away. + I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!' + And laughter arose, and near and far + Answering laughter rose and died . . . + Who is there? in the dark? he cried. + He stood in terror, and heard a sound + Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; + They rushed, were still; a silence fell; + And he heard deep tollings of a bell. + + * * * * * + + Look beloved! Why do you hide your face? + Look, in the centre there, above the fire, + They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love! + They are playing a piercing music upon him + With a bow of living wire! . . . + The virgin harlot sings, + She leans above the beautiful anguished body, + And draws slow music from those strings. + They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, + They trample him with their naked feet, + His cries are lost in laughter, + Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and + beat, + They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . . + Have we not heard that cry before? + Somewhere, somewhere, + Beside a sea, in the green evening, + Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . . + Was it you? was it I? + They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, + The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, + Look! he has caught one by the hair, + She screams and falls, he bears her away with him, + And the night grows full of whistling wings. + Far off, one voice, serene and sweet, + Rises and sings . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .' + Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them? + It was long ago. + Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; + The treetops tremble and glow. + + * * * * * + + In the clear dark, on silent wings, + The red bat hovers beneath her moon; + She drops through the fragrant night, and clings + Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, + With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, + To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds. + The maidens circle in dance, and raise + From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; + Their knees and breasts are white and bare, + They have hung pale roses in their hair, + Each of them as she dances by + Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye. + See how the red wing wraps him round, + See how the white youth struggles in vain! + The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; + He writhes in the soft red veiny wings, + But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . . + This is the secret feast of love, + Look well, look well, before it dies, + See how the red one trembles above, + See how quiet the white one lies! . . . . + + Wind through the trees. . . . and a voice is heard + Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . . + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars, + One among numberless avatars, + I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, + And lay on the stones and gave my flesh, + And entered the hunger of him I loved. + How shall I ever escape this mesh + Or be from my lover's body removed?' + Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air + And the maenads dance with flying hair. + + * * * * * + + The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, + Rise in the starlight, one by one, + They draw their knives on the spurting throats, + They smear the column with blood of goats, + They dabble the blood on hair and lips + And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. + They stand like stones and stare at the sky + Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . + In the green moonlight still they stand + While wind flows over the darkened sand + And brood on the soft forgotten things + That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . + Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . + They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . + And then, as the shadow closes the moon, + Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, + And rush through the dark, and fill the night + With a slowly dying clamor of sound. + There, where the great walls crowd the stars, + There, by the black wind-riven walls, + In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . + Who are these pilgrims, who are these, + These three, the one of whom stands upright, + While one lies weeping and one of them crawls? + The face that he turned was a wounded face, + I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . + Hooves had trampled and torn this place, + And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. + Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, + The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . + Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . . + I will lie on this grass as a lover lies + And reach to the north and reach to the south + And seek in the darkness for her mouth. + + * * * * * + + Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind + Shatter pale foam among great trees, + Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, + Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, + I run to find you, I run and cry, + Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I. + It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, + Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. + Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . . + Is this you? Is this you? + Bats in this air go whirring. . . . + And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, + Is this the soft mouth I knew? + Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; + And the patter of dew. + + * * * * * + + Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance! + Dance till the brain is red with speed! + Dance till you fall! Lift your torches! + Kiss your lovers until they bleed! + Backward I draw your anguished hair + Until your eyes are stretched with pain; + Backward I press you until you cry, + Your lips grow white, I kiss you again, + I will take a torch and set you afire, + I will break your body and fling it away. . . . + Look, you are trembling. . . . Lie still, beloved! + Lock your hands in my hair, and say + Darling! darling! darling! darling! + All night long till the break of day. + + Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . . + Or the far tolling of that tower? + The voices are still that cried around us. . . . + The woods grow still for the sacred hour. + Rise, white lover! the day draws near. + The grey trees lean to the east in fear. + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .' + Beloved, whose voice was this that cried? + 'By the clear waters that reach the sun + By the clear waves that starward run. . . . + I found love's body and lost his soul, + And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . . + How shall I ever again be whole, + By what dark waters shall I be healed?' + + Silence. . . . the red leaves, one by one, + Fall. Far off, the maenads run. + + Silence. Beneath my naked feet + The veins of the red earth swell and beat. + The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, + Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . . + Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon. + The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. + + * * * * * + + The great bell cracks and falls at last. + The moon whirls out. The sky grows still. + Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars + And suddenly drops behind the hill! + Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, + We sit in the room by candle-light. + We peer in each other's veins and see + No sign of the things we saw this night. + Only, a song is in your ears, + A song you have heard, you think, in dream: + The song which only the demon hears, + In the dark forest where maenads scream . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . + In the calm evening bright with stars . . . ' + What do the strange words mean? you say,-- + And touch my hand, and turn away. + + + XIII. + + The half-shut doors through which we heard that music + Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. + The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. + Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain + Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. + In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. + + Where have we been? What savage chaos of music + Whirls in our dreams?--We suddenly rise in darkness, + Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. + We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming + A warm white moonlit shore; + + Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, + Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, + Or a singing sound of rain . . . + We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, + And enter our dreams again. + + + + +PART IV. + + + I. CLAIRVOYANT + + 'This envelope you say has something in it + Which once belonged to your dead son--or something + He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?-- + The soul flies far, and we can only call it + By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, + Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . ' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow; + Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, + One by one they melt and flow,-- + + Streaming one by one over trees and towers, + Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; + Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows + Flow under them one by one . . . + + ' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit + Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit + Young and strong and beautiful . . . + + He says that he is happy, is much honored; + Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind + Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . . + The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken + And laid aside . . . ' + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did!' + + 'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you: + Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . . + What seems calamity is less than a sigh; + What seems disgrace is nothing.' + + 'Ask him if the one he hurt is there, + And if she loves him still!' + + 'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,-- + Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . . + A cloud of spirits has gathered about him. + They praise him and call him, they do him honor; + He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow . . . + Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, + One by one they sing and flow; + + Over the outstretched lands of days remembered, + Over remembered tower and wall, + One by one they gather and talk in the darkness, + Rise and glimmer and fall . . . + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did! + He knows I will understand!' + + 'It is too late: + He will not hear me: I have lost my power.' + + 'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me. + God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.' + + + II. DEATH: AND A DERISIVE CHORUS + + The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, + And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly + Towards the dazzling street. + Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing. + The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet. + + Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting + To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry, + We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow. + She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward. + We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow. + + Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!-- + Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . . + She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes. + Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been? + She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries. + + Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,-- + Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . . + She thinks she's heard a message from one dead! + What did he tell you? Is he well and happy? + Don't lie to us--we all know what he said. + + He said the one he murdered once still loves him; + He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; + And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . . + But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,-- + Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know! + That's what you get for meddling so with heaven! + + Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going? + We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits. + Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry! + What have you got in an envelope, old lady? + A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye? + + How do you know the medium didn't fool you? + Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it. + Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son. + What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair? + We know your secret! what's done is done. + + Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful, + Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry? + You don't think you will find him when you're dead? + Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,-- + Look at her eyes all red! + + We know you--know your name and all about you, + All you remember and think, and all you scheme for. + We tear your secret out, we leave you, go + Laughingly down the street. . . . Die, if you want to! + Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!-- + + . . . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body + Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her? + Was no one with her when she fell? . . . + We eddy about her, move away in silence. + We hear slow tollings of a bell. + + + III. PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT + + Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: + We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, + Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, + So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,-- + Yet know so little of them; only seeing + The small bright circle of our consciousness, + Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know-- + Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, + I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find + A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, + And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, + A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, + While one tall woman sent her voice above them + In powerful sweetness. . . . Closing then the door + I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,-- + And walked in a quiet hallway as before. + Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, + Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . + We hear a sudden music, see a playing + Of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence. + The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) + Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,-- + As it continues after our departure, + So, we divine, it played before we came . . . + What do you know of me, or I of you? . . . + Little enough. . . . We set these doors ajar + Only for chosen movements of the music: + This passage, (so I think--yet this is guesswork) + Will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,-- + More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it + He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered + And thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork) + + The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, + Perplexed with implications; he suspects me + Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . + Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,-- + Simple and clear; and all the while he listens + I make pretence to think my doors are closed. + This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong + Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? + Or only mocking?'--There I let it end. . . . + Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it-- + When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, + Talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open + Without intention; and the hungry watcher + Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, + And laughs. . . . but this, for many counts, is seldom. + And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, + Our lovers too, only such few clear notes + As we shall deem them likely to admire: + 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' + Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . . all the while + Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,-- + Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, + The sombre note that gives the chord its power; + Or a white loveliness--if such we know-- + Too much like fire to speak of without shame. + + Well, this being so, and we who know it being + So curious about those well-locked houses, + The minds of those we know,--to enter softly, + And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, + From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, + Breathing deliberately the very air, + Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness + To learn what ghosts are there,-- + Suppose for once I set my doors wide open + And bid you in. . . . Suppose I try to tell you + The secrets of this house, and how I live here; + Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . + Deceiving you--as far as I may know it-- + Only so much as I deceive myself. + + If you are clever you already see me + As one who moves forever in a cloud + Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud + Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, + Changing such outlines as a light may change, + Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing + Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained + In a world of things that flatter me: a sky + Just as I would have had it; trees and grass + Just as I would have shaped and colored them; + Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, + And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,-- + In some deep way I am aware these praise me: + Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, + They point, somehow, to me. . . . This water says,-- + Shimmering at the sky, or undulating + In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, + Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths + To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,-- + This water says, there is some secret in you + Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive + To all that circles you. This bare tree says,-- + Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, + Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches + Flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says, + There is some cold austerity in you, + A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, + Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, + Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, + Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! + What teeming Aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves! + These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, + Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, + Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; + Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; + Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; + Walls windowless where darkness is desired; + Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,-- + Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,-- + All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: + You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, + Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, + When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . + This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, + Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, + This cool room says,--just such a room have you, + It waits you always at the tops of stairways, + Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, + Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . + And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, + Hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings + Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, + Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins + Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions + Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,-- + This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,-- + This says, just such an involuted beauty + Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, + Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, + Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: + You need but sit and close your eyes a moment + To see these deep designs unfold themselves. + + And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me-- + I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; + And in this world you see me like a wraith + Blown softly here and there, on silent winds. + 'Praise me'--I say; and look, not in a glass, + But in your eyes, to see my image there-- + Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; + You look at me, with interest unfeigned, + And listen--I am pleased; or else, alone, + I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward + From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending; + Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,-- + Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, + Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,-- + But all with one deep meaning: this is I, + This is the glistening secret holy I, + This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, + This singing ghost. . . . And hearing, I am warmed. + + * * * * * + + You see me moving, then, as one who moves + Forever at the centre of his circle: + A circle filled with light. And into it + Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, + Or huddle in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly, + A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; + Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; + And through these things my pencil pushes softly + To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. + Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; + Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn + And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, + Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture + Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung + Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. + 'Beauty!' I cry. . . . My feet move on, and take me + Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. + Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, + Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . + Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, + The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, + And darkness rides my heart. . . . These skeleton elm-trees-- + Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky-- + Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness + Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . + A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: + The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, + Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, + Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, + The eaves make liquid music. . . . Hours have passed, + And nothing changes, and everything is changed. + Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,-- + And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized + Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. + + If you could solve this darkness you would have me. + This causeless melancholy that comes with rain, + Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes + Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? + Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him, + Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; + And you, I saw too much; and you, too little; + And the word I chose for you, the golden word, + The word that should have struck so deep in purpose, + And set so many doors of wish wide open, + You let it fall, and would not stoop for it, + And smiled at me, and would not let me guess + Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together, + With other things, still slighter, wove to music, + And this in time drew up dark memories; + And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me, + Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, + Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, + And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, + And cries that none can answer, few will hear. + Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly + If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious, + Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? + + Or 'one day dies eventless as another, + Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, + And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? + Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, + And beauty shines in vain'?-- + + These things you ask for, + These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife, + At the dark end of evening, when she leaned + And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs + Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,-- + Calling to mind remote and small successions + Of countless other evenings ending so,-- + I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; + Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands + Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin, + I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, + I saw myself alone there, palely watching, + Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted + That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass, + And I should meet this girl,--my second wife-- + And drop the masque of grief for one of passion. + Forward we move to meet, half hesitating, + We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, + Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending + We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude + Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches. + We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us, + Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, + Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . + . . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . . My first wife's voice + Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing--nothing much-- + Just wondering where we'd be two years from now, + And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse + Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, + And pity to echoed love. And one more evening + Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. + + And, as it is with this, so too with all things. + The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: + New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, + And those on older still; and so forever. + The old shines through the new, and colors it. + What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,-- + All things return. I write a line with passion + (Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) + Only to find the same thing, done before,-- + Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . + This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,-- + Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; + The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, + And broke the accustomed order of our days, + And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . + What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? + What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? + + You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, + Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,-- + Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,-- + No more for me than you. I move here always, + From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, + Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. + This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . + Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, + Once more I have deceived you. . . . I withhold + The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; + And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. + + + IV. COUNTERPOINT: TWO ROOMS + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + She, in the room below--his floor her ceiling-- + Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, + And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . + She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, + + His watch--the same he has heard these cycles of ages-- + Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. + The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. + The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her. + The world whirs on. . . . New stars come up to shine. + + His youth--far off--he sees it brightly walking + In a golden cloud. . . . Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness + Walls it around with dripping enormous walls. + Old age--far off--her death--what do they matter? + Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. + + She hears slow steps in the street--they chime like music; + They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, + Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . + He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. + Far off they pass. He knows they will never return. + + Far off--on a smooth dark road--he hears them faintly. + The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, + Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath + Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. + And death seems nearer to him: or he to death. + + What's death?--She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. + The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, + She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, + The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. + A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. + + What's death--what's death? The spring returns like music, + The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, + The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. + The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. + Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . + And death seems far away, a thing of roses, + A golden portal, where golden music closes, + Death seems far away: + And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, + And spring returns to stay. . . . + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, + And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. + And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. + . . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky. + + + V. THE BITTER LOVE-SONG + + No, I shall not say why it is that I love you-- + Why do you ask me, save for vanity? + Surely you would not have me, like a mirror, + Say 'yes,--your hair curls darkly back from the temples, + Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness, + Your eyes are April grey. . . . with jonquils in them?' + No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . . + I'll say--my childhood broke through chords of music + --Or were they chords of sun?--wherein fell shadows, + Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight; + Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me + With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. . + I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning, + My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover, + And drowsed there like a bee. . . . blue days behind me + Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic, + Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . . days before me + Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold, + Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights. + Confused soft clouds of music fled above me. + + Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. + I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight, + Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty, + Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep. + + No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you-- + Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' + You would not have me say what you know better? + Let me instead be silent, only saying--: + My childhood lives in me--or half-lives, rather-- + And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music + Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . + Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, + Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, + Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, + Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . . + I lay in my bed and through the tall night window + Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds, + And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . . + How should I know--how should I now remember-- + What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? + What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them? + + This I shall say.--I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. . + Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny, + Stared at the sky. And silently there above us + Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge, + Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows, + Swift and blue, or dark. . . . What did they mean? + What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty? + Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle? + Only I know these things leaned over me, + Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly, + Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated, + I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . . + You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them, + Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers, + These presences. . . . I drowse, they stream above me, + I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream. + + You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you) + Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight. + You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) + In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing. + It is not you I laugh for, you I touch! + My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs, + Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops; + And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . . + + + VI. CINEMA + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . . + + Take my arm, then, you or you or you, + And let us walk abroad on the solid air: + Look how the organist's head, in silhouette, + Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . . + The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, + Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, + They have hurried down from a myriad secret places, + From windy chambers next to the skies. . . . + The music comes upon us. . . . it shakes the darkness, + It shakes the darkness in our minds. . . . + And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, + Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, + And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . . + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea + Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,-- + Take my hand + And walk with me once more by crumbling walls; + Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, + To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, + Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . . + Did you once love me? Did you bear a name? + Did you once stand before me without shame? . . . + Take my hand: your face is one I know, + I loved you, long ago: + You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; + You are like spring returned through snow. + Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight, + And many nights I slept and dreamed of you; + Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, + This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . . + Music murmurs beneath us like a sea, + And faints to a ghostly whisper . . . Come with me. + + Are you still doubtful of me--hesitant still, + Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember + What you would gladly, if you could, forget? + You were unfaithful once, you met your lover; + Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; + And I was silent,--you remember my silence yet . . . + You knew, as well as I, I could not kill him, + Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate. + No, and it was not you I saw with anger. + Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate, + Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, + That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, + Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, + Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain. + + How could I find it in my heart to hurt you, + You, whom this love could hurt much more than I? + No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity; + And only hated you when I saw you cry. + We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,-- + Had I the right,--I should forgive you now . . . + We were two dupes . . . Come, let us walk in starlight, + And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow. + + Take my hand, then, come with me + By the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . . + Look how the long volutes of foam unfold + To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . . + Take my hand, + Do not remember how these depths are cold, + Nor how, when you are dead, + Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head. + You lean your face upon your hands and cry, + The blown sand whispers about your feet, + Terrible seems it now to die,-- + Terrible now, with life so incomplete, + To turn away from the balconies and the music, + The sunlit afternoons, + To hear behind you there a far-off laughter + Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . + Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! + Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! + Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! + Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us, + The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, + And to and fro we move and lean and change . . . + You, in a world grown strange, + Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, + Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, + Sink suddenly down and cry . . . + You hear the applause that greets your latest rival, + You are forgotten: your rival--who knows?--is I . . . + I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, + I am inspired and young . . . and though I see + You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, + I bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . . + Failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . . + The night must come . . . and I'll be one who clings, + Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,-- + To keep some youngster waiting in the wings. + + The music changes tone . . . a room is darkened, + Someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens, + And all is dark again; till suddenly falls + A wandering disk of light on floor and walls, + Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, + Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; + And then at last, in the chaos of that place, + Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face. + Well, I have found you. We have met at last. + Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes + I see the horrible huddlings of your past,-- + All you remember blackens, utters cries, + Reaches far hands and faint. I hold the light + Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,-- + Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . . + Now all the hatreds of my life have met + To hold high carnival . . . we do not speak, + My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, + And press, and fling you down . . . and then forget. + + Who plays for me? What sudden drums keep time + To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? + What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . . + What violin so faintly cries + Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . . + The room grows dark once more, + The crack of white light narrows around the door, + And all is silent, except a slow complaining + Of flutes and violins, like music waning. + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . . + Look, how white these shells are, on this sand! + Take my hand, + And watch the waves run inward from the sky + Line upon foaming line to plunge and die. + The music that bound our lives is lost behind us, + Paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place + Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure + We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face. + The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, + + The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, + Once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . . + Now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen + To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain + And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain. + Have I not seen you, have we not met before + Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? + You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand + And peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes, + Flash in the sun, go down . . . I hear slow sand, + And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . . + + * * * * * + + The music ends. The screen grows dark. We hurry + To go our devious secret ways, forgetting + Those many lives . . . We loved, we laughed, we killed, + We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves. + The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled. + + Whose body have I found beside dark waters, + The cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? + Staring with wide eyes at the sky? + I bent my head above it, and cried in silence. + Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry. + + Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened. + Again I loved, and love itself was darkened. + Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. + The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. + The doors of night are closed. We go our ways. + + + VII. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces, + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . ' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word, + We flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves on among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good night! good night! good night! we go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky. + We have built a city of towers. + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light. They have shaken a burden of hours. . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + 1916-1917 + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Dust, by Conrad Aiken + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1246 *** diff --git a/1246-h/1246-h.htm b/1246-h/1246-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a392645 --- /dev/null +++ b/1246-h/1246-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3297 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The House of Dust, by Conrad Aiken + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1246 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE HOUSE OF DUST + </h1> + <h1> + A Symphony + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Conrad Aiken + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + To Jessie + + + NOTE + + . . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American + Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am + indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" + in Part II. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE HOUSE OF DUST</b> </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> PART I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> PART II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> PART III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> PART IV. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE HOUSE OF DUST + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces. + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; + We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky, + We have built a city of towers. + + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + One, from his high bright window in a tower, + Leans out, as evening falls, + And sees the advancing curtain of the shower + Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: + Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, + And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, + Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, + And silver falling from eave and tree. + + One, from his high bright window, looking down, + Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, + And thinks its towers are like a dream. + The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, + Pale roofs begin to gleam. + + Looking down from a window high in a wall + He sees us all; + Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, + Searching the sky, and going our ways again, + Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . + There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees + What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd + From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. + + The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, + Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; + Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. + The yellow lamps wink one by one again. + The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. + + One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, + With wave upon slowly shattering wave, + Turned to the city of towers as evening fell; + And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; + And saw how the towers darkened against the sky; + And across the distance heard the toll of a bell. + + Along the darkening road he hurried alone, + With his eyes cast down, + And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, + With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . + And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown + Here in the quiet of evening air, + These empty and voiceless places . . . + And he hurried towards the city, to enter there. + + Along the darkening road, between tall trees + That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. + Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. + Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. + And death was observed with sudden cries, + And birth with laughter and pain. + And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies + And night came down again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. + + Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, + Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, + The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. + From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, + Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. + + They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, + Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. + And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, + And some strange shadows threw. + + And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, + Restlessly moving in each lamplit room, + From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; + From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: + From some, a dazzling desire. + + And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, + Combing with lifted arms her golden hair, + Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; + And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death + As she blew out her light. + + And there was one who turned from clamoring streets, + And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, + And looked at the windy sky, + And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze + And birds in the dead boughs cry . . . + + And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, + To mingle among the crowds again, + To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; + And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, + With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, + Hearing a sea-like murmur rise, + Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, + And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. + + The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . + It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls + Down golden-windowed walls. + We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, + We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, + But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while + We shall lie down again. + + The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, + Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . + One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, + We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; + But whether he lives or dies we do not know. + + One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; + The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. + He sings of a house he lived in long ago. + It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; + The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. + And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, + And throwing him pennies, we bear away + A mournful echo of other times and places, + And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. + + Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; + Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; + In broken slow cascades. + The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; + Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . + + And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, + Vaguely and incoherently, some dream + Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . + A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; + Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. + + We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; + We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; + We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. + We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. + We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. + + And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, + Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, + Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; + Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream + Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. + + Over the darkened city, the city of towers, + The city of a thousand gates, + Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, + Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, + The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, + With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. + On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, + And dreams in white at the city's feet; + On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. + Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. + Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. + + The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea + And sails toward the far-off city, that seems + Like one vague tower. + The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, + And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him + In a quiet shower. + + Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; + Rain thrills over the roofs again; + Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; + The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; + And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, + And among whirled leaves + The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, + From wall to remoter wall, + Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound + And close grey wings and fall . . . + + . . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember + A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: + Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. + Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . + Voices about me rise . . . + + Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,— + 'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down. + We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' + A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me + Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. + I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. + + 'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled, + Thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' + 'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.' + 'I am the one you followed through crowded streets, + The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' + + 'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell + Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: + A bell that broke great memories in my brain.' + 'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you, + Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' + + 'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding + The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. + They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago. + I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, + And returned to see it again. And it was so.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! + I am dissolved and woven again . . . + Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. + Thousands of voices weave in the rain. + + 'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking + At a dazzle of golden lights. + Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking + Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: + Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, + Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, + And turned, as she reached the door, + To smile once more . . . + Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. + Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, + Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon + On a night in June . . . + She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after; + She dances in dreams over white-waved water; + Her body is white and fragrant and cool, + Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . + I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights + Of a broken music and golden lights, + Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling + Between my hands and their white desire: + And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, + Dipping to screen a fire . . . + I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees, + But as I lean to kiss her face, + She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves, + And run in a moonless place; + And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, + And shattering trees and cracking walls, + And a net of intense white flame roars over the town, + And someone cries; and darkness falls . . . + But now she has leaned and smiled at me, + My veins are afire with music, + Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; + I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' + + He rises and moves away, he says no word, + He folds his evening paper and turns away; + I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; + Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, + And some sit motionless in their accustomed places. + + Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, + Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; + The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. + Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. + One peers out in the night for the place to change. + + Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, + It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, + Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. + The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. + Remote and hurried the great bells beat. + + 'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, + Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. + And to-day the woman I love lies dead. + I gave her roses, a ring with opals; + These hands have touched her head. + + 'I bound her to me in all soft ways, + I bound her to me in a net of days, + Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. + How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you? + There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. + + 'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . + Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city + Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' + His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. + Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. + + 'No, do not stare so—he is weak with grief, + He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; + He is confused with pain. + I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . + He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' + + The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, + The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. + We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; + And at last a silence falls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. + + Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers + The golden lights go out . . . + The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, + In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, + We lie face down, we dream, + We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem + To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . + Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. + A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, + A vortex of soundless hours. + + 'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. + But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. + The woman is dead. + She died—you know the way. Just as we planned. + Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. + Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' + + He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. + The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. + His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. + The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. + Into the night he fades. + + Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; + Blowing the water that gleams in the street; + Blowing the rain, the sleet. + In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, + Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; + Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . + Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . + + And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing + Above their heads a goblin night go by; + Children are waked, and cry, + The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams + That her lover is caught in a burning tower, + She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . + And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, + She dreams of an evening, long ago: + Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, + Some of them softly catching afire; + And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, + Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . + The leaves are a pale and glittering green, + The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, + Shadows of dancers pass . . . + The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean + Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, + The face is beginning to change,— + It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, + She is held and kissed. + She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . + With a smoking ghost of shame . . . + + Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain + Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . + The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; + It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; + And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams + And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. + + One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, + Who dreamed for years in a tower, + Seizes this hour + Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, + Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, + Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, + To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, + Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, + And at last is gone, + Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . + + The mother whose child was buried to-day + Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; + And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. + He would have grown as easily as a tree, + He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, + He would have been his father again . . . + His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. + She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. + + Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; + We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: + Windows rattle above our beds; + We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, + Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath, + Our curious separate ways through life and death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. + + The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, + Over the pale grey tumbled towers,— + And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. + Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, + Curls like a dream among the motionless trees + And seems to freeze. + + The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, + Whirls over sleeping faces, + Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; + And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . + + And one from his high window, looking down, + Peers at the cloud-white town, + And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . + It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain + Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. + The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. + Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. + The city stirs like one that is half in dream. + + And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, + Where one by one we wake and rise. + We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, + We rub the darkness from our eyes, + + And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . + And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, + Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer + Compassionate over our towers bending. + + There, like one who gazes into a crystal, + He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; + He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, + Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. + + Each gleaming point of light is like a seed + Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. + Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, + Each hurrying face records its strange desires. + + We descend our separate stairs toward the day, + Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, + Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, + And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. THE FULFILLED DREAM + + More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed— + Great rocks hoisted in air; + And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight + With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . + And so he did not mention his dream of falling + But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears + That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath + Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by + And the small tree swell beneath him . . . + He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, + Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,— + And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail. + + Something had changed—but it was not the street— + The street was just the same—it was himself. + Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door + The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; + The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; + The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, + Reading the morning paper . . . + + He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, + As if he knew for certain he walked to death: + But with his usual pace,—deliberate, firm, + Looking about him calmly, watching the world, + Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again + Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, + Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, + And saw the windows flashing upward past him,— + He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror + How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . + He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. + + Was forty, then, too old for work like this? + Why should it be? He'd never been afraid— + His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . + But dreams had meanings. + He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, + All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; + And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, + It seemed to whirl and swim, + It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . + He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; + His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; + He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten? + Because he would not need it? + + Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again + About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, + Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,— + That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,— + He waved his hand for signal, and up he went + In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; + Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; + Above the flattening roofs, until the sea + Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped + Giddily out, from that security, + To the red rib of iron against the sky, + And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; + And looking down one instant, saw the tree + Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, + And up again, feeling his blood go wild. + + He gave the signal; the long girder swung + Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, + Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers + Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets + Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; + He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought + A place so high in the air should be more quiet. + The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, + Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, + And felt his body go suddenly small and light; + Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; + And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree + Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, + 'By God—I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. INTERLUDE + + The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls + On bright red roofs and walls; + The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; + We go from door to door in the streets again, + Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, + Recalling other times and places . . . + We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, + We crowd together and wait, + A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, + The ambulance drives away. + We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say + 'A man fell off the building and was killed— + Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again + Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, + And go our separate ways, each bearing with him + A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,— + A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. + + A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, + The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, + Wings are upon our feet. + The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, + Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. + We bear our dreams among us, bear them all, + Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, + Climb to beauty and die. + The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, + And smiles at the hostile sky. + The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. + The murderer hears a cry. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. NIGHTMARE + + 'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . + Draw three cards, and lay them down, + Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, + And think of time . . . My father was a clown, + My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; + And she was gotten with child in a strange way; + And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, + With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' + + I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain + And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. + The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. + A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. + Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. + + 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. + You will live long, love many times. + I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. + I see a shadow of secret crimes. + + 'There was a man who came intent to kill you, + And hid behind a door and waited for you; + There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. + There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, + Crawled after you, and died. + + 'There is a ghost of murder in your blood— + Coming or past, I know not which. + And here is danger—a woman with sea-green eyes, + And white-skinned as a witch . . .' + + The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling + On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. + Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; + Something is creeping at me, something vile; + + And suddenly on the wall behind her head + I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, + The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. + I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, + And hear swift steps retreat . . . + + The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. + Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. + I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. + I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; + You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . + + Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, + Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . + My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. + We loiter, dreaming together, along the street. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. RETROSPECT + + Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, + Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. + A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, + Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, + And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. + + And one old man looks down from a dusty window + And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain + And desires once more to walk among those trees. + Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. + Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. + And soon the pond must freeze. + + The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, + Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; + A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. + But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears + More in his secret heart than in his ears,— + A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. + He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, + The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,— + Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . + And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. + + Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; + It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; + It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. + Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? + Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? + Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. + + He opened his book once more, beside the window, + And read the printed words upon that page. + The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, + The quiet words enchanted time and age. + + 'Death is never an ending, death is a change; + Death is beautiful, for death is strange; + Death is one dream out of another flowing; + Death is a chorded music, softly going + By sweet transition from key to richer key. + Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. ADELE AND DAVIS + + She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. + And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, + To shut out, if she could, this dingy room, + The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,— + Yellows and greens in the dark,—she walked again + Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . + Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, + Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked + In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, + And wondered if she dared to ask for poison: + But it was late, few customers were there, + The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, + And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river, + She listened to the water slapping the wall, + And felt queer fascination in its blackness: + But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, + The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray + Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so + She dragged herself once more to home, and bed. + + Paul hadn't guessed it yet—though twice, already, + She'd fainted—once, the first time, on the stage. + So she must tell him soon—or else—get out . . . + How could she say it? That was the hideous thing. + She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, + Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, + If he refused to marry her . . . well, what? + She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, + His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words + Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent, + Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, + And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, + And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,—listen— + There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped, + Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say? + 'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!' + 'But what I've got to say—IS—serious!' + Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, + His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying— + He always did—and what could she do but cry? + Perhaps, then, he would guess—perhaps he wouldn't. + And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'— + She knew she'd never tell—just say she was sick . . . + And after that, when would she dare again? + And what would he do—even suppose she told him? + + If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!— + She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was, + Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind + To pay out Felix for never having liked her, + By making people think that it was he . . . + She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,— + Just saying 'Felix did it—and wouldn't marry.' + And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . . + Paul would never forgive her—he'd never forgive her! + Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . . + She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. + + And then she closed her eyes and walked again + Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: + Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind + She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, + Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. + But it was late. No customers were there,— + Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! + And then—what poison would she dare to ask for? + And if they asked her why, what would she say? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES + + Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, + Two lovers blow together like music blowing: + And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. + Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, + They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. + 'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, + They look at the great clock's golden hands, + They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: + Only, their words like music seem to play; + And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. + + 'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars + Down the smooth heaven of her memory. + She stands again by a garden wall, + The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, + Water sings from an opened tap, the bees + Glisten and murmur among the trees. + Someone calls from the house. She does not answer. + Backward she leans her head, + And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough + She sees an infinite May sky spread + A vault profoundly blue. + The voice from the house fades far away, + The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . + The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . + Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . ' + She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know + She smiles from long ago . . . + + She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him + Roars like a vast invisible sea, + Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; + He is released of weight, his body is free, + He lifts his arms to swim, + Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . + The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach + With a whirring sound like wind in bells, + He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands + Reaching his lazy hands + Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . + + 'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' + They pause and smile, not caring what they say, + If only they may talk. + The crowd flows past them like dividing waters. + Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. + + 'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face, + Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, + Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. + She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. + She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . + + Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: + Time, like a flurry of rain, + Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. + Once, long ago, one night, + She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, + Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror + A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, + Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, + She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float + In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . + + 'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, + We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, + The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. + 'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! + Look how the tower is changed and glows!' + + Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, + We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; + A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; + We tremble like wind-blown grass. + + What was this dream we had, a dream of music, + Music that rose from the opening earth like magic + And shook its beauty upon us and died away? + The long cold streets extend once more before us. + The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES + + Well,—it was two days after my husband died— + Two days! And the earth still raw above him. + And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. + In number four—the room with the red wall-paper— + Some chorus girls and men were singing that song + 'They'll soon be lighting candles + Round a box with silver handles'—and hearing them sing it + I started to cry. Just then he came along + And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, + And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled + And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down + Where I was leaning against the wall, + And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . + And I was so sad, thinking about it,— + Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, + With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,— + That I was happy to have him sympathize, + To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. + And before I knew it, he got me into a room + Where a table was set, and no one there, + And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, + And talked to me, telling me not to cry, + That it was all right, he'd look after me,— + But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, + Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, + That when he turned my face between his hands, + And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, + And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me— + Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, + Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, + And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. + For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief + Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed + As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, + To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it— + And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! + And so we sat and talked, not talking much, + But meaning as much in silence as in words, + There in that empty room with palms about us, + That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there + I felt my future changing, day by day, + With unknown streets opening left and right, + New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, + Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, + Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains + Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,— + And thinking of this, and through it half remembering + A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, + The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,— + It seemed as if my brain would break in two. + My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, + And told him I must go, and said good-night— + I couldn't see the end. How would it end? + Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? + And did I want him to—or would I rather + Look for another job?—He took my shoulders + Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, + And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, + That would have—well, I don't know; but he didn't . . + And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, + Hoping to close the door before that party + In number four should sing that song again— + 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'— + And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. + And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX. INTERLUDE + + The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, + The hours go silently over our lifted faces, + We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. + Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. + We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. + + We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, + We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. + The door swings shut behind the latest comer. + We set our watches, regard the time. + + What have we done? I close my eyes, remember + The great machine whose sinister brain before me + Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. + My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. + I dropped great beams to the dusty street. + + My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, + And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. + I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. + Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. + + Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, + These walls whose windows gap against the sky, + Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble + Will build a glittering tower before we die . . . + + The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, + The young girl hums beneath her breath. + One goes out to beauty, and does not know it. + And one goes out to death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. SUDDEN DEATH + + 'Number four—the girl who died on the table— + The girl with golden hair—' + The purpling body lies on the polished marble. + We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . + + One, who held the ether-cone, remembers + Her dark blue frightened eyes. + He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast + More hurriedly fall and rise. + Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head + Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,— + And, suddenly, she lay dead. + + And all the dreams that hurried along her veins + Came to the darkness of a sudden wall. + Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, + They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, + Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all. + + What was her name? Where had she walked that morning? + Through what dark forest came her feet? + Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street? + + Backward he dreamed along a chain of days, + He saw her go her strange and secret ways, + Waking and sleeping, noon and night. + She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair. + She read a story by candlelight. + + Her shadow ran before her along the street, + She walked with rhythmic feet, + Turned a corner, descended a stair. + She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, + Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, + And drew deep breaths of air. + + Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music + Murmured within the walls of lighted windows. + She lifted her face to the light and danced. + The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, + Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced. + + Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, + Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid + Opened its golden heart on her breast . . . + She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, + Leaned on her partner's arm to rest. + The violins were weaving a weft of silver, + The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold, + And time was caught in a glistening pattern, + Time, too elusive to hold . . . + + Shadows of leaves fell over her face,—and sunlight: + She turned her face away. + Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness + With every step and day. + + Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, + At a great distance, across the night, + Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly + From purple light to light. + + Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, + 'I am the murderer, death. + I am the lover who keeps his appointment + At the doors of breath!' + + She rose and stared at her own reflection, + Half dreading there to find + The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, + Or reaching from behind + To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . . + Or was this in her mind? . . . + + She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered + Along the tossing strands. + Was there a stillness in this hair,— + A quiet in these hands? + + Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes, + Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust. + She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever. + Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . . + And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed, + And music ebbed with the ebbing hours. + And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds + Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI. + + Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares + With purple lights in the canyoned street. + The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . . + The trodden grass in the park is covered with white, + The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . . + The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + Over the enchanted whiteness of the town, + Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, + Desires like this to forget what will not pass, + The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, + Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. + Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, + Slurred bells of grief and pain, + Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places. + He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow. + He desires to forget a million faces . . . + + In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. + The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it. + In one room fade grey violets in a vase. + Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. + In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays + The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. + His hands are trembling, his short breath fails. + + In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, + And thinks the air is fire. + The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings + With the sudden hand of desire. + + And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; + And one lies staring, and thinks of death. + And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, + And holds her breath . . . + + Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, + Coil and revolve and dream, + Vanish or gleam? + Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. + Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. + + And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; + And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, + And walls flung down . . . + And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, + And whiteness hushes the town. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + As evening falls, + And the yellow lights leap one by one + Along high walls; + And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, + The muted city seems + Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams + Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . + Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, + Flash, are extinguished, flash again, + To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain + And die away . . . + As evening falls, + A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,— + A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . + The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, + The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, + The watchman climbs the stair . . . + The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, + And runs among them, and is beaten down; + The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; + The tired clown + Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, + Motionless in their places, + Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . . + The dancer smooths her hair, + Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door + To dance once more, + Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, + Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes. + + As darkness falls + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live tonight? Where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. THE SCREEN MAIDEN + + You read—what is it, then that you are reading? + What music moves so silently in your mind? + Your bright hand turns the page. + I watch you from my window, unsuspected: + You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . + + . . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei— + The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, + And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; + For his lover was dead, he never would love again. + + Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever— + Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows— + But then he saw this face, this face like flame, + This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi; + And took it home with him; and with it came + + What unexpected changes, subtle as weather! + The dark room, cold as rain, + Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April, + Warmed its corners with light again, + + And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, + And the quiet lady there, + So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, + Seemed ready to loose her hair, + + And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, + The word already clear, + Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . + He held his breath to hear, + + And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, + And held a candle, and searched her face + Through all the little shadows, to see what secret + Might give so warm a grace . . . + + Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? + The eyes, half-turned aside? + The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . + The secret was denied, + + He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, + And slept; and as he slept + A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, + And chided him, and wept. + + And in the morning, waking, he remembered, + And thought the dream was strange. + Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? + He turned, and felt a change, + + As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . + Yet there was only sunlight there. + Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, + And held his breath to stare, + + And could have sworn her cheek had turned—a little . . . + Had slightly turned away . . . + Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, + Nor left his room that day. + + And that day, and for many days thereafter, + He sat alone, and thought + No lady had ever lived so beautiful + As Hiroshigi wrought . . . + + Or if she lived, no matter in what country, + By what far river or hill or lonely sea, + He would look in every face until he found her . . . + There was no other as fair as she. + + And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, + And brought her every day + Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, + And somehow, she seemed to say, + + That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, + That she was happy there; + And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, + And desired to touch her hair, + + To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly + With delicate finger-tips + The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish + Upon her lips . . . + + Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; + And night by night a dread + Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi + Was many centuries dead,— + + And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . + Dead, and long turned to dust . . . + The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, + The peach leaves flew in a gust, + + And he would surely have died; but there one day + A wise man, white with age, + Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi + Knew more than archimage,— + + Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, + Till partly it entered there . . . + Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . + Do all I say with care, + + And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' + So then this ghost, Tokkei, + Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, + And alone at the end of day + + Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, + And saw the quiet eyes + Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, + And knelt, and did not rise, + + And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' + Said it three times aloud. + And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense + Rose to the walls in a cloud, + + And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; + And suddenly, with a sigh, + The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, + And stood, while worlds went by, + + And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; + And the poet trembled, and said, + 'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'—'Yes, I will stay.'— + 'But what when I am dead?' + + 'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, + And then we shall die no more.' + Music came down upon them, and spring returning, + They remembered worlds before, + + And years went over the earth, and over the sea, + And lovers were born and spoke and died, + But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, + Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS + + The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; + The music changes tone, you wake, remember + Deep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafter + Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, + Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. + + Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. + Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. + Elaine was married and soon to have a child. + You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; + They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. + + To-morrow—what? And what of yesterday? + Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, + Through many doors to the one door of all. + Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: + Or see a skeleton fall . . . + + We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? + We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. + We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. + You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. + It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. + + This is the thing remembered I would forget— + No matter where I go, how soft I tread, + This windy gesture menaces me with death. + Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; + Touches my throat and stops my breath. + + My fans—my jewels—the portrait of my husband— + The torn certificate for my daughter's grave— + These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. + They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. + They signify no crime. + + Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: + Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: + No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. + Dreams—they are madness. Staring eyes—illusion. + Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. ILLICIT + + Of what she said to me that night—no matter. + The strange thing came next day. + My brain was full of music—something she played me—; + I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it + Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, + Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, + Urging to restlessness: verging on grief. + I tried to play the tune, from memory,— + But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed + And found no resolution—only hung there, + And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . . + What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? + 'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . + A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, + Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . + And someone walking alone; and someone saying + That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' + These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them + A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow + I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady? + The one who always danced in golden slippers— + And had I danced with her,—upon this music? + Or was it further back—the unplumbed twilight + Of childhood?—No—much recenter than that. + + You know, without my telling you, how sometimes + A word or name eludes you, and you seek it + Through running ghosts of shadow,—leaping at it, + Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, + Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: + Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, + You hear it, see it flash among the branches, + And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it— + Well, it was so I followed down this music, + Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, + Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, + Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars—; + Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, + The thing resolved itself: and I remembered + An April afternoon, eight years ago— + Or was it nine?—no matter—call it nine— + A room in which the last of sunlight faded; + A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; + And, she who played the same thing later, playing. + + She played this tune. And in the middle of it + Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands + Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, + With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, + One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, + And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. + + 'You know—we've got to end this—Miriam loves you . . . + If she should ever know, or even guess it,— + What would she do?—Listen!—I'm not absurd . . . + I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women— + To understand them—which you've never had— + You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, + Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, + Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, + Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, + Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, + Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . + Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness + That she could neither break it—nor conclude? + It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, + Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,— + Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . + + Well, April passed with many other evenings, + Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, + With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . + And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . + And after that, when eight deep years had passed— + Or nine—we met once more,—by accident . . . + But was it just by accident, I wonder, + She played this tune?—Or what, then, was intended? . . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT + + The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, + Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; + You strike a match and stare upon the flame. + The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, + And dwindles away as silently as it came. + + This melody, you say, has certain voices— + They rise like nereids from a river, singing, + Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. + Wherever you go you bear this river with you: + A leaf falls,—and it flows, and you have pain. + + So says the tune to you—but what to me? + What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, + The violinist who suavely draws his bow? + That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. + A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. + + Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping + Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: + At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. + Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. + A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. + And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: + And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, + And the great sea shakes its walls. + And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls + This melody once more: + 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' + + So says the tune to him—but what to me? + What are the worlds I see? + What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . + I go my secret way, down secret alleys; + My errand is not so simple as it seems. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD + + This is the house. On one side there is darkness, + On one side there is light. + Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns— + O, any number—it will still be night. + And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward + To long sonorous halls. + And here is spring forever at these windows, + With roses on the walls. + + This is her room. On one side there is music— + On one side not a sound. + At one step she could move from love to silence, + Feel myriad darkness coiling round. + And here are balconies from which she heard you, + Your steady footsteps on the stair. + And here the glass in which she saw your shadow + As she unbound her hair. + + Here is the room—with ghostly walls dissolving— + The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; + And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' + So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!— + Through windy corridors of darkening end. + + Here she could stand with one dim light above her + And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, + Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. + And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, + She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. + + Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. + Your words were windows,—large enough for moonlight, + Too small to let her through. + Your letters—fragrant cloisters faint with music. + The music that assuaged her there was you. + + How many times she heard your step ascending + Yet never saw your face! + She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, + Till silence swept the place. + Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . . + You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken. + + A certain rose-leaf—sent without intention— + Became, with time, a woven web of fire— + She wore it, and was warm. + A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, + Became, with time, the flashings of a storm. + + Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you + Of secret idols carved in secret chambers + From all you did and said. + Nothing was done, until at last she knew you. + Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. + + How did she die?—You say, she died of poison. + Simple and swift. And much to be regretted. + You did not see her pass + So many thousand times from light to darkness, + Pausing so many times before her glass; + + You did not see how many times she hurried + To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, + Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. + You did not know how long she clung to music, + You did not hear her sing. + + Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely + From sound to silence—close, herself, those windows? + Or was it true, instead, + That darkness moved,—for once,—and so possessed her? . . . + We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. PORCELAIN + + You see that porcelain ranged there in the window— + Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, + And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? + See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! + They're works of art—minutely seen and felt, + Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure + To spend your blood like this? + + Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, + If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming + Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal— + My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting + Day after day, close to a certain window, + Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . + + Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . + Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . + Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, + Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, + Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, + You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me— + An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, + Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, + Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, + Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. + On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night + Of two soft-patterned toads—I thought them stones, + Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,— + Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,— + It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. + Here,—as I coil the stems between two leaves,— + It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, + I cried the secret between two universes . . . + A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said + Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,— + Though with his eyes wide open,— + And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part + Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, + Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, + Amazing leaves, folding one on another, + Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals— + All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, + I need no hasheesh for it—it's too easy! + Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking + In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, + Violets purple as death, dripping with water, + And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. + + Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets— + With scalloped edges gilded—here you have me + Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,— + There's something lacking—force, or will, or passion, + I don't know what it is—and so, sometimes, + When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, + Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, + I get uneasy—just like poplar trees + Ruffling their leaves—and I begin to think + Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, + And that delicious night. Where is she now? + I meant to write—but she has moved, by this time, + And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. + Well, there is more—I'm getting old and timid— + The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! + I never strike out boldly as I used to— + But sit here, painting violets, and remember + That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, + Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,— + Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,— + Were thought so beautiful.—And so they were. + Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . + Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! + Well, I suppose such days can come but once. + Lord, how happy we were! . . . + + Here, if you only knew it, is a story— + Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, + And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: + A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . + Who killed himself by diving against a wall. + Here is a recollection of my wife, + When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. + It's funny how things change,—just change, by growing, + Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,— + A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; + A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . + Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! + + This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, + If you look hard enough. This, in its way, + Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you + In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, + Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . + Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist— + You have my head before you . . . on a platter. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE + + Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower + Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: + At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . + The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. + We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. + + We are like music, each voice of it pursuing + A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, + Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. + What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . + We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. + + One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, + Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; + One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. + One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . + Upward and downward, past him there, we stream. + + One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. + Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. + A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. + He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: + A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. + + Death, from street to alley, from door to window, + Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching, + Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. + But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect? + Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? + + Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, + A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes + Down jangled streets, and dies. + The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, + Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. + + Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; + Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; + From freezing rooms as bare as rock. + The curtains are closed across deserted windows. + Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. + + Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; + Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; + Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; + Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; + Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; + + Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, + And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; + Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,— + They are blown away like windflung chords of music, + They drift away; the sudden music has died. + + And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly + And sees the shadow of death in many faces, + And thinks the world is strange. + He desires immortal music and spring forever, + And beauty that knows no change. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX. CABARET + + We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. + You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing + As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' + Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, + 'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' + + You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . . + How many others like ourselves, this instant, + Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? + How many others, laughing, sip their coffee— + Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . + + 'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) + When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: + And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. + Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter + What have we saved—what news, what tune, what play? + + 'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,— + Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; + No pity dims our eyes . . . + How many others, like ourselves, this instant, + See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' + + Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . + When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, + And even those most like angels creep for schemes. + The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, + Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. + + But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, + Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons + To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . + And all these others who at your conjuration + Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,— + + Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, + Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, + Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,— + Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting + This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, + + Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, + Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, + Lean to the music, rise, + And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion + With kindness in their eyes . . . + + They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) + 'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! + And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' + They say 'How strange it is that one such evening + Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' + + And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, + They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, + And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. + With secret symbols they play on secret passions. + With cunning eyes they see + + The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, + The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . + The pendulum on the wall + Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; + Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. LETTER + + From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees + The soft blue starlight through the one small window, + The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,— + And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. + + It is so long, indeed, since I have written,— + Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,— + That these first words I write seem cold and strange. + Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? + Altered, of course—just as I too have altered— + And whether towards each other, or more apart, + We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter— + Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure— + + Pondering much on all you say in it + Of mystic consciousness—divine conversion— + The sense of oneness with the infinite,— + Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . + Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, + If one's to talk through this dark world contented. + But is the world so dark? Or is it rather + Our own brute minds,—in which we hurry, trembling, + Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. + + You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"— + Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented + With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: + Even before the question grew to problem + And drove you bickering into metaphysics, + You met on lower planes the same great dragon, + Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, + In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, + One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, + The cruder first, more violent sensations, + Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted + With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,— + Savoring all more delicate gradations + + In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, + Or thought on brain,—you passed, if I may say so, + From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. + Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, + As instruments of music, whereon our lives + Will play as we desire: and let us yield + These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves + To all experience plays . . . And so you went + From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, + Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; + And closing one by one your doors, drew in + Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, + Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. + + What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber— + Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly + It is the last, and cunningest, resort + Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,— + This world of lamentations, death, injustice, + Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, + Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,— + Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, + Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: + + Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,— + With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, + Coldly imperious,—this transient world, + What has it then to give, if not containing + Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,— + Momentary and trivial for the most part, + Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,— + And know how much outweighed they are by darkness. + We are like searchers in a house of darkness, + A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, + Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, + Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, + An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway + Leading to who knows what; but never seeing + The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little, + And then grow tired. No matter what we touch, + Dust is the answer—dust: dust everywhere. + If this were all—what were the use, you ask? + But this is not: for why should we be seeking, + Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, + To lift our minds, if there were only dust? + This is the central chamber you have come to: + Turning your back to the world, until you came + To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, + And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. + + Well, in a measure, so only do we all. + I am not sure that you can be refuted. + At the very last we all put faith in something,— + You in this ghost that animates your world, + This ethical ghost,—and I, you'll say, in reason,— + Or sensuous beauty,—or in my secret self . . . + Though as for that you put your faith in these, + As much as I do—and then, forsaking reason,— + Ascending, you would say, to intuition,— + You predicate this ghost of yours, as well. + Of course, you might have argued,—and you should have,— + That no such deep appearance of design + Could shape our world without entailing purpose: + For can design exist without a purpose? + Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children + Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, + Strange patterns drawn,—circles, arcs, ellipses, + Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder? + + Did someone draw them here before we came? + Or was it just the sea?—We pore upon them, + But find no answer—only suppositions. + And if these perfect shapes are evidence + Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: + We never come upon him at his work, + He never troubles us. He stands aloof— + Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned + With what we are or do. You, if you like, + May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, + Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing + You see, without much reason, will in law. + I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, + Happily so for us, by accident: + We go our ways untroubled save by laws + Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? + + If we were wise—which God knows we are not— + (Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle + Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. + These brains of ours—these delicate spinal clusters— + Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? + Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? + Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, + Until you managed to see that world as omen,— + Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, + Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?— + You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. + I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. + You find your pleasure in being at one with all things— + Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling + As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too— + With reservations. I find more varied pleasure + In understanding: and so find beauty even + In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. + + Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. + For household news—what have you heard, I wonder? + You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time— + Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done— + We found it out too late. His death has changed me, + Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, + Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, + Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom + To see them clearly, meditate upon them, + And understand what things flow out of them. + Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. + Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, + And bring old times with you?—If you could see me + Sitting here by the window, watching Venus + Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,— + Just where you used to sit,—I'm sure you'd come. + This year, they say, the springtime will be early. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI. CONVERSATION: UNDERTONES + + What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? + You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; + You smile a little. . . . Outside, the night goes by. + I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees. + + 'These lines—converging, they suggest such distance! + The soul is drawn away, beyond horizons. + Lured out to what? One dares not think. + Sometimes, I glimpse these infinite perspectives + In intimate talk (with such as you) and shrink . . . + + 'One feels so petty!—One feels such—emptiness!—' + You mimic horror, let fall your lifted hand, + And smile at me; with brooding tenderness . . . + Alone on darkened waters I fall and rise; + Slow waves above me break, faint waves of cries. + + 'And then these colors . . . but who would dare describe them? + This faint rose-coral pink . . this green—pistachio?— + So insubstantial! Like the dim ghostly things + Two lovers find in love's still-twilight chambers . . . + Old peacock-fans, and fragrant silks, and rings . . . + + 'Rings, let us say, drawn from the hapless fingers + Of some great lady, many centuries nameless,— + Or is that too sepulchral?—dulled with dust; + And necklaces that crumble if you touch them; + And gold brocades that, breathed on, fall to rust. + + 'No—I am wrong . . . it is not these I sought for—! + Why did they come to mind? You understand me— + You know these strange vagaries of the brain!—' + —I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees; + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees; + These strange vagaries of yours are all too plain. + + 'But why perplex ourselves with tedious problems + Of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, + With all that's in our secret hearts to say!—' + Hearts?—Your pale hand softly strokes the satin. + You play deep music—know well what you play. + You stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, + You smile, with faintly perfumed lips, + You loose your thoughts like birds, + Brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . . + We know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound + In tremulous webs of sound. + + 'How beautiful is intimate talk like this!— + It is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, + Stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, + To hear a hidden music . . . Our own vast shadows + Lean to a giant size on the windy walls, + Or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls + Echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, + Music sings far off, flows suddenly near, + And dies away like rain . . . + We walk through subterranean caves again,— + Vaguely above us feeling + A shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, + Strange half-lit things, + Soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . . + And here a beautiful face looks down upon us; + And someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . . + Have we seen all, I wonder, in these chambers— + Or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, + Where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . ' + + The question falls: we walk in silence together, + Thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . . + This lamp, these books, this fire + Are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness. + Deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII. WITCHES' SABBATH + + Now, when the moon slid under the cloud + And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, + He heard in his blood the well-known bell + Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, + Slowly beating, slowly beating, + Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: + Sometimes it swung completely round, + Horribly gasping as if for breath; + Falling down with an anguished cry . . . + Now the red bat, he mused, will fly; + Something is marked, this night, for death . . . + And while he mused, along his blood + Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, + They rose in the cavern of his brain, + Like ghosts they died away again; + And hands upon his heart were laid, + And music upon his flesh was played, + Until, as he was bidden to do, + He walked the wood he so well knew. + Through the cold dew he moved his feet, + And heard far off, as under the earth, + Discordant music in shuddering tones, + Screams of laughter, horrible mirth, + Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, + And the long-drawn wail of one in pain. + To-night, he thought, I shall die again, + We shall die again in the red-eyed fire + To meet on the edge of the wood beyond + With the placid gaze of fed desire . . . + He walked; and behind the whisper of trees, + In and out, one walked with him: + She parted the branches and peered at him, + Through lowered lids her two eyes burned, + He heard her breath, he saw her hand, + Wherever he turned his way, she turned: + Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; + Moving her white knees as he moved . . . + This is the one I have always loved; + This is the one whose bat-soul comes + To dance with me, flesh to flesh, + In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . . + + The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, + Sank down behind a rushing sky. + He heard a sweet song just begun + Abruptly shatter in tones and die. + It whirled away. Cold silence fell. + And again came tollings of a bell. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides + Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind. + In the clear darkness, while the moon hides, + They come like dreams, like something remembered . . + Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, + Forget these things that trouble your eyes, + Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed, + Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . . + + The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved, + What was the word you said? + Something about clear music that sang through water . . . + I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves. + Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead. + Someone lies in the garden and grieves. + Look how the branches are tossed in this air, + Flinging their green to the earth! + Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, + The moon stares down like a half-closed eye. + The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, + Oaks crash down in the darkness, + We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The moon was darkened: across it flew + The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, + Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, + The witch! he said. And he heard a cry, + And another came, and another came, + And one, grown duskily red with blood, + Floated an instant across the moon, + Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . . + The earth has veins: they throb to-night, + The earth swells warm beneath my feet, + The tips of the trees grow red and bright, + The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat, + They press together, they push and sigh, + They listen to hear the great bat cry, + The great red bat with the woman's face . . . + Hurry! he said. And pace for pace + That other, who trod the dark with him, + Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands + And closed her eyes, the better to see + The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, + The fire-lit rock, the sarabands. + I am here! she said. The bough he broke— + Was it the snapping bough that spoke? + I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed + Cold in starlight among dark leaves, + The head thrown backward as he had dreamed, + The shadowy red deep jasper mouth; + And the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts, + Passed beside him, and vanished away. + I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!' + And laughter arose, and near and far + Answering laughter rose and died . . . + Who is there? in the dark? he cried. + He stood in terror, and heard a sound + Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; + They rushed, were still; a silence fell; + And he heard deep tollings of a bell. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look beloved! Why do you hide your face? + Look, in the centre there, above the fire, + They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love! + They are playing a piercing music upon him + With a bow of living wire! . . . + The virgin harlot sings, + She leans above the beautiful anguished body, + And draws slow music from those strings. + They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, + They trample him with their naked feet, + His cries are lost in laughter, + Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and + beat, + They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . . + Have we not heard that cry before? + Somewhere, somewhere, + Beside a sea, in the green evening, + Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . . + Was it you? was it I? + They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, + The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, + Look! he has caught one by the hair, + She screams and falls, he bears her away with him, + And the night grows full of whistling wings. + Far off, one voice, serene and sweet, + Rises and sings . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .' + Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them? + It was long ago. + Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; + The treetops tremble and glow. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the clear dark, on silent wings, + The red bat hovers beneath her moon; + She drops through the fragrant night, and clings + Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, + With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, + To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds. + The maidens circle in dance, and raise + From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; + Their knees and breasts are white and bare, + They have hung pale roses in their hair, + Each of them as she dances by + Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye. + See how the red wing wraps him round, + See how the white youth struggles in vain! + The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; + He writhes in the soft red veiny wings, + But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . . + This is the secret feast of love, + Look well, look well, before it dies, + See how the red one trembles above, + See how quiet the white one lies! . . . . + + Wind through the trees. . . . and a voice is heard + Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . . + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars, + One among numberless avatars, + I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, + And lay on the stones and gave my flesh, + And entered the hunger of him I loved. + How shall I ever escape this mesh + Or be from my lover's body removed?' + Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air + And the maenads dance with flying hair. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, + Rise in the starlight, one by one, + They draw their knives on the spurting throats, + They smear the column with blood of goats, + They dabble the blood on hair and lips + And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. + They stand like stones and stare at the sky + Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . + In the green moonlight still they stand + While wind flows over the darkened sand + And brood on the soft forgotten things + That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . + Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . + They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . + And then, as the shadow closes the moon, + Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, + And rush through the dark, and fill the night + With a slowly dying clamor of sound. + There, where the great walls crowd the stars, + There, by the black wind-riven walls, + In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . + Who are these pilgrims, who are these, + These three, the one of whom stands upright, + While one lies weeping and one of them crawls? + The face that he turned was a wounded face, + I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . + Hooves had trampled and torn this place, + And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. + Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, + The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . + Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . . + I will lie on this grass as a lover lies + And reach to the north and reach to the south + And seek in the darkness for her mouth. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind + Shatter pale foam among great trees, + Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, + Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, + I run to find you, I run and cry, + Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I. + It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, + Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. + Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . . + Is this you? Is this you? + Bats in this air go whirring. . . . + And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, + Is this the soft mouth I knew? + Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; + And the patter of dew. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance! + Dance till the brain is red with speed! + Dance till you fall! Lift your torches! + Kiss your lovers until they bleed! + Backward I draw your anguished hair + Until your eyes are stretched with pain; + Backward I press you until you cry, + Your lips grow white, I kiss you again, + I will take a torch and set you afire, + I will break your body and fling it away. . . . + Look, you are trembling. . . . Lie still, beloved! + Lock your hands in my hair, and say + Darling! darling! darling! darling! + All night long till the break of day. + + Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . . + Or the far tolling of that tower? + The voices are still that cried around us. . . . + The woods grow still for the sacred hour. + Rise, white lover! the day draws near. + The grey trees lean to the east in fear. + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .' + Beloved, whose voice was this that cried? + 'By the clear waters that reach the sun + By the clear waves that starward run. . . . + I found love's body and lost his soul, + And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . . + How shall I ever again be whole, + By what dark waters shall I be healed?' + + Silence. . . . the red leaves, one by one, + Fall. Far off, the maenads run. + + Silence. Beneath my naked feet + The veins of the red earth swell and beat. + The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, + Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . . + Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon. + The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The great bell cracks and falls at last. + The moon whirls out. The sky grows still. + Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars + And suddenly drops behind the hill! + Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, + We sit in the room by candle-light. + We peer in each other's veins and see + No sign of the things we saw this night. + Only, a song is in your ears, + A song you have heard, you think, in dream: + The song which only the demon hears, + In the dark forest where maenads scream . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . + In the calm evening bright with stars . . . ' + What do the strange words mean? you say,— + And touch my hand, and turn away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII. + + The half-shut doors through which we heard that music + Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. + The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. + Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain + Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. + In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. + + Where have we been? What savage chaos of music + Whirls in our dreams?—We suddenly rise in darkness, + Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. + We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming + A warm white moonlit shore; + + Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, + Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, + Or a singing sound of rain . . . + We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, + And enter our dreams again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. CLAIRVOYANT + + 'This envelope you say has something in it + Which once belonged to your dead son—or something + He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?— + The soul flies far, and we can only call it + By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, + Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . ' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow; + Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, + One by one they melt and flow,— + + Streaming one by one over trees and towers, + Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; + Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows + Flow under them one by one . . . + + ' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit + Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit + Young and strong and beautiful . . . + + He says that he is happy, is much honored; + Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind + Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . . + The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken + And laid aside . . . ' + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did!' + + 'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you: + Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . . + What seems calamity is less than a sigh; + What seems disgrace is nothing.' + + 'Ask him if the one he hurt is there, + And if she loves him still!' + + 'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,— + Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . . + A cloud of spirits has gathered about him. + They praise him and call him, they do him honor; + He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow . . . + Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, + One by one they sing and flow; + + Over the outstretched lands of days remembered, + Over remembered tower and wall, + One by one they gather and talk in the darkness, + Rise and glimmer and fall . . . + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did! + He knows I will understand!' + + 'It is too late: + He will not hear me: I have lost my power.' + + 'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me. + God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. DEATH: AND A DERISIVE CHORUS + + The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, + And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly + Towards the dazzling street. + Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing. + The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet. + + Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting + To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry, + We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow. + She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward. + We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow. + + Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!— + Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . . + She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes. + Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been? + She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries. + + Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,— + Paying good money, too,—to talk to spirits. . . . + She thinks she's heard a message from one dead! + What did he tell you? Is he well and happy? + Don't lie to us—we all know what he said. + + He said the one he murdered once still loves him; + He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; + And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . . + But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,— + Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know! + That's what you get for meddling so with heaven! + + Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going? + We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits. + Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry! + What have you got in an envelope, old lady? + A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye? + + How do you know the medium didn't fool you? + Perhaps he had no spirit—perhaps he killed it. + Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son. + What did he have—blue eyes and golden hair? + We know your secret! what's done is done. + + Look out, you'll fall—and fall, if you're not careful, + Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry? + You don't think you will find him when you're dead? + Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,— + Look at her eyes all red! + + We know you—know your name and all about you, + All you remember and think, and all you scheme for. + We tear your secret out, we leave you, go + Laughingly down the street. . . . Die, if you want to! + Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!— + + . . . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body + Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her? + Was no one with her when she fell? . . . + We eddy about her, move away in silence. + We hear slow tollings of a bell. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT + + Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: + We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, + Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, + So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,— + Yet know so little of them; only seeing + The small bright circle of our consciousness, + Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know— + Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, + I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find + A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, + And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, + A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, + While one tall woman sent her voice above them + In powerful sweetness. . . . Closing then the door + I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,— + And walked in a quiet hallway as before. + Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, + Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . + We hear a sudden music, see a playing + Of ordered thoughts—and all again is silence. + The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) + Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,— + As it continues after our departure, + So, we divine, it played before we came . . . + What do you know of me, or I of you? . . . + Little enough. . . . We set these doors ajar + Only for chosen movements of the music: + This passage, (so I think—yet this is guesswork) + Will please him,—it is in a strain he fancies,— + More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it + He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered + And thinks (to judge from self—this too is guesswork) + + The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, + Perplexed with implications; he suspects me + Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . + Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,— + Simple and clear; and all the while he listens + I make pretence to think my doors are closed. + This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong + Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? + Or only mocking?'—There I let it end. . . . + Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it— + When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, + Talking with too great zeal—our doors fly open + Without intention; and the hungry watcher + Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, + And laughs. . . . but this, for many counts, is seldom. + And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, + Our lovers too, only such few clear notes + As we shall deem them likely to admire: + 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' + Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . . all the while + Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,— + Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, + The sombre note that gives the chord its power; + Or a white loveliness—if such we know— + Too much like fire to speak of without shame. + + Well, this being so, and we who know it being + So curious about those well-locked houses, + The minds of those we know,—to enter softly, + And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, + From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, + Breathing deliberately the very air, + Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness + To learn what ghosts are there,— + Suppose for once I set my doors wide open + And bid you in. . . . Suppose I try to tell you + The secrets of this house, and how I live here; + Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . + Deceiving you—as far as I may know it— + Only so much as I deceive myself. + + If you are clever you already see me + As one who moves forever in a cloud + Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud + Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, + Changing such outlines as a light may change, + Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing + Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained + In a world of things that flatter me: a sky + Just as I would have had it; trees and grass + Just as I would have shaped and colored them; + Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, + And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,— + In some deep way I am aware these praise me: + Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, + They point, somehow, to me. . . . This water says,— + Shimmering at the sky, or undulating + In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, + Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths + To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,— + This water says, there is some secret in you + Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive + To all that circles you. This bare tree says,— + Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, + Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches + Flung out against the sky,—this tall tree says, + There is some cold austerity in you, + A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, + Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, + Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, + Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! + What teeming Aprils!—chorus of leaves on leaves! + These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, + Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, + Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; + Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; + Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; + Walls windowless where darkness is desired; + Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,— + Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,— + All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: + You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, + Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, + When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . + This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, + Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, + This cool room says,—just such a room have you, + It waits you always at the tops of stairways, + Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, + Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . + And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, + Hung there forever,—these so soundless glidings + Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, + Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins + Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions + Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,— + This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,— + This says, just such an involuted beauty + Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, + Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, + Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: + You need but sit and close your eyes a moment + To see these deep designs unfold themselves. + + And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me— + I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; + And in this world you see me like a wraith + Blown softly here and there, on silent winds. + 'Praise me'—I say; and look, not in a glass, + But in your eyes, to see my image there— + Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; + You look at me, with interest unfeigned, + And listen—I am pleased; or else, alone, + I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward + From unknown depths,—my silver thoughts ascending; + Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,— + Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, + Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,— + But all with one deep meaning: this is I, + This is the glistening secret holy I, + This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, + This singing ghost. . . . And hearing, I am warmed. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You see me moving, then, as one who moves + Forever at the centre of his circle: + A circle filled with light. And into it + Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, + Or huddle in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly, + A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; + Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; + And through these things my pencil pushes softly + To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. + Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; + Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn + And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, + Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture + Above unsteady lamps,—with black boughs flung + Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. + 'Beauty!' I cry. . . . My feet move on, and take me + Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. + Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, + Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . + Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, + The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, + And darkness rides my heart. . . . These skeleton elm-trees— + Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky— + Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness + Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . + A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: + The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, + Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, + Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, + The eaves make liquid music. . . . Hours have passed, + And nothing changes, and everything is changed. + Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,— + And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized + Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. + + If you could solve this darkness you would have me. + This causeless melancholy that comes with rain, + Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes + Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? + Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him, + Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; + And you, I saw too much; and you, too little; + And the word I chose for you, the golden word, + The word that should have struck so deep in purpose, + And set so many doors of wish wide open, + You let it fall, and would not stoop for it, + And smiled at me, and would not let me guess + Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together, + With other things, still slighter, wove to music, + And this in time drew up dark memories; + And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me, + Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, + Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, + And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, + And cries that none can answer, few will hear. + Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly + If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious, + Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? + + Or 'one day dies eventless as another, + Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, + And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? + Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, + And beauty shines in vain'?— + + These things you ask for, + These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife, + At the dark end of evening, when she leaned + And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs + Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,— + Calling to mind remote and small successions + Of countless other evenings ending so,— + I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; + Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands + Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin, + I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, + I saw myself alone there, palely watching, + Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted + That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass, + And I should meet this girl,—my second wife— + And drop the masque of grief for one of passion. + Forward we move to meet, half hesitating, + We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, + Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending + We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude + Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches. + We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us, + Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, + Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . + . . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . . My first wife's voice + Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing—nothing much— + Just wondering where we'd be two years from now, + And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse + Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, + And pity to echoed love. And one more evening + Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. + + And, as it is with this, so too with all things. + The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: + New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, + And those on older still; and so forever. + The old shines through the new, and colors it. + What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,— + All things return. I write a line with passion + (Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) + Only to find the same thing, done before,— + Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . + This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,— + Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; + The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, + And broke the accustomed order of our days, + And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . + What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? + What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? + + You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, + Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,— + Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,— + No more for me than you. I move here always, + From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, + Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. + This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . + Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, + Once more I have deceived you. . . . I withhold + The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; + And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. COUNTERPOINT: TWO ROOMS + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + She, in the room below—his floor her ceiling— + Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, + And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . + She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, + + His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages— + Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. + The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. + The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her. + The world whirs on. . . . New stars come up to shine. + + His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking + In a golden cloud. . . . Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness + Walls it around with dripping enormous walls. + Old age—far off—her death—what do they matter? + Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. + + She hears slow steps in the street—they chime like music; + They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, + Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . + He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. + Far off they pass. He knows they will never return. + + Far off—on a smooth dark road—he hears them faintly. + The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, + Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath + Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. + And death seems nearer to him: or he to death. + + What's death?—She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. + The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, + She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, + The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. + A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. + + What's death—what's death? The spring returns like music, + The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, + The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. + The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. + Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . + And death seems far away, a thing of roses, + A golden portal, where golden music closes, + Death seems far away: + And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, + And spring returns to stay. . . . + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, + And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. + And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. + . . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. THE BITTER LOVE-SONG + + No, I shall not say why it is that I love you— + Why do you ask me, save for vanity? + Surely you would not have me, like a mirror, + Say 'yes,—your hair curls darkly back from the temples, + Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness, + Your eyes are April grey. . . . with jonquils in them?' + No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . . + I'll say—my childhood broke through chords of music + —Or were they chords of sun?—wherein fell shadows, + Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight; + Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me + With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. . + I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning, + My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover, + And drowsed there like a bee. . . . blue days behind me + Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic, + Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . . days before me + Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold, + Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights. + Confused soft clouds of music fled above me. + + Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. + I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight, + Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty, + Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep. + + No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you— + Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' + You would not have me say what you know better? + Let me instead be silent, only saying—: + My childhood lives in me—or half-lives, rather— + And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music + Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . + Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, + Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, + Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, + Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . . + I lay in my bed and through the tall night window + Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds, + And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . . + How should I know—how should I now remember— + What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? + What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them? + + This I shall say.—I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. . + Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny, + Stared at the sky. And silently there above us + Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge, + Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows, + Swift and blue, or dark. . . . What did they mean? + What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty? + Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle? + Only I know these things leaned over me, + Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly, + Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated, + I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . . + You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them, + Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers, + These presences. . . . I drowse, they stream above me, + I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream. + + You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you) + Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight. + You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) + In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing. + It is not you I laugh for, you I touch! + My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs, + Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops; + And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. CINEMA + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . . + + Take my arm, then, you or you or you, + And let us walk abroad on the solid air: + Look how the organist's head, in silhouette, + Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . . + The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, + Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, + They have hurried down from a myriad secret places, + From windy chambers next to the skies. . . . + The music comes upon us. . . . it shakes the darkness, + It shakes the darkness in our minds. . . . + And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, + Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, + And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . . + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea + Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,— + Take my hand + And walk with me once more by crumbling walls; + Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, + To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, + Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . . + Did you once love me? Did you bear a name? + Did you once stand before me without shame? . . . + Take my hand: your face is one I know, + I loved you, long ago: + You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; + You are like spring returned through snow. + Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight, + And many nights I slept and dreamed of you; + Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, + This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . . + Music murmurs beneath us like a sea, + And faints to a ghostly whisper . . . Come with me. + + Are you still doubtful of me—hesitant still, + Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember + What you would gladly, if you could, forget? + You were unfaithful once, you met your lover; + Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; + And I was silent,—you remember my silence yet . . . + You knew, as well as I, I could not kill him, + Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate. + No, and it was not you I saw with anger. + Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate, + Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, + That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, + Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, + Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain. + + How could I find it in my heart to hurt you, + You, whom this love could hurt much more than I? + No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity; + And only hated you when I saw you cry. + We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,— + Had I the right,—I should forgive you now . . . + We were two dupes . . . Come, let us walk in starlight, + And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow. + + Take my hand, then, come with me + By the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . . + Look how the long volutes of foam unfold + To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . . + Take my hand, + Do not remember how these depths are cold, + Nor how, when you are dead, + Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head. + You lean your face upon your hands and cry, + The blown sand whispers about your feet, + Terrible seems it now to die,— + Terrible now, with life so incomplete, + To turn away from the balconies and the music, + The sunlit afternoons, + To hear behind you there a far-off laughter + Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . + Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! + Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! + Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! + Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us, + The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, + And to and fro we move and lean and change . . . + You, in a world grown strange, + Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, + Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, + Sink suddenly down and cry . . . + You hear the applause that greets your latest rival, + You are forgotten: your rival—who knows?—is I . . . + I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, + I am inspired and young . . . and though I see + You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, + I bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . . + Failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . . + The night must come . . . and I'll be one who clings, + Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,— + To keep some youngster waiting in the wings. + + The music changes tone . . . a room is darkened, + Someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens, + And all is dark again; till suddenly falls + A wandering disk of light on floor and walls, + Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, + Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; + And then at last, in the chaos of that place, + Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face. + Well, I have found you. We have met at last. + Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes + I see the horrible huddlings of your past,— + All you remember blackens, utters cries, + Reaches far hands and faint. I hold the light + Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,— + Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . . + Now all the hatreds of my life have met + To hold high carnival . . . we do not speak, + My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, + And press, and fling you down . . . and then forget. + + Who plays for me? What sudden drums keep time + To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? + What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . . + What violin so faintly cries + Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . . + The room grows dark once more, + The crack of white light narrows around the door, + And all is silent, except a slow complaining + Of flutes and violins, like music waning. + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . . + Look, how white these shells are, on this sand! + Take my hand, + And watch the waves run inward from the sky + Line upon foaming line to plunge and die. + The music that bound our lives is lost behind us, + Paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place + Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure + We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face. + The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, + + The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, + Once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . . + Now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen + To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain + And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain. + Have I not seen you, have we not met before + Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? + You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand + And peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes, + Flash in the sun, go down . . . I hear slow sand, + And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . . + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The music ends. The screen grows dark. We hurry + To go our devious secret ways, forgetting + Those many lives . . . We loved, we laughed, we killed, + We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves. + The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled. + + Whose body have I found beside dark waters, + The cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? + Staring with wide eyes at the sky? + I bent my head above it, and cried in silence. + Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry. + + Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened. + Again I loved, and love itself was darkened. + Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. + The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. + The doors of night are closed. We go our ways. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces, + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . ' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word, + We flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves on among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good night! good night! good night! we go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky. + We have built a city of towers. + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light. They have shaken a burden of hours. . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + 1916-1917 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1246 ***</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. 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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 House of Dust + A Symphony + +Author: Conrad Aiken + +Release Date: August 21, 2008 [EBook #1246] +Last Updated: January 26, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF DUST *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE HOUSE OF DUST + </h1> + <h1> + A Symphony + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Conrad Aiken + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + To Jessie + + + NOTE + + . . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American + Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am + indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" + in Part II. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE HOUSE OF DUST</b> </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> PART I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> PART II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> PART III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> PART IV. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE HOUSE OF DUST + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces. + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; + We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky, + We have built a city of towers. + + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + One, from his high bright window in a tower, + Leans out, as evening falls, + And sees the advancing curtain of the shower + Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: + Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, + And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, + Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, + And silver falling from eave and tree. + + One, from his high bright window, looking down, + Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, + And thinks its towers are like a dream. + The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, + Pale roofs begin to gleam. + + Looking down from a window high in a wall + He sees us all; + Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, + Searching the sky, and going our ways again, + Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . + There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees + What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd + From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. + + The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, + Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; + Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. + The yellow lamps wink one by one again. + The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. + + One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, + With wave upon slowly shattering wave, + Turned to the city of towers as evening fell; + And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; + And saw how the towers darkened against the sky; + And across the distance heard the toll of a bell. + + Along the darkening road he hurried alone, + With his eyes cast down, + And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, + With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . + And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown + Here in the quiet of evening air, + These empty and voiceless places . . . + And he hurried towards the city, to enter there. + + Along the darkening road, between tall trees + That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. + Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. + Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. + And death was observed with sudden cries, + And birth with laughter and pain. + And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies + And night came down again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. + + Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, + Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, + The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. + From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, + Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. + + They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, + Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. + And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, + And some strange shadows threw. + + And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, + Restlessly moving in each lamplit room, + From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; + From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: + From some, a dazzling desire. + + And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, + Combing with lifted arms her golden hair, + Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; + And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death + As she blew out her light. + + And there was one who turned from clamoring streets, + And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, + And looked at the windy sky, + And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze + And birds in the dead boughs cry . . . + + And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, + To mingle among the crowds again, + To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; + And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, + With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, + Hearing a sea-like murmur rise, + Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, + And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. + + The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . + It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls + Down golden-windowed walls. + We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, + We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, + But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while + We shall lie down again. + + The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, + Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . + One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, + We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; + But whether he lives or dies we do not know. + + One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; + The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. + He sings of a house he lived in long ago. + It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; + The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. + And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, + And throwing him pennies, we bear away + A mournful echo of other times and places, + And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. + + Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; + Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; + In broken slow cascades. + The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; + Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . + + And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, + Vaguely and incoherently, some dream + Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . + A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; + Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. + + We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; + We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; + We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. + We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. + We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. + + And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, + Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, + Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; + Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream + Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. + + Over the darkened city, the city of towers, + The city of a thousand gates, + Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, + Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, + The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, + With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. + On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, + And dreams in white at the city's feet; + On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. + Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. + Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. + + The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea + And sails toward the far-off city, that seems + Like one vague tower. + The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, + And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him + In a quiet shower. + + Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; + Rain thrills over the roofs again; + Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; + The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; + And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, + And among whirled leaves + The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, + From wall to remoter wall, + Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound + And close grey wings and fall . . . + + . . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember + A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: + Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. + Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . + Voices about me rise . . . + + Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,— + 'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down. + We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' + A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me + Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. + I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. + + 'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled, + Thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' + 'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.' + 'I am the one you followed through crowded streets, + The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' + + 'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell + Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: + A bell that broke great memories in my brain.' + 'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you, + Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' + + 'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding + The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. + They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago. + I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, + And returned to see it again. And it was so.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! + I am dissolved and woven again . . . + Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. + Thousands of voices weave in the rain. + + 'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking + At a dazzle of golden lights. + Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking + Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: + Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, + Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, + And turned, as she reached the door, + To smile once more . . . + Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. + Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, + Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon + On a night in June . . . + She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after; + She dances in dreams over white-waved water; + Her body is white and fragrant and cool, + Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . + I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights + Of a broken music and golden lights, + Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling + Between my hands and their white desire: + And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, + Dipping to screen a fire . . . + I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees, + But as I lean to kiss her face, + She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves, + And run in a moonless place; + And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, + And shattering trees and cracking walls, + And a net of intense white flame roars over the town, + And someone cries; and darkness falls . . . + But now she has leaned and smiled at me, + My veins are afire with music, + Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; + I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' + + He rises and moves away, he says no word, + He folds his evening paper and turns away; + I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; + Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, + And some sit motionless in their accustomed places. + + Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, + Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; + The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. + Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. + One peers out in the night for the place to change. + + Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, + It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, + Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. + The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. + Remote and hurried the great bells beat. + + 'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, + Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. + And to-day the woman I love lies dead. + I gave her roses, a ring with opals; + These hands have touched her head. + + 'I bound her to me in all soft ways, + I bound her to me in a net of days, + Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. + How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you? + There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. + + 'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . + Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city + Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' + His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. + Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. + + 'No, do not stare so—he is weak with grief, + He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; + He is confused with pain. + I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . + He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' + + The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, + The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. + We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; + And at last a silence falls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. + + Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers + The golden lights go out . . . + The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, + In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, + We lie face down, we dream, + We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem + To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . + Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. + A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, + A vortex of soundless hours. + + 'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. + But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. + The woman is dead. + She died—you know the way. Just as we planned. + Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. + Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' + + He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. + The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. + His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. + The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. + Into the night he fades. + + Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; + Blowing the water that gleams in the street; + Blowing the rain, the sleet. + In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, + Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; + Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . + Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . + + And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing + Above their heads a goblin night go by; + Children are waked, and cry, + The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams + That her lover is caught in a burning tower, + She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . + And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, + She dreams of an evening, long ago: + Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, + Some of them softly catching afire; + And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, + Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . + The leaves are a pale and glittering green, + The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, + Shadows of dancers pass . . . + The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean + Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, + The face is beginning to change,— + It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, + She is held and kissed. + She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . + With a smoking ghost of shame . . . + + Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain + Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . + The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; + It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; + And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams + And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. + + One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, + Who dreamed for years in a tower, + Seizes this hour + Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, + Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, + Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, + To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, + Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, + And at last is gone, + Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . + + The mother whose child was buried to-day + Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; + And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. + He would have grown as easily as a tree, + He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, + He would have been his father again . . . + His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. + She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. + + Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; + We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: + Windows rattle above our beds; + We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, + Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath, + Our curious separate ways through life and death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. + + The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, + Over the pale grey tumbled towers,— + And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. + Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, + Curls like a dream among the motionless trees + And seems to freeze. + + The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, + Whirls over sleeping faces, + Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; + And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . + + And one from his high window, looking down, + Peers at the cloud-white town, + And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . + It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain + Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. + The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. + Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. + The city stirs like one that is half in dream. + + And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, + Where one by one we wake and rise. + We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, + We rub the darkness from our eyes, + + And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . + And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, + Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer + Compassionate over our towers bending. + + There, like one who gazes into a crystal, + He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; + He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, + Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. + + Each gleaming point of light is like a seed + Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. + Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, + Each hurrying face records its strange desires. + + We descend our separate stairs toward the day, + Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, + Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, + And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. THE FULFILLED DREAM + + More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed— + Great rocks hoisted in air; + And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight + With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . + And so he did not mention his dream of falling + But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears + That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath + Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by + And the small tree swell beneath him . . . + He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, + Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,— + And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail. + + Something had changed—but it was not the street— + The street was just the same—it was himself. + Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door + The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; + The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; + The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, + Reading the morning paper . . . + + He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, + As if he knew for certain he walked to death: + But with his usual pace,—deliberate, firm, + Looking about him calmly, watching the world, + Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again + Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, + Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, + And saw the windows flashing upward past him,— + He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror + How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . + He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. + + Was forty, then, too old for work like this? + Why should it be? He'd never been afraid— + His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . + But dreams had meanings. + He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, + All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; + And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, + It seemed to whirl and swim, + It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . + He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; + His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; + He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten? + Because he would not need it? + + Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again + About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, + Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,— + That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,— + He waved his hand for signal, and up he went + In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; + Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; + Above the flattening roofs, until the sea + Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped + Giddily out, from that security, + To the red rib of iron against the sky, + And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; + And looking down one instant, saw the tree + Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, + And up again, feeling his blood go wild. + + He gave the signal; the long girder swung + Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, + Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers + Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets + Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; + He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought + A place so high in the air should be more quiet. + The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, + Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, + And felt his body go suddenly small and light; + Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; + And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree + Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, + 'By God—I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. INTERLUDE + + The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls + On bright red roofs and walls; + The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; + We go from door to door in the streets again, + Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, + Recalling other times and places . . . + We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, + We crowd together and wait, + A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, + The ambulance drives away. + We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say + 'A man fell off the building and was killed— + Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again + Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, + And go our separate ways, each bearing with him + A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,— + A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. + + A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, + The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, + Wings are upon our feet. + The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, + Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. + We bear our dreams among us, bear them all, + Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, + Climb to beauty and die. + The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, + And smiles at the hostile sky. + The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. + The murderer hears a cry. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. NIGHTMARE + + 'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . + Draw three cards, and lay them down, + Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, + And think of time . . . My father was a clown, + My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; + And she was gotten with child in a strange way; + And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, + With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' + + I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain + And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. + The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. + A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. + Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. + + 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. + You will live long, love many times. + I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. + I see a shadow of secret crimes. + + 'There was a man who came intent to kill you, + And hid behind a door and waited for you; + There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. + There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, + Crawled after you, and died. + + 'There is a ghost of murder in your blood— + Coming or past, I know not which. + And here is danger—a woman with sea-green eyes, + And white-skinned as a witch . . .' + + The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling + On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. + Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; + Something is creeping at me, something vile; + + And suddenly on the wall behind her head + I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, + The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. + I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, + And hear swift steps retreat . . . + + The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. + Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. + I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. + I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; + You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . + + Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, + Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . + My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. + We loiter, dreaming together, along the street. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. RETROSPECT + + Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, + Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. + A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, + Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, + And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. + + And one old man looks down from a dusty window + And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain + And desires once more to walk among those trees. + Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. + Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. + And soon the pond must freeze. + + The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, + Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; + A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. + But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears + More in his secret heart than in his ears,— + A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. + He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, + The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,— + Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . + And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. + + Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; + It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; + It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. + Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? + Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? + Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. + + He opened his book once more, beside the window, + And read the printed words upon that page. + The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, + The quiet words enchanted time and age. + + 'Death is never an ending, death is a change; + Death is beautiful, for death is strange; + Death is one dream out of another flowing; + Death is a chorded music, softly going + By sweet transition from key to richer key. + Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. ADELE AND DAVIS + + She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. + And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, + To shut out, if she could, this dingy room, + The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,— + Yellows and greens in the dark,—she walked again + Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . + Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, + Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked + In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, + And wondered if she dared to ask for poison: + But it was late, few customers were there, + The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, + And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river, + She listened to the water slapping the wall, + And felt queer fascination in its blackness: + But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, + The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray + Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so + She dragged herself once more to home, and bed. + + Paul hadn't guessed it yet—though twice, already, + She'd fainted—once, the first time, on the stage. + So she must tell him soon—or else—get out . . . + How could she say it? That was the hideous thing. + She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, + Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, + If he refused to marry her . . . well, what? + She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, + His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words + Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent, + Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, + And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, + And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,—listen— + There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped, + Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say? + 'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!' + 'But what I've got to say—IS—serious!' + Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, + His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying— + He always did—and what could she do but cry? + Perhaps, then, he would guess—perhaps he wouldn't. + And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'— + She knew she'd never tell—just say she was sick . . . + And after that, when would she dare again? + And what would he do—even suppose she told him? + + If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!— + She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was, + Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind + To pay out Felix for never having liked her, + By making people think that it was he . . . + She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,— + Just saying 'Felix did it—and wouldn't marry.' + And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . . + Paul would never forgive her—he'd never forgive her! + Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . . + She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. + + And then she closed her eyes and walked again + Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: + Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind + She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, + Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. + But it was late. No customers were there,— + Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! + And then—what poison would she dare to ask for? + And if they asked her why, what would she say? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES + + Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, + Two lovers blow together like music blowing: + And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. + Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, + They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. + 'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, + They look at the great clock's golden hands, + They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: + Only, their words like music seem to play; + And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. + + 'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars + Down the smooth heaven of her memory. + She stands again by a garden wall, + The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, + Water sings from an opened tap, the bees + Glisten and murmur among the trees. + Someone calls from the house. She does not answer. + Backward she leans her head, + And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough + She sees an infinite May sky spread + A vault profoundly blue. + The voice from the house fades far away, + The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . + The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . + Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . ' + She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know + She smiles from long ago . . . + + She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him + Roars like a vast invisible sea, + Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; + He is released of weight, his body is free, + He lifts his arms to swim, + Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . + The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach + With a whirring sound like wind in bells, + He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands + Reaching his lazy hands + Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . + + 'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' + They pause and smile, not caring what they say, + If only they may talk. + The crowd flows past them like dividing waters. + Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. + + 'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face, + Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, + Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. + She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. + She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . + + Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: + Time, like a flurry of rain, + Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. + Once, long ago, one night, + She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, + Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror + A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, + Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, + She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float + In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . + + 'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, + We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, + The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. + 'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! + Look how the tower is changed and glows!' + + Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, + We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; + A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; + We tremble like wind-blown grass. + + What was this dream we had, a dream of music, + Music that rose from the opening earth like magic + And shook its beauty upon us and died away? + The long cold streets extend once more before us. + The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES + + Well,—it was two days after my husband died— + Two days! And the earth still raw above him. + And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. + In number four—the room with the red wall-paper— + Some chorus girls and men were singing that song + 'They'll soon be lighting candles + Round a box with silver handles'—and hearing them sing it + I started to cry. Just then he came along + And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, + And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled + And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down + Where I was leaning against the wall, + And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . + And I was so sad, thinking about it,— + Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, + With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,— + That I was happy to have him sympathize, + To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. + And before I knew it, he got me into a room + Where a table was set, and no one there, + And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, + And talked to me, telling me not to cry, + That it was all right, he'd look after me,— + But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, + Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, + That when he turned my face between his hands, + And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, + And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me— + Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, + Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, + And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. + For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief + Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed + As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, + To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it— + And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! + And so we sat and talked, not talking much, + But meaning as much in silence as in words, + There in that empty room with palms about us, + That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there + I felt my future changing, day by day, + With unknown streets opening left and right, + New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, + Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, + Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains + Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,— + And thinking of this, and through it half remembering + A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, + The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,— + It seemed as if my brain would break in two. + My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, + And told him I must go, and said good-night— + I couldn't see the end. How would it end? + Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? + And did I want him to—or would I rather + Look for another job?—He took my shoulders + Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, + And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, + That would have—well, I don't know; but he didn't . . + And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, + Hoping to close the door before that party + In number four should sing that song again— + 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'— + And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. + And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX. INTERLUDE + + The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, + The hours go silently over our lifted faces, + We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. + Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. + We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. + + We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, + We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. + The door swings shut behind the latest comer. + We set our watches, regard the time. + + What have we done? I close my eyes, remember + The great machine whose sinister brain before me + Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. + My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. + I dropped great beams to the dusty street. + + My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, + And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. + I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. + Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. + + Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, + These walls whose windows gap against the sky, + Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble + Will build a glittering tower before we die . . . + + The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, + The young girl hums beneath her breath. + One goes out to beauty, and does not know it. + And one goes out to death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. SUDDEN DEATH + + 'Number four—the girl who died on the table— + The girl with golden hair—' + The purpling body lies on the polished marble. + We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . + + One, who held the ether-cone, remembers + Her dark blue frightened eyes. + He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast + More hurriedly fall and rise. + Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head + Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,— + And, suddenly, she lay dead. + + And all the dreams that hurried along her veins + Came to the darkness of a sudden wall. + Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, + They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, + Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all. + + What was her name? Where had she walked that morning? + Through what dark forest came her feet? + Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street? + + Backward he dreamed along a chain of days, + He saw her go her strange and secret ways, + Waking and sleeping, noon and night. + She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair. + She read a story by candlelight. + + Her shadow ran before her along the street, + She walked with rhythmic feet, + Turned a corner, descended a stair. + She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, + Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, + And drew deep breaths of air. + + Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music + Murmured within the walls of lighted windows. + She lifted her face to the light and danced. + The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, + Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced. + + Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, + Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid + Opened its golden heart on her breast . . . + She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, + Leaned on her partner's arm to rest. + The violins were weaving a weft of silver, + The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold, + And time was caught in a glistening pattern, + Time, too elusive to hold . . . + + Shadows of leaves fell over her face,—and sunlight: + She turned her face away. + Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness + With every step and day. + + Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, + At a great distance, across the night, + Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly + From purple light to light. + + Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, + 'I am the murderer, death. + I am the lover who keeps his appointment + At the doors of breath!' + + She rose and stared at her own reflection, + Half dreading there to find + The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, + Or reaching from behind + To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . . + Or was this in her mind? . . . + + She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered + Along the tossing strands. + Was there a stillness in this hair,— + A quiet in these hands? + + Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes, + Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust. + She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever. + Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . . + And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed, + And music ebbed with the ebbing hours. + And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds + Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI. + + Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares + With purple lights in the canyoned street. + The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . . + The trodden grass in the park is covered with white, + The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . . + The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + Over the enchanted whiteness of the town, + Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, + Desires like this to forget what will not pass, + The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, + Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. + Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, + Slurred bells of grief and pain, + Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places. + He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow. + He desires to forget a million faces . . . + + In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. + The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it. + In one room fade grey violets in a vase. + Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. + In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays + The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. + His hands are trembling, his short breath fails. + + In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, + And thinks the air is fire. + The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings + With the sudden hand of desire. + + And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; + And one lies staring, and thinks of death. + And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, + And holds her breath . . . + + Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, + Coil and revolve and dream, + Vanish or gleam? + Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. + Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. + + And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; + And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, + And walls flung down . . . + And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, + And whiteness hushes the town. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + As evening falls, + And the yellow lights leap one by one + Along high walls; + And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, + The muted city seems + Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams + Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . + Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, + Flash, are extinguished, flash again, + To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain + And die away . . . + As evening falls, + A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,— + A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . + The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, + The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, + The watchman climbs the stair . . . + The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, + And runs among them, and is beaten down; + The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; + The tired clown + Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, + Motionless in their places, + Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . . + The dancer smooths her hair, + Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door + To dance once more, + Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, + Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes. + + As darkness falls + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live tonight? Where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. THE SCREEN MAIDEN + + You read—what is it, then that you are reading? + What music moves so silently in your mind? + Your bright hand turns the page. + I watch you from my window, unsuspected: + You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . + + . . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei— + The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, + And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; + For his lover was dead, he never would love again. + + Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever— + Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows— + But then he saw this face, this face like flame, + This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi; + And took it home with him; and with it came + + What unexpected changes, subtle as weather! + The dark room, cold as rain, + Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April, + Warmed its corners with light again, + + And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, + And the quiet lady there, + So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, + Seemed ready to loose her hair, + + And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, + The word already clear, + Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . + He held his breath to hear, + + And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, + And held a candle, and searched her face + Through all the little shadows, to see what secret + Might give so warm a grace . . . + + Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? + The eyes, half-turned aside? + The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . + The secret was denied, + + He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, + And slept; and as he slept + A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, + And chided him, and wept. + + And in the morning, waking, he remembered, + And thought the dream was strange. + Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? + He turned, and felt a change, + + As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . + Yet there was only sunlight there. + Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, + And held his breath to stare, + + And could have sworn her cheek had turned—a little . . . + Had slightly turned away . . . + Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, + Nor left his room that day. + + And that day, and for many days thereafter, + He sat alone, and thought + No lady had ever lived so beautiful + As Hiroshigi wrought . . . + + Or if she lived, no matter in what country, + By what far river or hill or lonely sea, + He would look in every face until he found her . . . + There was no other as fair as she. + + And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, + And brought her every day + Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, + And somehow, she seemed to say, + + That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, + That she was happy there; + And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, + And desired to touch her hair, + + To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly + With delicate finger-tips + The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish + Upon her lips . . . + + Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; + And night by night a dread + Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi + Was many centuries dead,— + + And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . + Dead, and long turned to dust . . . + The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, + The peach leaves flew in a gust, + + And he would surely have died; but there one day + A wise man, white with age, + Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi + Knew more than archimage,— + + Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, + Till partly it entered there . . . + Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . + Do all I say with care, + + And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' + So then this ghost, Tokkei, + Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, + And alone at the end of day + + Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, + And saw the quiet eyes + Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, + And knelt, and did not rise, + + And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' + Said it three times aloud. + And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense + Rose to the walls in a cloud, + + And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; + And suddenly, with a sigh, + The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, + And stood, while worlds went by, + + And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; + And the poet trembled, and said, + 'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'—'Yes, I will stay.'— + 'But what when I am dead?' + + 'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, + And then we shall die no more.' + Music came down upon them, and spring returning, + They remembered worlds before, + + And years went over the earth, and over the sea, + And lovers were born and spoke and died, + But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, + Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS + + The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; + The music changes tone, you wake, remember + Deep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafter + Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, + Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. + + Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. + Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. + Elaine was married and soon to have a child. + You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; + They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. + + To-morrow—what? And what of yesterday? + Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, + Through many doors to the one door of all. + Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: + Or see a skeleton fall . . . + + We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? + We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. + We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. + You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. + It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. + + This is the thing remembered I would forget— + No matter where I go, how soft I tread, + This windy gesture menaces me with death. + Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; + Touches my throat and stops my breath. + + My fans—my jewels—the portrait of my husband— + The torn certificate for my daughter's grave— + These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. + They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. + They signify no crime. + + Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: + Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: + No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. + Dreams—they are madness. Staring eyes—illusion. + Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. ILLICIT + + Of what she said to me that night—no matter. + The strange thing came next day. + My brain was full of music—something she played me—; + I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it + Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, + Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, + Urging to restlessness: verging on grief. + I tried to play the tune, from memory,— + But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed + And found no resolution—only hung there, + And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . . + What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? + 'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . + A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, + Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . + And someone walking alone; and someone saying + That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' + These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them + A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow + I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady? + The one who always danced in golden slippers— + And had I danced with her,—upon this music? + Or was it further back—the unplumbed twilight + Of childhood?—No—much recenter than that. + + You know, without my telling you, how sometimes + A word or name eludes you, and you seek it + Through running ghosts of shadow,—leaping at it, + Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, + Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: + Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, + You hear it, see it flash among the branches, + And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it— + Well, it was so I followed down this music, + Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, + Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, + Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars—; + Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, + The thing resolved itself: and I remembered + An April afternoon, eight years ago— + Or was it nine?—no matter—call it nine— + A room in which the last of sunlight faded; + A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; + And, she who played the same thing later, playing. + + She played this tune. And in the middle of it + Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands + Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, + With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, + One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, + And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. + + 'You know—we've got to end this—Miriam loves you . . . + If she should ever know, or even guess it,— + What would she do?—Listen!—I'm not absurd . . . + I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women— + To understand them—which you've never had— + You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, + Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, + Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, + Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, + Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, + Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . + Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness + That she could neither break it—nor conclude? + It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, + Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,— + Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . + + Well, April passed with many other evenings, + Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, + With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . + And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . + And after that, when eight deep years had passed— + Or nine—we met once more,—by accident . . . + But was it just by accident, I wonder, + She played this tune?—Or what, then, was intended? . . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT + + The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, + Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; + You strike a match and stare upon the flame. + The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, + And dwindles away as silently as it came. + + This melody, you say, has certain voices— + They rise like nereids from a river, singing, + Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. + Wherever you go you bear this river with you: + A leaf falls,—and it flows, and you have pain. + + So says the tune to you—but what to me? + What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, + The violinist who suavely draws his bow? + That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. + A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. + + Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping + Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: + At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. + Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. + A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. + And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: + And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, + And the great sea shakes its walls. + And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls + This melody once more: + 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' + + So says the tune to him—but what to me? + What are the worlds I see? + What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . + I go my secret way, down secret alleys; + My errand is not so simple as it seems. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD + + This is the house. On one side there is darkness, + On one side there is light. + Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns— + O, any number—it will still be night. + And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward + To long sonorous halls. + And here is spring forever at these windows, + With roses on the walls. + + This is her room. On one side there is music— + On one side not a sound. + At one step she could move from love to silence, + Feel myriad darkness coiling round. + And here are balconies from which she heard you, + Your steady footsteps on the stair. + And here the glass in which she saw your shadow + As she unbound her hair. + + Here is the room—with ghostly walls dissolving— + The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; + And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' + So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!— + Through windy corridors of darkening end. + + Here she could stand with one dim light above her + And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, + Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. + And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, + She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. + + Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. + Your words were windows,—large enough for moonlight, + Too small to let her through. + Your letters—fragrant cloisters faint with music. + The music that assuaged her there was you. + + How many times she heard your step ascending + Yet never saw your face! + She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, + Till silence swept the place. + Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . . + You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken. + + A certain rose-leaf—sent without intention— + Became, with time, a woven web of fire— + She wore it, and was warm. + A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, + Became, with time, the flashings of a storm. + + Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you + Of secret idols carved in secret chambers + From all you did and said. + Nothing was done, until at last she knew you. + Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. + + How did she die?—You say, she died of poison. + Simple and swift. And much to be regretted. + You did not see her pass + So many thousand times from light to darkness, + Pausing so many times before her glass; + + You did not see how many times she hurried + To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, + Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. + You did not know how long she clung to music, + You did not hear her sing. + + Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely + From sound to silence—close, herself, those windows? + Or was it true, instead, + That darkness moved,—for once,—and so possessed her? . . . + We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. PORCELAIN + + You see that porcelain ranged there in the window— + Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, + And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? + See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! + They're works of art—minutely seen and felt, + Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure + To spend your blood like this? + + Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, + If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming + Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal— + My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting + Day after day, close to a certain window, + Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . + + Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . + Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . + Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, + Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, + Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, + You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me— + An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, + Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, + Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, + Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. + On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night + Of two soft-patterned toads—I thought them stones, + Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,— + Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,— + It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. + Here,—as I coil the stems between two leaves,— + It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, + I cried the secret between two universes . . . + A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said + Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,— + Though with his eyes wide open,— + And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part + Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, + Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, + Amazing leaves, folding one on another, + Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals— + All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, + I need no hasheesh for it—it's too easy! + Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking + In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, + Violets purple as death, dripping with water, + And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. + + Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets— + With scalloped edges gilded—here you have me + Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,— + There's something lacking—force, or will, or passion, + I don't know what it is—and so, sometimes, + When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, + Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, + I get uneasy—just like poplar trees + Ruffling their leaves—and I begin to think + Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, + And that delicious night. Where is she now? + I meant to write—but she has moved, by this time, + And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. + Well, there is more—I'm getting old and timid— + The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! + I never strike out boldly as I used to— + But sit here, painting violets, and remember + That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, + Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,— + Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,— + Were thought so beautiful.—And so they were. + Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . + Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! + Well, I suppose such days can come but once. + Lord, how happy we were! . . . + + Here, if you only knew it, is a story— + Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, + And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: + A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . + Who killed himself by diving against a wall. + Here is a recollection of my wife, + When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. + It's funny how things change,—just change, by growing, + Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,— + A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; + A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . + Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! + + This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, + If you look hard enough. This, in its way, + Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you + In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, + Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . + Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist— + You have my head before you . . . on a platter. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE + + Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower + Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: + At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . + The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. + We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. + + We are like music, each voice of it pursuing + A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, + Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. + What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . + We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. + + One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, + Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; + One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. + One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . + Upward and downward, past him there, we stream. + + One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. + Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. + A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. + He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: + A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. + + Death, from street to alley, from door to window, + Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching, + Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. + But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect? + Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? + + Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, + A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes + Down jangled streets, and dies. + The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, + Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. + + Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; + Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; + From freezing rooms as bare as rock. + The curtains are closed across deserted windows. + Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. + + Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; + Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; + Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; + Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; + Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; + + Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, + And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; + Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,— + They are blown away like windflung chords of music, + They drift away; the sudden music has died. + + And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly + And sees the shadow of death in many faces, + And thinks the world is strange. + He desires immortal music and spring forever, + And beauty that knows no change. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX. CABARET + + We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. + You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing + As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' + Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, + 'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' + + You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . . + How many others like ourselves, this instant, + Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? + How many others, laughing, sip their coffee— + Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . + + 'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) + When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: + And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. + Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter + What have we saved—what news, what tune, what play? + + 'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,— + Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; + No pity dims our eyes . . . + How many others, like ourselves, this instant, + See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' + + Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . + When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, + And even those most like angels creep for schemes. + The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, + Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. + + But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, + Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons + To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . + And all these others who at your conjuration + Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,— + + Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, + Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, + Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,— + Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting + This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, + + Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, + Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, + Lean to the music, rise, + And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion + With kindness in their eyes . . . + + They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) + 'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! + And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' + They say 'How strange it is that one such evening + Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' + + And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, + They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, + And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. + With secret symbols they play on secret passions. + With cunning eyes they see + + The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, + The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . + The pendulum on the wall + Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; + Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. LETTER + + From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees + The soft blue starlight through the one small window, + The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,— + And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. + + It is so long, indeed, since I have written,— + Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,— + That these first words I write seem cold and strange. + Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? + Altered, of course—just as I too have altered— + And whether towards each other, or more apart, + We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter— + Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure— + + Pondering much on all you say in it + Of mystic consciousness—divine conversion— + The sense of oneness with the infinite,— + Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . + Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, + If one's to talk through this dark world contented. + But is the world so dark? Or is it rather + Our own brute minds,—in which we hurry, trembling, + Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. + + You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"— + Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented + With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: + Even before the question grew to problem + And drove you bickering into metaphysics, + You met on lower planes the same great dragon, + Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, + In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, + One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, + The cruder first, more violent sensations, + Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted + With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,— + Savoring all more delicate gradations + + In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, + Or thought on brain,—you passed, if I may say so, + From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. + Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, + As instruments of music, whereon our lives + Will play as we desire: and let us yield + These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves + To all experience plays . . . And so you went + From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, + Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; + And closing one by one your doors, drew in + Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, + Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. + + What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber— + Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly + It is the last, and cunningest, resort + Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,— + This world of lamentations, death, injustice, + Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, + Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,— + Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, + Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: + + Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,— + With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, + Coldly imperious,—this transient world, + What has it then to give, if not containing + Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,— + Momentary and trivial for the most part, + Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,— + And know how much outweighed they are by darkness. + We are like searchers in a house of darkness, + A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, + Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, + Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, + An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway + Leading to who knows what; but never seeing + The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little, + And then grow tired. No matter what we touch, + Dust is the answer—dust: dust everywhere. + If this were all—what were the use, you ask? + But this is not: for why should we be seeking, + Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, + To lift our minds, if there were only dust? + This is the central chamber you have come to: + Turning your back to the world, until you came + To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, + And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. + + Well, in a measure, so only do we all. + I am not sure that you can be refuted. + At the very last we all put faith in something,— + You in this ghost that animates your world, + This ethical ghost,—and I, you'll say, in reason,— + Or sensuous beauty,—or in my secret self . . . + Though as for that you put your faith in these, + As much as I do—and then, forsaking reason,— + Ascending, you would say, to intuition,— + You predicate this ghost of yours, as well. + Of course, you might have argued,—and you should have,— + That no such deep appearance of design + Could shape our world without entailing purpose: + For can design exist without a purpose? + Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children + Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, + Strange patterns drawn,—circles, arcs, ellipses, + Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder? + + Did someone draw them here before we came? + Or was it just the sea?—We pore upon them, + But find no answer—only suppositions. + And if these perfect shapes are evidence + Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: + We never come upon him at his work, + He never troubles us. He stands aloof— + Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned + With what we are or do. You, if you like, + May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, + Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing + You see, without much reason, will in law. + I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, + Happily so for us, by accident: + We go our ways untroubled save by laws + Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? + + If we were wise—which God knows we are not— + (Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle + Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. + These brains of ours—these delicate spinal clusters— + Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? + Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? + Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, + Until you managed to see that world as omen,— + Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, + Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?— + You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. + I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. + You find your pleasure in being at one with all things— + Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling + As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too— + With reservations. I find more varied pleasure + In understanding: and so find beauty even + In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. + + Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. + For household news—what have you heard, I wonder? + You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time— + Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done— + We found it out too late. His death has changed me, + Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, + Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, + Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom + To see them clearly, meditate upon them, + And understand what things flow out of them. + Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. + Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, + And bring old times with you?—If you could see me + Sitting here by the window, watching Venus + Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,— + Just where you used to sit,—I'm sure you'd come. + This year, they say, the springtime will be early. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI. CONVERSATION: UNDERTONES + + What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? + You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; + You smile a little. . . . Outside, the night goes by. + I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees. + + 'These lines—converging, they suggest such distance! + The soul is drawn away, beyond horizons. + Lured out to what? One dares not think. + Sometimes, I glimpse these infinite perspectives + In intimate talk (with such as you) and shrink . . . + + 'One feels so petty!—One feels such—emptiness!—' + You mimic horror, let fall your lifted hand, + And smile at me; with brooding tenderness . . . + Alone on darkened waters I fall and rise; + Slow waves above me break, faint waves of cries. + + 'And then these colors . . . but who would dare describe them? + This faint rose-coral pink . . this green—pistachio?— + So insubstantial! Like the dim ghostly things + Two lovers find in love's still-twilight chambers . . . + Old peacock-fans, and fragrant silks, and rings . . . + + 'Rings, let us say, drawn from the hapless fingers + Of some great lady, many centuries nameless,— + Or is that too sepulchral?—dulled with dust; + And necklaces that crumble if you touch them; + And gold brocades that, breathed on, fall to rust. + + 'No—I am wrong . . . it is not these I sought for—! + Why did they come to mind? You understand me— + You know these strange vagaries of the brain!—' + —I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees; + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees; + These strange vagaries of yours are all too plain. + + 'But why perplex ourselves with tedious problems + Of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, + With all that's in our secret hearts to say!—' + Hearts?—Your pale hand softly strokes the satin. + You play deep music—know well what you play. + You stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, + You smile, with faintly perfumed lips, + You loose your thoughts like birds, + Brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . . + We know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound + In tremulous webs of sound. + + 'How beautiful is intimate talk like this!— + It is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, + Stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, + To hear a hidden music . . . Our own vast shadows + Lean to a giant size on the windy walls, + Or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls + Echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, + Music sings far off, flows suddenly near, + And dies away like rain . . . + We walk through subterranean caves again,— + Vaguely above us feeling + A shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, + Strange half-lit things, + Soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . . + And here a beautiful face looks down upon us; + And someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . . + Have we seen all, I wonder, in these chambers— + Or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, + Where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . ' + + The question falls: we walk in silence together, + Thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . . + This lamp, these books, this fire + Are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness. + Deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII. WITCHES' SABBATH + + Now, when the moon slid under the cloud + And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, + He heard in his blood the well-known bell + Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, + Slowly beating, slowly beating, + Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: + Sometimes it swung completely round, + Horribly gasping as if for breath; + Falling down with an anguished cry . . . + Now the red bat, he mused, will fly; + Something is marked, this night, for death . . . + And while he mused, along his blood + Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, + They rose in the cavern of his brain, + Like ghosts they died away again; + And hands upon his heart were laid, + And music upon his flesh was played, + Until, as he was bidden to do, + He walked the wood he so well knew. + Through the cold dew he moved his feet, + And heard far off, as under the earth, + Discordant music in shuddering tones, + Screams of laughter, horrible mirth, + Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, + And the long-drawn wail of one in pain. + To-night, he thought, I shall die again, + We shall die again in the red-eyed fire + To meet on the edge of the wood beyond + With the placid gaze of fed desire . . . + He walked; and behind the whisper of trees, + In and out, one walked with him: + She parted the branches and peered at him, + Through lowered lids her two eyes burned, + He heard her breath, he saw her hand, + Wherever he turned his way, she turned: + Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; + Moving her white knees as he moved . . . + This is the one I have always loved; + This is the one whose bat-soul comes + To dance with me, flesh to flesh, + In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . . + + The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, + Sank down behind a rushing sky. + He heard a sweet song just begun + Abruptly shatter in tones and die. + It whirled away. Cold silence fell. + And again came tollings of a bell. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides + Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind. + In the clear darkness, while the moon hides, + They come like dreams, like something remembered . . + Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, + Forget these things that trouble your eyes, + Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed, + Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . . + + The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved, + What was the word you said? + Something about clear music that sang through water . . . + I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves. + Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead. + Someone lies in the garden and grieves. + Look how the branches are tossed in this air, + Flinging their green to the earth! + Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, + The moon stares down like a half-closed eye. + The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, + Oaks crash down in the darkness, + We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The moon was darkened: across it flew + The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, + Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, + The witch! he said. And he heard a cry, + And another came, and another came, + And one, grown duskily red with blood, + Floated an instant across the moon, + Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . . + The earth has veins: they throb to-night, + The earth swells warm beneath my feet, + The tips of the trees grow red and bright, + The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat, + They press together, they push and sigh, + They listen to hear the great bat cry, + The great red bat with the woman's face . . . + Hurry! he said. And pace for pace + That other, who trod the dark with him, + Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands + And closed her eyes, the better to see + The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, + The fire-lit rock, the sarabands. + I am here! she said. The bough he broke— + Was it the snapping bough that spoke? + I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed + Cold in starlight among dark leaves, + The head thrown backward as he had dreamed, + The shadowy red deep jasper mouth; + And the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts, + Passed beside him, and vanished away. + I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!' + And laughter arose, and near and far + Answering laughter rose and died . . . + Who is there? in the dark? he cried. + He stood in terror, and heard a sound + Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; + They rushed, were still; a silence fell; + And he heard deep tollings of a bell. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look beloved! Why do you hide your face? + Look, in the centre there, above the fire, + They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love! + They are playing a piercing music upon him + With a bow of living wire! . . . + The virgin harlot sings, + She leans above the beautiful anguished body, + And draws slow music from those strings. + They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, + They trample him with their naked feet, + His cries are lost in laughter, + Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and + beat, + They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . . + Have we not heard that cry before? + Somewhere, somewhere, + Beside a sea, in the green evening, + Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . . + Was it you? was it I? + They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, + The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, + Look! he has caught one by the hair, + She screams and falls, he bears her away with him, + And the night grows full of whistling wings. + Far off, one voice, serene and sweet, + Rises and sings . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .' + Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them? + It was long ago. + Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; + The treetops tremble and glow. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the clear dark, on silent wings, + The red bat hovers beneath her moon; + She drops through the fragrant night, and clings + Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, + With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, + To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds. + The maidens circle in dance, and raise + From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; + Their knees and breasts are white and bare, + They have hung pale roses in their hair, + Each of them as she dances by + Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye. + See how the red wing wraps him round, + See how the white youth struggles in vain! + The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; + He writhes in the soft red veiny wings, + But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . . + This is the secret feast of love, + Look well, look well, before it dies, + See how the red one trembles above, + See how quiet the white one lies! . . . . + + Wind through the trees. . . . and a voice is heard + Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . . + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars, + One among numberless avatars, + I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, + And lay on the stones and gave my flesh, + And entered the hunger of him I loved. + How shall I ever escape this mesh + Or be from my lover's body removed?' + Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air + And the maenads dance with flying hair. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, + Rise in the starlight, one by one, + They draw their knives on the spurting throats, + They smear the column with blood of goats, + They dabble the blood on hair and lips + And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. + They stand like stones and stare at the sky + Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . + In the green moonlight still they stand + While wind flows over the darkened sand + And brood on the soft forgotten things + That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . + Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . + They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . + And then, as the shadow closes the moon, + Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, + And rush through the dark, and fill the night + With a slowly dying clamor of sound. + There, where the great walls crowd the stars, + There, by the black wind-riven walls, + In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . + Who are these pilgrims, who are these, + These three, the one of whom stands upright, + While one lies weeping and one of them crawls? + The face that he turned was a wounded face, + I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . + Hooves had trampled and torn this place, + And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. + Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, + The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . + Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . . + I will lie on this grass as a lover lies + And reach to the north and reach to the south + And seek in the darkness for her mouth. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind + Shatter pale foam among great trees, + Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, + Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, + I run to find you, I run and cry, + Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I. + It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, + Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. + Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . . + Is this you? Is this you? + Bats in this air go whirring. . . . + And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, + Is this the soft mouth I knew? + Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; + And the patter of dew. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance! + Dance till the brain is red with speed! + Dance till you fall! Lift your torches! + Kiss your lovers until they bleed! + Backward I draw your anguished hair + Until your eyes are stretched with pain; + Backward I press you until you cry, + Your lips grow white, I kiss you again, + I will take a torch and set you afire, + I will break your body and fling it away. . . . + Look, you are trembling. . . . Lie still, beloved! + Lock your hands in my hair, and say + Darling! darling! darling! darling! + All night long till the break of day. + + Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . . + Or the far tolling of that tower? + The voices are still that cried around us. . . . + The woods grow still for the sacred hour. + Rise, white lover! the day draws near. + The grey trees lean to the east in fear. + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .' + Beloved, whose voice was this that cried? + 'By the clear waters that reach the sun + By the clear waves that starward run. . . . + I found love's body and lost his soul, + And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . . + How shall I ever again be whole, + By what dark waters shall I be healed?' + + Silence. . . . the red leaves, one by one, + Fall. Far off, the maenads run. + + Silence. Beneath my naked feet + The veins of the red earth swell and beat. + The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, + Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . . + Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon. + The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The great bell cracks and falls at last. + The moon whirls out. The sky grows still. + Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars + And suddenly drops behind the hill! + Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, + We sit in the room by candle-light. + We peer in each other's veins and see + No sign of the things we saw this night. + Only, a song is in your ears, + A song you have heard, you think, in dream: + The song which only the demon hears, + In the dark forest where maenads scream . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . + In the calm evening bright with stars . . . ' + What do the strange words mean? you say,— + And touch my hand, and turn away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII. + + The half-shut doors through which we heard that music + Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. + The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. + Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain + Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. + In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. + + Where have we been? What savage chaos of music + Whirls in our dreams?—We suddenly rise in darkness, + Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. + We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming + A warm white moonlit shore; + + Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, + Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, + Or a singing sound of rain . . . + We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, + And enter our dreams again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. CLAIRVOYANT + + 'This envelope you say has something in it + Which once belonged to your dead son—or something + He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?— + The soul flies far, and we can only call it + By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, + Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . ' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow; + Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, + One by one they melt and flow,— + + Streaming one by one over trees and towers, + Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; + Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows + Flow under them one by one . . . + + ' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit + Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit + Young and strong and beautiful . . . + + He says that he is happy, is much honored; + Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind + Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . . + The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken + And laid aside . . . ' + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did!' + + 'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you: + Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . . + What seems calamity is less than a sigh; + What seems disgrace is nothing.' + + 'Ask him if the one he hurt is there, + And if she loves him still!' + + 'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,— + Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . . + A cloud of spirits has gathered about him. + They praise him and call him, they do him honor; + He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow . . . + Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, + One by one they sing and flow; + + Over the outstretched lands of days remembered, + Over remembered tower and wall, + One by one they gather and talk in the darkness, + Rise and glimmer and fall . . . + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did! + He knows I will understand!' + + 'It is too late: + He will not hear me: I have lost my power.' + + 'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me. + God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. DEATH: AND A DERISIVE CHORUS + + The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, + And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly + Towards the dazzling street. + Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing. + The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet. + + Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting + To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry, + We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow. + She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward. + We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow. + + Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!— + Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . . + She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes. + Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been? + She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries. + + Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,— + Paying good money, too,—to talk to spirits. . . . + She thinks she's heard a message from one dead! + What did he tell you? Is he well and happy? + Don't lie to us—we all know what he said. + + He said the one he murdered once still loves him; + He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; + And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . . + But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,— + Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know! + That's what you get for meddling so with heaven! + + Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going? + We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits. + Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry! + What have you got in an envelope, old lady? + A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye? + + How do you know the medium didn't fool you? + Perhaps he had no spirit—perhaps he killed it. + Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son. + What did he have—blue eyes and golden hair? + We know your secret! what's done is done. + + Look out, you'll fall—and fall, if you're not careful, + Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry? + You don't think you will find him when you're dead? + Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,— + Look at her eyes all red! + + We know you—know your name and all about you, + All you remember and think, and all you scheme for. + We tear your secret out, we leave you, go + Laughingly down the street. . . . Die, if you want to! + Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!— + + . . . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body + Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her? + Was no one with her when she fell? . . . + We eddy about her, move away in silence. + We hear slow tollings of a bell. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT + + Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: + We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, + Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, + So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,— + Yet know so little of them; only seeing + The small bright circle of our consciousness, + Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know— + Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, + I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find + A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, + And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, + A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, + While one tall woman sent her voice above them + In powerful sweetness. . . . Closing then the door + I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,— + And walked in a quiet hallway as before. + Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, + Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . + We hear a sudden music, see a playing + Of ordered thoughts—and all again is silence. + The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) + Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,— + As it continues after our departure, + So, we divine, it played before we came . . . + What do you know of me, or I of you? . . . + Little enough. . . . We set these doors ajar + Only for chosen movements of the music: + This passage, (so I think—yet this is guesswork) + Will please him,—it is in a strain he fancies,— + More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it + He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered + And thinks (to judge from self—this too is guesswork) + + The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, + Perplexed with implications; he suspects me + Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . + Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,— + Simple and clear; and all the while he listens + I make pretence to think my doors are closed. + This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong + Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? + Or only mocking?'—There I let it end. . . . + Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it— + When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, + Talking with too great zeal—our doors fly open + Without intention; and the hungry watcher + Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, + And laughs. . . . but this, for many counts, is seldom. + And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, + Our lovers too, only such few clear notes + As we shall deem them likely to admire: + 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' + Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . . all the while + Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,— + Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, + The sombre note that gives the chord its power; + Or a white loveliness—if such we know— + Too much like fire to speak of without shame. + + Well, this being so, and we who know it being + So curious about those well-locked houses, + The minds of those we know,—to enter softly, + And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, + From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, + Breathing deliberately the very air, + Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness + To learn what ghosts are there,— + Suppose for once I set my doors wide open + And bid you in. . . . Suppose I try to tell you + The secrets of this house, and how I live here; + Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . + Deceiving you—as far as I may know it— + Only so much as I deceive myself. + + If you are clever you already see me + As one who moves forever in a cloud + Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud + Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, + Changing such outlines as a light may change, + Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing + Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained + In a world of things that flatter me: a sky + Just as I would have had it; trees and grass + Just as I would have shaped and colored them; + Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, + And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,— + In some deep way I am aware these praise me: + Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, + They point, somehow, to me. . . . This water says,— + Shimmering at the sky, or undulating + In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, + Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths + To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,— + This water says, there is some secret in you + Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive + To all that circles you. This bare tree says,— + Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, + Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches + Flung out against the sky,—this tall tree says, + There is some cold austerity in you, + A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, + Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, + Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, + Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! + What teeming Aprils!—chorus of leaves on leaves! + These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, + Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, + Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; + Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; + Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; + Walls windowless where darkness is desired; + Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,— + Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,— + All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: + You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, + Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, + When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . + This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, + Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, + This cool room says,—just such a room have you, + It waits you always at the tops of stairways, + Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, + Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . + And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, + Hung there forever,—these so soundless glidings + Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, + Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins + Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions + Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,— + This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,— + This says, just such an involuted beauty + Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, + Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, + Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: + You need but sit and close your eyes a moment + To see these deep designs unfold themselves. + + And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me— + I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; + And in this world you see me like a wraith + Blown softly here and there, on silent winds. + 'Praise me'—I say; and look, not in a glass, + But in your eyes, to see my image there— + Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; + You look at me, with interest unfeigned, + And listen—I am pleased; or else, alone, + I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward + From unknown depths,—my silver thoughts ascending; + Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,— + Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, + Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,— + But all with one deep meaning: this is I, + This is the glistening secret holy I, + This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, + This singing ghost. . . . And hearing, I am warmed. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You see me moving, then, as one who moves + Forever at the centre of his circle: + A circle filled with light. And into it + Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, + Or huddle in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly, + A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; + Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; + And through these things my pencil pushes softly + To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. + Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; + Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn + And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, + Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture + Above unsteady lamps,—with black boughs flung + Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. + 'Beauty!' I cry. . . . My feet move on, and take me + Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. + Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, + Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . + Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, + The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, + And darkness rides my heart. . . . These skeleton elm-trees— + Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky— + Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness + Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . + A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: + The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, + Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, + Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, + The eaves make liquid music. . . . Hours have passed, + And nothing changes, and everything is changed. + Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,— + And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized + Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. + + If you could solve this darkness you would have me. + This causeless melancholy that comes with rain, + Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes + Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? + Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him, + Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; + And you, I saw too much; and you, too little; + And the word I chose for you, the golden word, + The word that should have struck so deep in purpose, + And set so many doors of wish wide open, + You let it fall, and would not stoop for it, + And smiled at me, and would not let me guess + Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together, + With other things, still slighter, wove to music, + And this in time drew up dark memories; + And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me, + Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, + Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, + And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, + And cries that none can answer, few will hear. + Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly + If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious, + Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? + + Or 'one day dies eventless as another, + Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, + And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? + Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, + And beauty shines in vain'?— + + These things you ask for, + These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife, + At the dark end of evening, when she leaned + And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs + Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,— + Calling to mind remote and small successions + Of countless other evenings ending so,— + I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; + Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands + Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin, + I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, + I saw myself alone there, palely watching, + Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted + That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass, + And I should meet this girl,—my second wife— + And drop the masque of grief for one of passion. + Forward we move to meet, half hesitating, + We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, + Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending + We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude + Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches. + We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us, + Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, + Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . + . . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . . My first wife's voice + Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing—nothing much— + Just wondering where we'd be two years from now, + And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse + Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, + And pity to echoed love. And one more evening + Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. + + And, as it is with this, so too with all things. + The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: + New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, + And those on older still; and so forever. + The old shines through the new, and colors it. + What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,— + All things return. I write a line with passion + (Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) + Only to find the same thing, done before,— + Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . + This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,— + Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; + The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, + And broke the accustomed order of our days, + And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . + What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? + What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? + + You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, + Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,— + Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,— + No more for me than you. I move here always, + From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, + Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. + This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . + Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, + Once more I have deceived you. . . . I withhold + The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; + And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. COUNTERPOINT: TWO ROOMS + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + She, in the room below—his floor her ceiling— + Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, + And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . + She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, + + His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages— + Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. + The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. + The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her. + The world whirs on. . . . New stars come up to shine. + + His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking + In a golden cloud. . . . Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness + Walls it around with dripping enormous walls. + Old age—far off—her death—what do they matter? + Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. + + She hears slow steps in the street—they chime like music; + They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, + Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . + He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. + Far off they pass. He knows they will never return. + + Far off—on a smooth dark road—he hears them faintly. + The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, + Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath + Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. + And death seems nearer to him: or he to death. + + What's death?—She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. + The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, + She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, + The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. + A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. + + What's death—what's death? The spring returns like music, + The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, + The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. + The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. + Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . + And death seems far away, a thing of roses, + A golden portal, where golden music closes, + Death seems far away: + And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, + And spring returns to stay. . . . + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, + And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. + And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. + . . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. THE BITTER LOVE-SONG + + No, I shall not say why it is that I love you— + Why do you ask me, save for vanity? + Surely you would not have me, like a mirror, + Say 'yes,—your hair curls darkly back from the temples, + Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness, + Your eyes are April grey. . . . with jonquils in them?' + No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . . + I'll say—my childhood broke through chords of music + —Or were they chords of sun?—wherein fell shadows, + Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight; + Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me + With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. . + I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning, + My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover, + And drowsed there like a bee. . . . blue days behind me + Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic, + Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . . days before me + Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold, + Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights. + Confused soft clouds of music fled above me. + + Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. + I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight, + Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty, + Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep. + + No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you— + Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' + You would not have me say what you know better? + Let me instead be silent, only saying—: + My childhood lives in me—or half-lives, rather— + And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music + Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . + Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, + Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, + Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, + Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . . + I lay in my bed and through the tall night window + Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds, + And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . . + How should I know—how should I now remember— + What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? + What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them? + + This I shall say.—I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. . + Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny, + Stared at the sky. And silently there above us + Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge, + Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows, + Swift and blue, or dark. . . . What did they mean? + What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty? + Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle? + Only I know these things leaned over me, + Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly, + Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated, + I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . . + You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them, + Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers, + These presences. . . . I drowse, they stream above me, + I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream. + + You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you) + Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight. + You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) + In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing. + It is not you I laugh for, you I touch! + My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs, + Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops; + And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . . +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. CINEMA + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . . + + Take my arm, then, you or you or you, + And let us walk abroad on the solid air: + Look how the organist's head, in silhouette, + Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . . + The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, + Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, + They have hurried down from a myriad secret places, + From windy chambers next to the skies. . . . + The music comes upon us. . . . it shakes the darkness, + It shakes the darkness in our minds. . . . + And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, + Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, + And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . . + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea + Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,— + Take my hand + And walk with me once more by crumbling walls; + Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, + To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, + Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . . + Did you once love me? Did you bear a name? + Did you once stand before me without shame? . . . + Take my hand: your face is one I know, + I loved you, long ago: + You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; + You are like spring returned through snow. + Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight, + And many nights I slept and dreamed of you; + Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, + This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . . + Music murmurs beneath us like a sea, + And faints to a ghostly whisper . . . Come with me. + + Are you still doubtful of me—hesitant still, + Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember + What you would gladly, if you could, forget? + You were unfaithful once, you met your lover; + Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; + And I was silent,—you remember my silence yet . . . + You knew, as well as I, I could not kill him, + Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate. + No, and it was not you I saw with anger. + Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate, + Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, + That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, + Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, + Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain. + + How could I find it in my heart to hurt you, + You, whom this love could hurt much more than I? + No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity; + And only hated you when I saw you cry. + We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,— + Had I the right,—I should forgive you now . . . + We were two dupes . . . Come, let us walk in starlight, + And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow. + + Take my hand, then, come with me + By the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . . + Look how the long volutes of foam unfold + To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . . + Take my hand, + Do not remember how these depths are cold, + Nor how, when you are dead, + Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head. + You lean your face upon your hands and cry, + The blown sand whispers about your feet, + Terrible seems it now to die,— + Terrible now, with life so incomplete, + To turn away from the balconies and the music, + The sunlit afternoons, + To hear behind you there a far-off laughter + Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . + Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! + Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! + Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! + Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us, + The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, + And to and fro we move and lean and change . . . + You, in a world grown strange, + Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, + Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, + Sink suddenly down and cry . . . + You hear the applause that greets your latest rival, + You are forgotten: your rival—who knows?—is I . . . + I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, + I am inspired and young . . . and though I see + You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, + I bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . . + Failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . . + The night must come . . . and I'll be one who clings, + Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,— + To keep some youngster waiting in the wings. + + The music changes tone . . . a room is darkened, + Someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens, + And all is dark again; till suddenly falls + A wandering disk of light on floor and walls, + Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, + Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; + And then at last, in the chaos of that place, + Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face. + Well, I have found you. We have met at last. + Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes + I see the horrible huddlings of your past,— + All you remember blackens, utters cries, + Reaches far hands and faint. I hold the light + Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,— + Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . . + Now all the hatreds of my life have met + To hold high carnival . . . we do not speak, + My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, + And press, and fling you down . . . and then forget. + + Who plays for me? What sudden drums keep time + To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? + What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . . + What violin so faintly cries + Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . . + The room grows dark once more, + The crack of white light narrows around the door, + And all is silent, except a slow complaining + Of flutes and violins, like music waning. + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . . + Look, how white these shells are, on this sand! + Take my hand, + And watch the waves run inward from the sky + Line upon foaming line to plunge and die. + The music that bound our lives is lost behind us, + Paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place + Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure + We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face. + The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, + + The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, + Once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . . + Now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen + To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain + And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain. + Have I not seen you, have we not met before + Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? + You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand + And peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes, + Flash in the sun, go down . . . I hear slow sand, + And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . . + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The music ends. The screen grows dark. We hurry + To go our devious secret ways, forgetting + Those many lives . . . We loved, we laughed, we killed, + We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves. + The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled. + + Whose body have I found beside dark waters, + The cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? + Staring with wide eyes at the sky? + I bent my head above it, and cried in silence. + Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry. + + Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened. + Again I loved, and love itself was darkened. + Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. + The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. + The doors of night are closed. We go our ways. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces, + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . ' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word, + We flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves on among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good night! good night! good night! we go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky. + We have built a city of towers. + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light. They have shaken a burden of hours. . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + 1916-1917 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Dust, by Conrad Aiken + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF DUST *** + +***** This file should be named 1246-h.htm or 1246-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/4/1246/ + +Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The House of Dust + A Symphony + +Author: Conrad Aiken + +Posting Date: August 21, 2008 [EBook #1246] +Release Date: March, 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF DUST *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss + + + + + +THE HOUSE OF DUST + +A Symphony + + +By Conrad Aiken + + + + To Jessie + + + NOTE + + . . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American + Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am + indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" + in Part II. + + + + + +THE HOUSE OF DUST + + + + +PART I. + + + I. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces. + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; + We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky, + We have built a city of towers. + + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + + II. + + One, from his high bright window in a tower, + Leans out, as evening falls, + And sees the advancing curtain of the shower + Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: + Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, + And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, + Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, + And silver falling from eave and tree. + + One, from his high bright window, looking down, + Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, + And thinks its towers are like a dream. + The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, + Pale roofs begin to gleam. + + Looking down from a window high in a wall + He sees us all; + Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, + Searching the sky, and going our ways again, + Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . + There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees + What we are blind to,--we who mass and crowd + From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. + + The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, + Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; + Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. + The yellow lamps wink one by one again. + The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. + + + III. + + One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, + With wave upon slowly shattering wave, + Turned to the city of towers as evening fell; + And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; + And saw how the towers darkened against the sky; + And across the distance heard the toll of a bell. + + Along the darkening road he hurried alone, + With his eyes cast down, + And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, + With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . + And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown + Here in the quiet of evening air, + These empty and voiceless places . . . + And he hurried towards the city, to enter there. + + Along the darkening road, between tall trees + That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. + Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. + Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. + And death was observed with sudden cries, + And birth with laughter and pain. + And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies + And night came down again. + + + IV. + + Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, + Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, + The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. + From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, + Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. + + They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, + Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. + And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, + And some strange shadows threw. + + And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, + Restlessly moving in each lamplit room, + From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; + From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: + From some, a dazzling desire. + + And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, + Combing with lifted arms her golden hair, + Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; + And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death + As she blew out her light. + + And there was one who turned from clamoring streets, + And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, + And looked at the windy sky, + And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze + And birds in the dead boughs cry . . . + + And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, + To mingle among the crowds again, + To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; + And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, + With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, + Hearing a sea-like murmur rise, + Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, + And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. + + + V. + + The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . + It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls + Down golden-windowed walls. + We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, + We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, + But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while + We shall lie down again. + + The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, + Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . + One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, + We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; + But whether he lives or dies we do not know. + + One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; + The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. + He sings of a house he lived in long ago. + It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; + The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. + And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, + And throwing him pennies, we bear away + A mournful echo of other times and places, + And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. + + Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; + Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; + In broken slow cascades. + The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; + Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . + + And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, + Vaguely and incoherently, some dream + Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . + A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; + Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. + + We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; + We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; + We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. + We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. + We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. + + And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, + Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, + Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; + Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream + Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. + + + VI. + + Over the darkened city, the city of towers, + The city of a thousand gates, + Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, + Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, + The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, + With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. + On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, + And dreams in white at the city's feet; + On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. + Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. + Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. + + The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea + And sails toward the far-off city, that seems + Like one vague tower. + The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, + And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him + In a quiet shower. + + Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; + Rain thrills over the roofs again; + Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; + The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; + And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, + And among whirled leaves + The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, + From wall to remoter wall, + Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound + And close grey wings and fall . . . + + . . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember + A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: + Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. + Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . + Voices about me rise . . . + + Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-- + 'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down. + We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' + A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me + Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. + I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. + + 'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled, + Thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' + 'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.' + 'I am the one you followed through crowded streets, + The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' + + 'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell + Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: + A bell that broke great memories in my brain.' + 'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you, + Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' + + 'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding + The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. + They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago. + I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, + And returned to see it again. And it was so.' + + + Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! + I am dissolved and woven again . . . + Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. + Thousands of voices weave in the rain. + + 'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking + At a dazzle of golden lights. + Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking + Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: + Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, + Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, + And turned, as she reached the door, + To smile once more . . . + Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. + Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, + Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon + On a night in June . . . + She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after; + She dances in dreams over white-waved water; + Her body is white and fragrant and cool, + Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . + I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights + Of a broken music and golden lights, + Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling + Between my hands and their white desire: + And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, + Dipping to screen a fire . . . + I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees, + But as I lean to kiss her face, + She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves, + And run in a moonless place; + And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, + And shattering trees and cracking walls, + And a net of intense white flame roars over the town, + And someone cries; and darkness falls . . . + But now she has leaned and smiled at me, + My veins are afire with music, + Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; + I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' + + He rises and moves away, he says no word, + He folds his evening paper and turns away; + I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; + Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, + And some sit motionless in their accustomed places. + + Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, + Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; + The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. + Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. + One peers out in the night for the place to change. + + Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, + It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, + Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. + The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. + Remote and hurried the great bells beat. + + 'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, + Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. + And to-day the woman I love lies dead. + I gave her roses, a ring with opals; + These hands have touched her head. + + 'I bound her to me in all soft ways, + I bound her to me in a net of days, + Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. + How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you? + There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. + + 'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . + Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city + Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' + His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. + Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. + + 'No, do not stare so--he is weak with grief, + He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; + He is confused with pain. + I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . + He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' + + The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, + The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. + We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; + And at last a silence falls. + + + VII. + + Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers + The golden lights go out . . . + The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, + In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, + We lie face down, we dream, + We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem + To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . + Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. + A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, + A vortex of soundless hours. + + 'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. + But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. + The woman is dead. + She died--you know the way. Just as we planned. + Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. + Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' + + He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. + The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. + His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. + The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. + Into the night he fades. + + Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; + Blowing the water that gleams in the street; + Blowing the rain, the sleet. + In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, + Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; + Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . + Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . + + And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing + Above their heads a goblin night go by; + Children are waked, and cry, + The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams + That her lover is caught in a burning tower, + She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . + And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, + She dreams of an evening, long ago: + Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, + Some of them softly catching afire; + And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, + Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . + The leaves are a pale and glittering green, + The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, + Shadows of dancers pass . . . + The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean + Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, + The face is beginning to change,-- + It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, + She is held and kissed. + She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . + With a smoking ghost of shame . . . + + Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain + Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . + The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; + It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; + And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams + And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. + + One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, + Who dreamed for years in a tower, + Seizes this hour + Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, + Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, + Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, + To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, + Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, + And at last is gone, + Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . + + The mother whose child was buried to-day + Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; + And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. + He would have grown as easily as a tree, + He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, + He would have been his father again . . . + His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. + She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. + + Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; + We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: + Windows rattle above our beds; + We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, + Hear sounds far off,--and dream, with quivering breath, + Our curious separate ways through life and death. + + + VIII. + + The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, + Over the pale grey tumbled towers,-- + And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. + Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, + Curls like a dream among the motionless trees + And seems to freeze. + + The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, + Whirls over sleeping faces, + Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; + And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . + + And one from his high window, looking down, + Peers at the cloud-white town, + And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . + It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain + Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. + + + + +PART II. + + + I. + + The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. + The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. + Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. + The city stirs like one that is half in dream. + + And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, + Where one by one we wake and rise. + We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, + We rub the darkness from our eyes, + + And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . + And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, + Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer + Compassionate over our towers bending. + + There, like one who gazes into a crystal, + He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; + He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, + Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. + + Each gleaming point of light is like a seed + Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. + Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, + Each hurrying face records its strange desires. + + We descend our separate stairs toward the day, + Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, + Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, + And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. + + + II. THE FULFILLED DREAM + + More towers must yet be built--more towers destroyed-- + Great rocks hoisted in air; + And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight + With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . + And so he did not mention his dream of falling + But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears + That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath + Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by + And the small tree swell beneath him . . . + He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, + Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,-- + And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail. + + Something had changed--but it was not the street-- + The street was just the same--it was himself. + Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door + The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; + The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; + The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, + Reading the morning paper . . . + + He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, + As if he knew for certain he walked to death: + But with his usual pace,--deliberate, firm, + Looking about him calmly, watching the world, + Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again + Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, + Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, + And saw the windows flashing upward past him,-- + He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror + How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . + He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. + + Was forty, then, too old for work like this? + Why should it be? He'd never been afraid-- + His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . + But dreams had meanings. + He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, + All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; + And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, + It seemed to whirl and swim, + It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . + He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; + His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; + He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten? + Because he would not need it? + + Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again + About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, + Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,-- + That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,-- + He waved his hand for signal, and up he went + In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; + Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; + Above the flattening roofs, until the sea + Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped + Giddily out, from that security, + To the red rib of iron against the sky, + And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; + And looking down one instant, saw the tree + Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, + And up again, feeling his blood go wild. + + He gave the signal; the long girder swung + Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, + Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers + Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets + Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; + He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought + A place so high in the air should be more quiet. + The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, + Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, + And felt his body go suddenly small and light; + Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; + And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree + Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, + 'By God--I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' + + + III. INTERLUDE + + The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls + On bright red roofs and walls; + The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; + We go from door to door in the streets again, + Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, + Recalling other times and places . . . + We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, + We crowd together and wait, + A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, + The ambulance drives away. + We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say + 'A man fell off the building and was killed-- + Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again + Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, + And go our separate ways, each bearing with him + A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,-- + A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. + + A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, + The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, + Wings are upon our feet. + The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, + Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. + We bear our dreams among us, bear them all, + Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, + Climb to beauty and die. + The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, + And smiles at the hostile sky. + The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. + The murderer hears a cry. + + + IV. NIGHTMARE + + 'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . + Draw three cards, and lay them down, + Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, + And think of time . . . My father was a clown, + My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; + And she was gotten with child in a strange way; + And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, + With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' + + I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain + And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. + The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. + A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. + Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. + + 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. + You will live long, love many times. + I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. + I see a shadow of secret crimes. + + 'There was a man who came intent to kill you, + And hid behind a door and waited for you; + There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. + There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, + Crawled after you, and died. + + 'There is a ghost of murder in your blood-- + Coming or past, I know not which. + And here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes, + And white-skinned as a witch . . .' + + The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling + On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. + Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; + Something is creeping at me, something vile; + + And suddenly on the wall behind her head + I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, + The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. + I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, + And hear swift steps retreat . . . + + The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. + Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. + I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. + I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; + You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . + + Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, + Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . + My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. + We loiter, dreaming together, along the street. + + + V. RETROSPECT + + Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, + Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. + A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, + Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, + And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. + + And one old man looks down from a dusty window + And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain + And desires once more to walk among those trees. + Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. + Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. + And soon the pond must freeze. + + The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, + Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; + A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. + But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears + More in his secret heart than in his ears,-- + A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. + He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, + The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,-- + Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . + And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. + + Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; + It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; + It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. + Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? + Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? + Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. + + He opened his book once more, beside the window, + And read the printed words upon that page. + The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, + The quiet words enchanted time and age. + + 'Death is never an ending, death is a change; + Death is beautiful, for death is strange; + Death is one dream out of another flowing; + Death is a chorded music, softly going + By sweet transition from key to richer key. + Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' + + + VI. ADELE AND DAVIS + + She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. + And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, + To shut out, if she could, this dingy room, + The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,-- + Yellows and greens in the dark,--she walked again + Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . + Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, + Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked + In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, + And wondered if she dared to ask for poison: + But it was late, few customers were there, + The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, + And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river, + She listened to the water slapping the wall, + And felt queer fascination in its blackness: + But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, + The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray + Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so + She dragged herself once more to home, and bed. + + Paul hadn't guessed it yet--though twice, already, + She'd fainted--once, the first time, on the stage. + So she must tell him soon--or else--get out . . . + How could she say it? That was the hideous thing. + She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, + Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, + If he refused to marry her . . . well, what? + She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, + His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words + Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent, + Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, + And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, + And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,--listen-- + There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped, + Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say? + 'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!' + 'But what I've got to say--IS--serious!' + Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, + His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying-- + He always did--and what could she do but cry? + Perhaps, then, he would guess--perhaps he wouldn't. + And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'-- + She knew she'd never tell--just say she was sick . . . + And after that, when would she dare again? + And what would he do--even suppose she told him? + + If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!-- + She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was, + Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind + To pay out Felix for never having liked her, + By making people think that it was he . . . + She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,-- + Just saying 'Felix did it--and wouldn't marry.' + And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . . + Paul would never forgive her--he'd never forgive her! + Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . . + She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. + + And then she closed her eyes and walked again + Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: + Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind + She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, + Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. + But it was late. No customers were there,-- + Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! + And then--what poison would she dare to ask for? + And if they asked her why, what would she say? + + + VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES + + Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, + Two lovers blow together like music blowing: + And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. + Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, + They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. + 'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, + They look at the great clock's golden hands, + They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: + Only, their words like music seem to play; + And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. + + 'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars + Down the smooth heaven of her memory. + She stands again by a garden wall, + The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, + Water sings from an opened tap, the bees + Glisten and murmur among the trees. + Someone calls from the house. She does not answer. + Backward she leans her head, + And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough + She sees an infinite May sky spread + A vault profoundly blue. + The voice from the house fades far away, + The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . + The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . + Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . ' + She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know + She smiles from long ago . . . + + She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him + Roars like a vast invisible sea, + Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; + He is released of weight, his body is free, + He lifts his arms to swim, + Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . + The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach + With a whirring sound like wind in bells, + He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands + Reaching his lazy hands + Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . + + 'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' + They pause and smile, not caring what they say, + If only they may talk. + The crowd flows past them like dividing waters. + Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. + + 'Pink,--to-day!'--Face turns to dream-bright face, + Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, + Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. + She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. + She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . + + Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: + Time, like a flurry of rain, + Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. + Once, long ago, one night, + She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, + Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror + A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, + Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, + She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float + In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . + + 'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, + We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, + The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. + 'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! + Look how the tower is changed and glows!' + + Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, + We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; + A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; + We tremble like wind-blown grass. + + What was this dream we had, a dream of music, + Music that rose from the opening earth like magic + And shook its beauty upon us and died away? + The long cold streets extend once more before us. + The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. + + + VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES + + Well,--it was two days after my husband died-- + Two days! And the earth still raw above him. + And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. + In number four--the room with the red wall-paper-- + Some chorus girls and men were singing that song + 'They'll soon be lighting candles + Round a box with silver handles'--and hearing them sing it + I started to cry. Just then he came along + And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, + And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled + And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down + Where I was leaning against the wall, + And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . + And I was so sad, thinking about it,-- + Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, + With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,-- + That I was happy to have him sympathize, + To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. + And before I knew it, he got me into a room + Where a table was set, and no one there, + And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, + And talked to me, telling me not to cry, + That it was all right, he'd look after me,-- + But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, + Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, + That when he turned my face between his hands, + And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, + And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me-- + Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, + Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, + And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. + For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief + Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed + As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, + To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it-- + And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! + And so we sat and talked, not talking much, + But meaning as much in silence as in words, + There in that empty room with palms about us, + That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there + I felt my future changing, day by day, + With unknown streets opening left and right, + New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, + Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, + Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains + Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,-- + And thinking of this, and through it half remembering + A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, + The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,-- + It seemed as if my brain would break in two. + My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, + And told him I must go, and said good-night-- + I couldn't see the end. How would it end? + Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? + And did I want him to--or would I rather + Look for another job?--He took my shoulders + Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, + And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, + That would have--well, I don't know; but he didn't . . + And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, + Hoping to close the door before that party + In number four should sing that song again-- + 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'-- + And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. + And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. + + + IX. INTERLUDE + + The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, + The hours go silently over our lifted faces, + We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. + Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. + We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. + + We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, + We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. + The door swings shut behind the latest comer. + We set our watches, regard the time. + + What have we done? I close my eyes, remember + The great machine whose sinister brain before me + Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. + My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. + I dropped great beams to the dusty street. + + My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, + And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. + I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. + Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. + + Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, + These walls whose windows gap against the sky, + Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble + Will build a glittering tower before we die . . . + + The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, + The young girl hums beneath her breath. + One goes out to beauty, and does not know it. + And one goes out to death. + + + X. SUDDEN DEATH + + 'Number four--the girl who died on the table-- + The girl with golden hair--' + The purpling body lies on the polished marble. + We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . + + One, who held the ether-cone, remembers + Her dark blue frightened eyes. + He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast + More hurriedly fall and rise. + Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head + Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,-- + And, suddenly, she lay dead. + + And all the dreams that hurried along her veins + Came to the darkness of a sudden wall. + Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, + They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, + Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all. + + What was her name? Where had she walked that morning? + Through what dark forest came her feet? + Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street? + + Backward he dreamed along a chain of days, + He saw her go her strange and secret ways, + Waking and sleeping, noon and night. + She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair. + She read a story by candlelight. + + Her shadow ran before her along the street, + She walked with rhythmic feet, + Turned a corner, descended a stair. + She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, + Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, + And drew deep breaths of air. + + Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music + Murmured within the walls of lighted windows. + She lifted her face to the light and danced. + The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, + Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced. + + Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, + Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid + Opened its golden heart on her breast . . . + She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, + Leaned on her partner's arm to rest. + The violins were weaving a weft of silver, + The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold, + And time was caught in a glistening pattern, + Time, too elusive to hold . . . + + Shadows of leaves fell over her face,--and sunlight: + She turned her face away. + Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness + With every step and day. + + Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, + At a great distance, across the night, + Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly + From purple light to light. + + Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, + 'I am the murderer, death. + I am the lover who keeps his appointment + At the doors of breath!' + + She rose and stared at her own reflection, + Half dreading there to find + The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, + Or reaching from behind + To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . . + Or was this in her mind? . . . + + She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered + Along the tossing strands. + Was there a stillness in this hair,-- + A quiet in these hands? + + Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes, + Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust. + She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever. + Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . . + And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed, + And music ebbed with the ebbing hours. + And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds + Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers. + + + XI. + + Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares + With purple lights in the canyoned street. + The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . . + The trodden grass in the park is covered with white, + The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . . + The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night. + + And one, from his high bright window looking down + Over the enchanted whiteness of the town, + Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, + Desires like this to forget what will not pass, + The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, + Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. + Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, + Slurred bells of grief and pain, + Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places. + He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow. + He desires to forget a million faces . . . + + In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. + The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it. + In one room fade grey violets in a vase. + Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. + In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays + The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. + His hands are trembling, his short breath fails. + + In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, + And thinks the air is fire. + The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings + With the sudden hand of desire. + + And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; + And one lies staring, and thinks of death. + And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, + And holds her breath . . . + + Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, + Coil and revolve and dream, + Vanish or gleam? + Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. + Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. + + And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; + And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, + And walls flung down . . . + And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, + And whiteness hushes the town. + + + + +PART III + + + I + + As evening falls, + And the yellow lights leap one by one + Along high walls; + And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, + The muted city seems + Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams + Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . + Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, + Flash, are extinguished, flash again, + To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain + And die away . . . + As evening falls, + A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,-- + A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . + The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, + The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, + The watchman climbs the stair . . . + The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, + And runs among them, and is beaten down; + The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; + The tired clown + Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, + Motionless in their places, + Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . . + The dancer smooths her hair, + Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door + To dance once more, + Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, + Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes. + + As darkness falls + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live tonight? Where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. + + + II. THE SCREEN MAIDEN + + You read--what is it, then that you are reading? + What music moves so silently in your mind? + Your bright hand turns the page. + I watch you from my window, unsuspected: + You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . + + . . . The poet--what was his name--? Tokkei--Tokkei-- + The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, + And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; + For his lover was dead, he never would love again. + + Rain in the dreams of the mind--rain forever-- + Rain in the sky of the heart--rain in the willows-- + But then he saw this face, this face like flame, + This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi; + And took it home with him; and with it came + + What unexpected changes, subtle as weather! + The dark room, cold as rain, + Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April, + Warmed its corners with light again, + + And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, + And the quiet lady there, + So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, + Seemed ready to loose her hair, + + And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, + The word already clear, + Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . + He held his breath to hear, + + And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, + And held a candle, and searched her face + Through all the little shadows, to see what secret + Might give so warm a grace . . . + + Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? + The eyes, half-turned aside? + The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . + The secret was denied, + + He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, + And slept; and as he slept + A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, + And chided him, and wept. + + And in the morning, waking, he remembered, + And thought the dream was strange. + Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? + He turned, and felt a change, + + As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . + Yet there was only sunlight there. + Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, + And held his breath to stare, + + And could have sworn her cheek had turned--a little . . . + Had slightly turned away . . . + Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, + Nor left his room that day. + + And that day, and for many days thereafter, + He sat alone, and thought + No lady had ever lived so beautiful + As Hiroshigi wrought . . . + + Or if she lived, no matter in what country, + By what far river or hill or lonely sea, + He would look in every face until he found her . . . + There was no other as fair as she. + + And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, + And brought her every day + Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, + And somehow, she seemed to say, + + That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, + That she was happy there; + And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, + And desired to touch her hair, + + To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly + With delicate finger-tips + The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish + Upon her lips . . . + + Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; + And night by night a dread + Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi + Was many centuries dead,-- + + And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . + Dead, and long turned to dust . . . + The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, + The peach leaves flew in a gust, + + And he would surely have died; but there one day + A wise man, white with age, + Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi + Knew more than archimage,-- + + Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, + Till partly it entered there . . . + Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . + Do all I say with care, + + And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' + So then this ghost, Tokkei, + Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, + And alone at the end of day + + Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, + And saw the quiet eyes + Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, + And knelt, and did not rise, + + And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' + Said it three times aloud. + And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense + Rose to the walls in a cloud, + + And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; + And suddenly, with a sigh, + The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, + And stood, while worlds went by, + + And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; + And the poet trembled, and said, + 'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'--'Yes, I will stay.'-- + 'But what when I am dead?' + + 'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, + And then we shall die no more.' + Music came down upon them, and spring returning, + They remembered worlds before, + + And years went over the earth, and over the sea, + And lovers were born and spoke and died, + But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, + Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . + + + III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS + + The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; + The music changes tone, you wake, remember + Deep worlds you lived before,--deep worlds hereafter + Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, + Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. + + Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. + Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. + Elaine was married and soon to have a child. + You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; + They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. + + To-morrow--what? And what of yesterday? + Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, + Through many doors to the one door of all. + Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: + Or see a skeleton fall . . . + + We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? + We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. + We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. + You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. + It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. + + This is the thing remembered I would forget-- + No matter where I go, how soft I tread, + This windy gesture menaces me with death. + Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; + Touches my throat and stops my breath. + + My fans--my jewels--the portrait of my husband-- + The torn certificate for my daughter's grave-- + These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. + They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. + They signify no crime. + + Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: + Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: + No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. + Dreams--they are madness. Staring eyes--illusion. + Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . + + + IV. ILLICIT + + Of what she said to me that night--no matter. + The strange thing came next day. + My brain was full of music--something she played me--; + I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it + Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, + Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, + Urging to restlessness: verging on grief. + I tried to play the tune, from memory,-- + But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed + And found no resolution--only hung there, + And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . . + What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? + 'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . + A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, + Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . + And someone walking alone; and someone saying + That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' + These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them + A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow + I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady? + The one who always danced in golden slippers-- + And had I danced with her,--upon this music? + Or was it further back--the unplumbed twilight + Of childhood?--No--much recenter than that. + + You know, without my telling you, how sometimes + A word or name eludes you, and you seek it + Through running ghosts of shadow,--leaping at it, + Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, + Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: + Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, + You hear it, see it flash among the branches, + And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it-- + Well, it was so I followed down this music, + Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, + Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, + Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars--; + Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, + The thing resolved itself: and I remembered + An April afternoon, eight years ago-- + Or was it nine?--no matter--call it nine-- + A room in which the last of sunlight faded; + A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; + And, she who played the same thing later, playing. + + She played this tune. And in the middle of it + Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands + Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, + With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, + One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, + And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. + + 'You know--we've got to end this--Miriam loves you . . . + If she should ever know, or even guess it,-- + What would she do?--Listen!--I'm not absurd . . . + I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women-- + To understand them--which you've never had-- + You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, + Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, + Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, + Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, + Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, + Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . + Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness + That she could neither break it--nor conclude? + It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, + Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,-- + Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . + + Well, April passed with many other evenings, + Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, + With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . + And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . + And after that, when eight deep years had passed-- + Or nine--we met once more,--by accident . . . + But was it just by accident, I wonder, + She played this tune?--Or what, then, was intended? . . . + + + V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT + + The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, + Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; + You strike a match and stare upon the flame. + The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, + And dwindles away as silently as it came. + + This melody, you say, has certain voices-- + They rise like nereids from a river, singing, + Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. + Wherever you go you bear this river with you: + A leaf falls,--and it flows, and you have pain. + + So says the tune to you--but what to me? + What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, + The violinist who suavely draws his bow? + That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. + A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. + + Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping + Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: + At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. + Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. + A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. + And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: + And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, + And the great sea shakes its walls. + And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls + This melody once more: + 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' + + So says the tune to him--but what to me? + What are the worlds I see? + What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . + I go my secret way, down secret alleys; + My errand is not so simple as it seems. + + + VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD + + This is the house. On one side there is darkness, + On one side there is light. + Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns-- + O, any number--it will still be night. + And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward + To long sonorous halls. + And here is spring forever at these windows, + With roses on the walls. + + This is her room. On one side there is music-- + On one side not a sound. + At one step she could move from love to silence, + Feel myriad darkness coiling round. + And here are balconies from which she heard you, + Your steady footsteps on the stair. + And here the glass in which she saw your shadow + As she unbound her hair. + + Here is the room--with ghostly walls dissolving-- + The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; + And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' + So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!-- + Through windy corridors of darkening end. + + Here she could stand with one dim light above her + And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, + Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. + And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, + She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. + + Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. + Your words were windows,--large enough for moonlight, + Too small to let her through. + Your letters--fragrant cloisters faint with music. + The music that assuaged her there was you. + + How many times she heard your step ascending + Yet never saw your face! + She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, + Till silence swept the place. + Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . . + You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken. + + A certain rose-leaf--sent without intention-- + Became, with time, a woven web of fire-- + She wore it, and was warm. + A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, + Became, with time, the flashings of a storm. + + Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you + Of secret idols carved in secret chambers + From all you did and said. + Nothing was done, until at last she knew you. + Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. + + How did she die?--You say, she died of poison. + Simple and swift. And much to be regretted. + You did not see her pass + So many thousand times from light to darkness, + Pausing so many times before her glass; + + You did not see how many times she hurried + To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, + Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. + You did not know how long she clung to music, + You did not hear her sing. + + Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely + From sound to silence--close, herself, those windows? + Or was it true, instead, + That darkness moved,--for once,--and so possessed her? . . . + We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. + + + VII. PORCELAIN + + You see that porcelain ranged there in the window-- + Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, + And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? + See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! + They're works of art--minutely seen and felt, + Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure + To spend your blood like this? + + Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, + If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming + Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal-- + My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting + Day after day, close to a certain window, + Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . + + Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . + Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . + Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, + Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, + Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, + You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me-- + An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, + Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, + Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, + Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. + On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night + Of two soft-patterned toads--I thought them stones, + Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,-- + Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,-- + It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. + Here,--as I coil the stems between two leaves,-- + It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, + I cried the secret between two universes . . . + A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said + Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,-- + Though with his eyes wide open,-- + And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part + Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, + Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, + Amazing leaves, folding one on another, + Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals-- + All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, + I need no hasheesh for it--it's too easy! + Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking + In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, + Violets purple as death, dripping with water, + And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. + + Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets-- + With scalloped edges gilded--here you have me + Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,-- + There's something lacking--force, or will, or passion, + I don't know what it is--and so, sometimes, + When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, + Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, + I get uneasy--just like poplar trees + Ruffling their leaves--and I begin to think + Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, + And that delicious night. Where is she now? + I meant to write--but she has moved, by this time, + And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. + Well, there is more--I'm getting old and timid-- + The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! + I never strike out boldly as I used to-- + But sit here, painting violets, and remember + That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, + Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,-- + Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,-- + Were thought so beautiful.--And so they were. + Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . + Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! + Well, I suppose such days can come but once. + Lord, how happy we were! . . . + + Here, if you only knew it, is a story-- + Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, + And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: + A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . + Who killed himself by diving against a wall. + Here is a recollection of my wife, + When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. + It's funny how things change,--just change, by growing, + Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,-- + A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; + A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . + Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! + + This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, + If you look hard enough. This, in its way, + Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you + In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, + Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . + Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist-- + You have my head before you . . . on a platter. + + + VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE + + Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower + Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: + At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . + The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. + We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. + + We are like music, each voice of it pursuing + A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, + Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. + What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . + We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. + + One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, + Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; + One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. + One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . + Upward and downward, past him there, we stream. + + One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. + Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. + A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. + He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: + A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. + + Death, from street to alley, from door to window, + Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching, + Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. + But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect? + Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? + + Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, + A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes + Down jangled streets, and dies. + The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, + Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. + + Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; + Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; + From freezing rooms as bare as rock. + The curtains are closed across deserted windows. + Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. + + Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; + Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; + Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; + Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; + Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; + + Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, + And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; + Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,-- + They are blown away like windflung chords of music, + They drift away; the sudden music has died. + + And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly + And sees the shadow of death in many faces, + And thinks the world is strange. + He desires immortal music and spring forever, + And beauty that knows no change. + + + IX. CABARET + + We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. + You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing + As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' + Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, + 'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' + + You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . . + How many others like ourselves, this instant, + Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? + How many others, laughing, sip their coffee-- + Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . + + 'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) + When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: + And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. + Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter + What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play? + + 'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,-- + Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; + No pity dims our eyes . . . + How many others, like ourselves, this instant, + See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' + + Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . + When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, + And even those most like angels creep for schemes. + The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, + Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. + + But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, + Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons + To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . + And all these others who at your conjuration + Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,-- + + Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, + Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, + Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,-- + Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting + This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, + + Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, + Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, + Lean to the music, rise, + And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion + With kindness in their eyes . . . + + They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) + 'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! + And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' + They say 'How strange it is that one such evening + Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' + + And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, + They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, + And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. + With secret symbols they play on secret passions. + With cunning eyes they see + + The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, + The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . + The pendulum on the wall + Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; + Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. + + + X. LETTER + + From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees + The soft blue starlight through the one small window, + The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,-- + And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. + + It is so long, indeed, since I have written,-- + Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,-- + That these first words I write seem cold and strange. + Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? + Altered, of course--just as I too have altered-- + And whether towards each other, or more apart, + We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter-- + Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure-- + + Pondering much on all you say in it + Of mystic consciousness--divine conversion-- + The sense of oneness with the infinite,-- + Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . + Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, + If one's to talk through this dark world contented. + But is the world so dark? Or is it rather + Our own brute minds,--in which we hurry, trembling, + Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. + + You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"-- + Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented + With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: + Even before the question grew to problem + And drove you bickering into metaphysics, + You met on lower planes the same great dragon, + Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, + In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, + One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, + The cruder first, more violent sensations, + Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted + With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,-- + Savoring all more delicate gradations + + In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, + Or thought on brain,--you passed, if I may say so, + From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. + Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, + As instruments of music, whereon our lives + Will play as we desire: and let us yield + These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves + To all experience plays . . . And so you went + From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, + Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; + And closing one by one your doors, drew in + Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, + Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. + + What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber-- + Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly + It is the last, and cunningest, resort + Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,-- + This world of lamentations, death, injustice, + Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, + Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,-- + Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, + Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: + + Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,-- + With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, + Coldly imperious,--this transient world, + What has it then to give, if not containing + Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,-- + Momentary and trivial for the most part, + Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,-- + And know how much outweighed they are by darkness. + We are like searchers in a house of darkness, + A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, + Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, + Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, + An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway + Leading to who knows what; but never seeing + The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little, + And then grow tired. No matter what we touch, + Dust is the answer--dust: dust everywhere. + If this were all--what were the use, you ask? + But this is not: for why should we be seeking, + Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, + To lift our minds, if there were only dust? + This is the central chamber you have come to: + Turning your back to the world, until you came + To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, + And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. + + Well, in a measure, so only do we all. + I am not sure that you can be refuted. + At the very last we all put faith in something,-- + You in this ghost that animates your world, + This ethical ghost,--and I, you'll say, in reason,-- + Or sensuous beauty,--or in my secret self . . . + Though as for that you put your faith in these, + As much as I do--and then, forsaking reason,-- + Ascending, you would say, to intuition,-- + You predicate this ghost of yours, as well. + Of course, you might have argued,--and you should have,-- + That no such deep appearance of design + Could shape our world without entailing purpose: + For can design exist without a purpose? + Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children + Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, + Strange patterns drawn,--circles, arcs, ellipses, + Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder? + + Did someone draw them here before we came? + Or was it just the sea?--We pore upon them, + But find no answer--only suppositions. + And if these perfect shapes are evidence + Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: + We never come upon him at his work, + He never troubles us. He stands aloof-- + Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned + With what we are or do. You, if you like, + May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, + Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing + You see, without much reason, will in law. + I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, + Happily so for us, by accident: + We go our ways untroubled save by laws + Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? + + If we were wise--which God knows we are not-- + (Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle + Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. + These brains of ours--these delicate spinal clusters-- + Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? + Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? + Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, + Until you managed to see that world as omen,-- + Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, + Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?-- + You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. + I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. + You find your pleasure in being at one with all things-- + Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling + As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too-- + With reservations. I find more varied pleasure + In understanding: and so find beauty even + In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. + + Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. + For household news--what have you heard, I wonder? + You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time-- + Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done-- + We found it out too late. His death has changed me, + Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, + Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, + Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom + To see them clearly, meditate upon them, + And understand what things flow out of them. + Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. + Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, + And bring old times with you?--If you could see me + Sitting here by the window, watching Venus + Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,-- + Just where you used to sit,--I'm sure you'd come. + This year, they say, the springtime will be early. + + + XI. CONVERSATION: UNDERTONES + + What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? + You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; + You smile a little. . . . Outside, the night goes by. + I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees. + + 'These lines--converging, they suggest such distance! + The soul is drawn away, beyond horizons. + Lured out to what? One dares not think. + Sometimes, I glimpse these infinite perspectives + In intimate talk (with such as you) and shrink . . . + + 'One feels so petty!--One feels such--emptiness!--' + You mimic horror, let fall your lifted hand, + And smile at me; with brooding tenderness . . . + Alone on darkened waters I fall and rise; + Slow waves above me break, faint waves of cries. + + 'And then these colors . . . but who would dare describe them? + This faint rose-coral pink . . this green--pistachio?-- + So insubstantial! Like the dim ghostly things + Two lovers find in love's still-twilight chambers . . . + Old peacock-fans, and fragrant silks, and rings . . . + + 'Rings, let us say, drawn from the hapless fingers + Of some great lady, many centuries nameless,-- + Or is that too sepulchral?--dulled with dust; + And necklaces that crumble if you touch them; + And gold brocades that, breathed on, fall to rust. + + 'No--I am wrong . . . it is not these I sought for--! + Why did they come to mind? You understand me-- + You know these strange vagaries of the brain!--' + --I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees; + Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees; + These strange vagaries of yours are all too plain. + + 'But why perplex ourselves with tedious problems + Of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, + With all that's in our secret hearts to say!--' + Hearts?--Your pale hand softly strokes the satin. + You play deep music--know well what you play. + You stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, + You smile, with faintly perfumed lips, + You loose your thoughts like birds, + Brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . . + We know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound + In tremulous webs of sound. + + 'How beautiful is intimate talk like this!-- + It is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, + Stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, + To hear a hidden music . . . Our own vast shadows + Lean to a giant size on the windy walls, + Or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls + Echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, + Music sings far off, flows suddenly near, + And dies away like rain . . . + We walk through subterranean caves again,-- + Vaguely above us feeling + A shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, + Strange half-lit things, + Soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . . + And here a beautiful face looks down upon us; + And someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . . + Have we seen all, I wonder, in these chambers-- + Or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, + Where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . ' + + The question falls: we walk in silence together, + Thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . . + This lamp, these books, this fire + Are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness. + Deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire. + + + XII. WITCHES' SABBATH + + Now, when the moon slid under the cloud + And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, + He heard in his blood the well-known bell + Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, + Slowly beating, slowly beating, + Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: + Sometimes it swung completely round, + Horribly gasping as if for breath; + Falling down with an anguished cry . . . + Now the red bat, he mused, will fly; + Something is marked, this night, for death . . . + And while he mused, along his blood + Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, + They rose in the cavern of his brain, + Like ghosts they died away again; + And hands upon his heart were laid, + And music upon his flesh was played, + Until, as he was bidden to do, + He walked the wood he so well knew. + Through the cold dew he moved his feet, + And heard far off, as under the earth, + Discordant music in shuddering tones, + Screams of laughter, horrible mirth, + Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, + And the long-drawn wail of one in pain. + To-night, he thought, I shall die again, + We shall die again in the red-eyed fire + To meet on the edge of the wood beyond + With the placid gaze of fed desire . . . + He walked; and behind the whisper of trees, + In and out, one walked with him: + She parted the branches and peered at him, + Through lowered lids her two eyes burned, + He heard her breath, he saw her hand, + Wherever he turned his way, she turned: + Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; + Moving her white knees as he moved . . . + This is the one I have always loved; + This is the one whose bat-soul comes + To dance with me, flesh to flesh, + In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . . + + The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, + Sank down behind a rushing sky. + He heard a sweet song just begun + Abruptly shatter in tones and die. + It whirled away. Cold silence fell. + And again came tollings of a bell. + + * * * * * + + This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides + Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind. + In the clear darkness, while the moon hides, + They come like dreams, like something remembered . . + Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, + Forget these things that trouble your eyes, + Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed, + Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . . + + The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved, + What was the word you said? + Something about clear music that sang through water . . . + I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves. + Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead. + Someone lies in the garden and grieves. + Look how the branches are tossed in this air, + Flinging their green to the earth! + Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, + The moon stares down like a half-closed eye. + The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, + Oaks crash down in the darkness, + We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone. + + * * * * * + + The moon was darkened: across it flew + The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, + Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, + The witch! he said. And he heard a cry, + And another came, and another came, + And one, grown duskily red with blood, + Floated an instant across the moon, + Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . . + The earth has veins: they throb to-night, + The earth swells warm beneath my feet, + The tips of the trees grow red and bright, + The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat, + They press together, they push and sigh, + They listen to hear the great bat cry, + The great red bat with the woman's face . . . + Hurry! he said. And pace for pace + That other, who trod the dark with him, + Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands + And closed her eyes, the better to see + The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, + The fire-lit rock, the sarabands. + I am here! she said. The bough he broke-- + Was it the snapping bough that spoke? + I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed + Cold in starlight among dark leaves, + The head thrown backward as he had dreamed, + The shadowy red deep jasper mouth; + And the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts, + Passed beside him, and vanished away. + I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!' + And laughter arose, and near and far + Answering laughter rose and died . . . + Who is there? in the dark? he cried. + He stood in terror, and heard a sound + Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; + They rushed, were still; a silence fell; + And he heard deep tollings of a bell. + + * * * * * + + Look beloved! Why do you hide your face? + Look, in the centre there, above the fire, + They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love! + They are playing a piercing music upon him + With a bow of living wire! . . . + The virgin harlot sings, + She leans above the beautiful anguished body, + And draws slow music from those strings. + They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, + They trample him with their naked feet, + His cries are lost in laughter, + Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and + beat, + They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . . + Have we not heard that cry before? + Somewhere, somewhere, + Beside a sea, in the green evening, + Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . . + Was it you? was it I? + They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, + The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, + Look! he has caught one by the hair, + She screams and falls, he bears her away with him, + And the night grows full of whistling wings. + Far off, one voice, serene and sweet, + Rises and sings . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .' + Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them? + It was long ago. + Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; + The treetops tremble and glow. + + * * * * * + + In the clear dark, on silent wings, + The red bat hovers beneath her moon; + She drops through the fragrant night, and clings + Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, + With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, + To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds. + The maidens circle in dance, and raise + From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; + Their knees and breasts are white and bare, + They have hung pale roses in their hair, + Each of them as she dances by + Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye. + See how the red wing wraps him round, + See how the white youth struggles in vain! + The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; + He writhes in the soft red veiny wings, + But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . . + This is the secret feast of love, + Look well, look well, before it dies, + See how the red one trembles above, + See how quiet the white one lies! . . . . + + Wind through the trees. . . . and a voice is heard + Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . . + 'By the clear waters where once I died, + In the calm evening bright with stars, + One among numberless avatars, + I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, + And lay on the stones and gave my flesh, + And entered the hunger of him I loved. + How shall I ever escape this mesh + Or be from my lover's body removed?' + Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air + And the maenads dance with flying hair. + + * * * * * + + The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, + Rise in the starlight, one by one, + They draw their knives on the spurting throats, + They smear the column with blood of goats, + They dabble the blood on hair and lips + And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. + They stand like stones and stare at the sky + Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . + In the green moonlight still they stand + While wind flows over the darkened sand + And brood on the soft forgotten things + That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . + Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . + They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . + And then, as the shadow closes the moon, + Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, + And rush through the dark, and fill the night + With a slowly dying clamor of sound. + There, where the great walls crowd the stars, + There, by the black wind-riven walls, + In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . + Who are these pilgrims, who are these, + These three, the one of whom stands upright, + While one lies weeping and one of them crawls? + The face that he turned was a wounded face, + I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . + Hooves had trampled and torn this place, + And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. + Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, + The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . + Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . . + I will lie on this grass as a lover lies + And reach to the north and reach to the south + And seek in the darkness for her mouth. + + * * * * * + + Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind + Shatter pale foam among great trees, + Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, + Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, + I run to find you, I run and cry, + Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I. + It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, + Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. + Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . . + Is this you? Is this you? + Bats in this air go whirring. . . . + And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, + Is this the soft mouth I knew? + Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; + And the patter of dew. + + * * * * * + + Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance! + Dance till the brain is red with speed! + Dance till you fall! Lift your torches! + Kiss your lovers until they bleed! + Backward I draw your anguished hair + Until your eyes are stretched with pain; + Backward I press you until you cry, + Your lips grow white, I kiss you again, + I will take a torch and set you afire, + I will break your body and fling it away. . . . + Look, you are trembling. . . . Lie still, beloved! + Lock your hands in my hair, and say + Darling! darling! darling! darling! + All night long till the break of day. + + Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . . + Or the far tolling of that tower? + The voices are still that cried around us. . . . + The woods grow still for the sacred hour. + Rise, white lover! the day draws near. + The grey trees lean to the east in fear. + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .' + Beloved, whose voice was this that cried? + 'By the clear waters that reach the sun + By the clear waves that starward run. . . . + I found love's body and lost his soul, + And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . . + How shall I ever again be whole, + By what dark waters shall I be healed?' + + Silence. . . . the red leaves, one by one, + Fall. Far off, the maenads run. + + Silence. Beneath my naked feet + The veins of the red earth swell and beat. + The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, + Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . . + Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon. + The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. + + * * * * * + + The great bell cracks and falls at last. + The moon whirls out. The sky grows still. + Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars + And suddenly drops behind the hill! + Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, + We sit in the room by candle-light. + We peer in each other's veins and see + No sign of the things we saw this night. + Only, a song is in your ears, + A song you have heard, you think, in dream: + The song which only the demon hears, + In the dark forest where maenads scream . . . + + 'By the clear waters where once I died . . . + In the calm evening bright with stars . . . ' + What do the strange words mean? you say,-- + And touch my hand, and turn away. + + + XIII. + + The half-shut doors through which we heard that music + Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. + The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. + Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain + Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. + In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. + + Where have we been? What savage chaos of music + Whirls in our dreams?--We suddenly rise in darkness, + Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. + We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming + A warm white moonlit shore; + + Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, + Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, + Or a singing sound of rain . . . + We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, + And enter our dreams again. + + + + +PART IV. + + + I. CLAIRVOYANT + + 'This envelope you say has something in it + Which once belonged to your dead son--or something + He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?-- + The soul flies far, and we can only call it + By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, + Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . ' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow; + Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, + One by one they melt and flow,-- + + Streaming one by one over trees and towers, + Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; + Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows + Flow under them one by one . . . + + ' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit + Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit + Young and strong and beautiful . . . + + He says that he is happy, is much honored; + Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind + Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . . + The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken + And laid aside . . . ' + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did!' + + 'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you: + Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . . + What seems calamity is less than a sigh; + What seems disgrace is nothing.' + + 'Ask him if the one he hurt is there, + And if she loves him still!' + + 'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,-- + Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . . + A cloud of spirits has gathered about him. + They praise him and call him, they do him honor; + He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.' + + . . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, + Over the low roofs white with snow . . . + Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, + One by one they sing and flow; + + Over the outstretched lands of days remembered, + Over remembered tower and wall, + One by one they gather and talk in the darkness, + Rise and glimmer and fall . . . + + 'Ask him why he did the thing he did! + He knows I will understand!' + + 'It is too late: + He will not hear me: I have lost my power.' + + 'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me. + God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.' + + + II. DEATH: AND A DERISIVE CHORUS + + The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, + And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly + Towards the dazzling street. + Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing. + The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet. + + Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting + To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry, + We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow. + She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward. + We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow. + + Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!-- + Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . . + She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes. + Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been? + She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries. + + Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,-- + Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . . + She thinks she's heard a message from one dead! + What did he tell you? Is he well and happy? + Don't lie to us--we all know what he said. + + He said the one he murdered once still loves him; + He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; + And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . . + But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,-- + Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know! + That's what you get for meddling so with heaven! + + Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going? + We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits. + Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry! + What have you got in an envelope, old lady? + A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye? + + How do you know the medium didn't fool you? + Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it. + Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son. + What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair? + We know your secret! what's done is done. + + Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful, + Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry? + You don't think you will find him when you're dead? + Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,-- + Look at her eyes all red! + + We know you--know your name and all about you, + All you remember and think, and all you scheme for. + We tear your secret out, we leave you, go + Laughingly down the street. . . . Die, if you want to! + Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!-- + + . . . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body + Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her? + Was no one with her when she fell? . . . + We eddy about her, move away in silence. + We hear slow tollings of a bell. + + + III. PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT + + Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: + We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, + Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, + So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,-- + Yet know so little of them; only seeing + The small bright circle of our consciousness, + Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know-- + Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, + I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find + A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, + And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, + A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, + While one tall woman sent her voice above them + In powerful sweetness. . . . Closing then the door + I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,-- + And walked in a quiet hallway as before. + Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, + Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . + We hear a sudden music, see a playing + Of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence. + The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) + Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,-- + As it continues after our departure, + So, we divine, it played before we came . . . + What do you know of me, or I of you? . . . + Little enough. . . . We set these doors ajar + Only for chosen movements of the music: + This passage, (so I think--yet this is guesswork) + Will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,-- + More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it + He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered + And thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork) + + The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, + Perplexed with implications; he suspects me + Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . + Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,-- + Simple and clear; and all the while he listens + I make pretence to think my doors are closed. + This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong + Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? + Or only mocking?'--There I let it end. . . . + Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it-- + When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, + Talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open + Without intention; and the hungry watcher + Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, + And laughs. . . . but this, for many counts, is seldom. + And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, + Our lovers too, only such few clear notes + As we shall deem them likely to admire: + 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' + Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . . all the while + Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,-- + Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, + The sombre note that gives the chord its power; + Or a white loveliness--if such we know-- + Too much like fire to speak of without shame. + + Well, this being so, and we who know it being + So curious about those well-locked houses, + The minds of those we know,--to enter softly, + And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, + From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, + Breathing deliberately the very air, + Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness + To learn what ghosts are there,-- + Suppose for once I set my doors wide open + And bid you in. . . . Suppose I try to tell you + The secrets of this house, and how I live here; + Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . + Deceiving you--as far as I may know it-- + Only so much as I deceive myself. + + If you are clever you already see me + As one who moves forever in a cloud + Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud + Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, + Changing such outlines as a light may change, + Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing + Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained + In a world of things that flatter me: a sky + Just as I would have had it; trees and grass + Just as I would have shaped and colored them; + Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, + And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,-- + In some deep way I am aware these praise me: + Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, + They point, somehow, to me. . . . This water says,-- + Shimmering at the sky, or undulating + In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, + Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths + To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,-- + This water says, there is some secret in you + Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive + To all that circles you. This bare tree says,-- + Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, + Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches + Flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says, + There is some cold austerity in you, + A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, + Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, + Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, + Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! + What teeming Aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves! + These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, + Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, + Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; + Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; + Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; + Walls windowless where darkness is desired; + Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,-- + Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,-- + All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: + You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, + Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, + When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . + This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, + Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, + This cool room says,--just such a room have you, + It waits you always at the tops of stairways, + Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, + Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . + And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, + Hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings + Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, + Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins + Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions + Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,-- + This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,-- + This says, just such an involuted beauty + Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, + Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, + Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: + You need but sit and close your eyes a moment + To see these deep designs unfold themselves. + + And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me-- + I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; + And in this world you see me like a wraith + Blown softly here and there, on silent winds. + 'Praise me'--I say; and look, not in a glass, + But in your eyes, to see my image there-- + Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; + You look at me, with interest unfeigned, + And listen--I am pleased; or else, alone, + I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward + From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending; + Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,-- + Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, + Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,-- + But all with one deep meaning: this is I, + This is the glistening secret holy I, + This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, + This singing ghost. . . . And hearing, I am warmed. + + * * * * * + + You see me moving, then, as one who moves + Forever at the centre of his circle: + A circle filled with light. And into it + Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, + Or huddle in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly, + A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; + Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; + And through these things my pencil pushes softly + To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. + Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; + Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn + And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, + Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture + Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung + Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. + 'Beauty!' I cry. . . . My feet move on, and take me + Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. + Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, + Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . + Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, + The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, + And darkness rides my heart. . . . These skeleton elm-trees-- + Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky-- + Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness + Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . + A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: + The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, + Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, + Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, + The eaves make liquid music. . . . Hours have passed, + And nothing changes, and everything is changed. + Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,-- + And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized + Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. + + If you could solve this darkness you would have me. + This causeless melancholy that comes with rain, + Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes + Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? + Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him, + Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; + And you, I saw too much; and you, too little; + And the word I chose for you, the golden word, + The word that should have struck so deep in purpose, + And set so many doors of wish wide open, + You let it fall, and would not stoop for it, + And smiled at me, and would not let me guess + Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together, + With other things, still slighter, wove to music, + And this in time drew up dark memories; + And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me, + Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, + Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, + And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, + And cries that none can answer, few will hear. + Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly + If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious, + Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? + + Or 'one day dies eventless as another, + Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, + And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? + Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, + And beauty shines in vain'?-- + + These things you ask for, + These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife, + At the dark end of evening, when she leaned + And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs + Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,-- + Calling to mind remote and small successions + Of countless other evenings ending so,-- + I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; + Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands + Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin, + I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, + I saw myself alone there, palely watching, + Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted + That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass, + And I should meet this girl,--my second wife-- + And drop the masque of grief for one of passion. + Forward we move to meet, half hesitating, + We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, + Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending + We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude + Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches. + We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us, + Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, + Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . + . . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . . My first wife's voice + Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing--nothing much-- + Just wondering where we'd be two years from now, + And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse + Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, + And pity to echoed love. And one more evening + Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. + + And, as it is with this, so too with all things. + The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: + New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, + And those on older still; and so forever. + The old shines through the new, and colors it. + What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,-- + All things return. I write a line with passion + (Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) + Only to find the same thing, done before,-- + Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . + This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,-- + Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; + The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, + And broke the accustomed order of our days, + And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . + What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? + What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? + + You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, + Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,-- + Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,-- + No more for me than you. I move here always, + From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, + Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. + This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . + Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, + Once more I have deceived you. . . . I withhold + The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; + And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. + + + IV. COUNTERPOINT: TWO ROOMS + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + She, in the room below--his floor her ceiling-- + Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, + And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . + She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, + + His watch--the same he has heard these cycles of ages-- + Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. + The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. + The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her. + The world whirs on. . . . New stars come up to shine. + + His youth--far off--he sees it brightly walking + In a golden cloud. . . . Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness + Walls it around with dripping enormous walls. + Old age--far off--her death--what do they matter? + Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. + + She hears slow steps in the street--they chime like music; + They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, + Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . + He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. + Far off they pass. He knows they will never return. + + Far off--on a smooth dark road--he hears them faintly. + The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, + Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath + Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. + And death seems nearer to him: or he to death. + + What's death?--She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. + The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, + She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, + The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. + A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. + + What's death--what's death? The spring returns like music, + The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, + The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. + The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. + Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . + And death seems far away, a thing of roses, + A golden portal, where golden music closes, + Death seems far away: + And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, + And spring returns to stay. . . . + + He, in the room above, grown old and tired, + Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, + And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. + And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. + . . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky. + + + V. THE BITTER LOVE-SONG + + No, I shall not say why it is that I love you-- + Why do you ask me, save for vanity? + Surely you would not have me, like a mirror, + Say 'yes,--your hair curls darkly back from the temples, + Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness, + Your eyes are April grey. . . . with jonquils in them?' + No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . . + I'll say--my childhood broke through chords of music + --Or were they chords of sun?--wherein fell shadows, + Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight; + Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me + With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. . + I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning, + My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover, + And drowsed there like a bee. . . . blue days behind me + Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic, + Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . . days before me + Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold, + Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights. + Confused soft clouds of music fled above me. + + Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. + I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight, + Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty, + Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep. + + No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you-- + Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' + You would not have me say what you know better? + Let me instead be silent, only saying--: + My childhood lives in me--or half-lives, rather-- + And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music + Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . + Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, + Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, + Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, + Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . . + I lay in my bed and through the tall night window + Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds, + And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . . + How should I know--how should I now remember-- + What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? + What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them? + + This I shall say.--I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. . + Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny, + Stared at the sky. And silently there above us + Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge, + Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows, + Swift and blue, or dark. . . . What did they mean? + What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty? + Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle? + Only I know these things leaned over me, + Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly, + Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated, + I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . . + You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them, + Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers, + These presences. . . . I drowse, they stream above me, + I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream. + + You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you) + Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight. + You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) + In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing. + It is not you I laugh for, you I touch! + My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs, + Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops; + And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . . + + + VI. CINEMA + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, + Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. + How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? + To what new light or darkness yearn? + A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; + And one by one in myriads we descend + By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, + Through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . . + + Take my arm, then, you or you or you, + And let us walk abroad on the solid air: + Look how the organist's head, in silhouette, + Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . . + The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, + Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, + They have hurried down from a myriad secret places, + From windy chambers next to the skies. . . . + The music comes upon us. . . . it shakes the darkness, + It shakes the darkness in our minds. . . . + And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, + Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, + And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . . + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea + Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,-- + Take my hand + And walk with me once more by crumbling walls; + Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, + To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, + Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . . + Did you once love me? Did you bear a name? + Did you once stand before me without shame? . . . + Take my hand: your face is one I know, + I loved you, long ago: + You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; + You are like spring returned through snow. + Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight, + And many nights I slept and dreamed of you; + Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, + This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . . + Music murmurs beneath us like a sea, + And faints to a ghostly whisper . . . Come with me. + + Are you still doubtful of me--hesitant still, + Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember + What you would gladly, if you could, forget? + You were unfaithful once, you met your lover; + Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; + And I was silent,--you remember my silence yet . . . + You knew, as well as I, I could not kill him, + Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate. + No, and it was not you I saw with anger. + Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate, + Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, + That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, + Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, + Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain. + + How could I find it in my heart to hurt you, + You, whom this love could hurt much more than I? + No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity; + And only hated you when I saw you cry. + We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,-- + Had I the right,--I should forgive you now . . . + We were two dupes . . . Come, let us walk in starlight, + And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow. + + Take my hand, then, come with me + By the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . . + Look how the long volutes of foam unfold + To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . . + Take my hand, + Do not remember how these depths are cold, + Nor how, when you are dead, + Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head. + You lean your face upon your hands and cry, + The blown sand whispers about your feet, + Terrible seems it now to die,-- + Terrible now, with life so incomplete, + To turn away from the balconies and the music, + The sunlit afternoons, + To hear behind you there a far-off laughter + Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . + Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! + Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! + Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! + Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . + + As evening falls, + The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls + Tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us, + The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, + And to and fro we move and lean and change . . . + You, in a world grown strange, + Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, + Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, + Sink suddenly down and cry . . . + You hear the applause that greets your latest rival, + You are forgotten: your rival--who knows?--is I . . . + I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, + I am inspired and young . . . and though I see + You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, + I bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . . + Failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . . + The night must come . . . and I'll be one who clings, + Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,-- + To keep some youngster waiting in the wings. + + The music changes tone . . . a room is darkened, + Someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens, + And all is dark again; till suddenly falls + A wandering disk of light on floor and walls, + Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, + Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; + And then at last, in the chaos of that place, + Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face. + Well, I have found you. We have met at last. + Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes + I see the horrible huddlings of your past,-- + All you remember blackens, utters cries, + Reaches far hands and faint. I hold the light + Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,-- + Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . . + Now all the hatreds of my life have met + To hold high carnival . . . we do not speak, + My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, + And press, and fling you down . . . and then forget. + + Who plays for me? What sudden drums keep time + To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? + What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . . + What violin so faintly cries + Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . . + The room grows dark once more, + The crack of white light narrows around the door, + And all is silent, except a slow complaining + Of flutes and violins, like music waning. + + Take my hand, then, walk with me + By the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . . + Look, how white these shells are, on this sand! + Take my hand, + And watch the waves run inward from the sky + Line upon foaming line to plunge and die. + The music that bound our lives is lost behind us, + Paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place + Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure + We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face. + The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, + + The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, + Once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . . + Now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen + To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain + And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain. + Have I not seen you, have we not met before + Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? + You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand + And peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes, + Flash in the sun, go down . . . I hear slow sand, + And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . . + + * * * * * + + The music ends. The screen grows dark. We hurry + To go our devious secret ways, forgetting + Those many lives . . . We loved, we laughed, we killed, + We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves. + The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled. + + Whose body have I found beside dark waters, + The cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? + Staring with wide eyes at the sky? + I bent my head above it, and cried in silence. + Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry. + + Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened. + Again I loved, and love itself was darkened. + Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. + The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. + The doors of night are closed. We go our ways. + + + VII. + + The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. + The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: + And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. + A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. + Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + + And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, + The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, + And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. + The purple lights leap down the hill before him. + The gorgeous night has begun again. + + 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, + I will hold my light above them and seek their faces, + I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . ' + The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, + Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, + Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + + We hear him and take him among us like a wind of music, + Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; + We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, + We pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair, + With laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word, + We flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer + Moves on among us like light, like evening air . . . + + Good night! good night! good night! we go our ways, + The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, + The cold rain falls, the rain sings. + We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces + To what the eternal evening brings. + + Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, + We have built a tower of stone high into the sky. + We have built a city of towers. + Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. + Our souls are light. They have shaken a burden of hours. . . . + What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . + Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . + And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; + Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; + And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + 1916-1917 + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Dust, by Conrad Aiken + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF DUST *** + +***** This file should be named 1246.txt or 1246.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/4/1246/ + +Produced by Judy Boss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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I am +indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" +in Part II. + + + + + +THE HOUSE OF DUST + + + +PART I. + + +I. + +The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. +The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: +And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. +A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. +Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + +And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, +The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, +And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. +The purple lights leap down the hill before him. +The gorgeous night has begun again. + +'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, +I will hold my light above them and seek their faces. +I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' +The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, +Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, +Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + +We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, +Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; +We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, +We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, +With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; +We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer +Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . + +Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways, +The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, +The cold rain falls, the rain sings. +We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces +To what the eternal evening brings. + +Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, +We have built a tower of stone high into the sky, +We have built a city of towers. + +Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. +Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . +What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . +Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . +And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; +Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; +And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + + +II. + +One, from his high bright window in a tower, +Leans out, as evening falls, +And sees the advancing curtain of the shower +Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: +Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, +And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, +Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, +And silver falling from eave and tree. + +One, from his high bright window, looking down, +Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, +And thinks its towers are like a dream. +The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, +Pale roofs begin to gleam. + +Looking down from a window high in a wall +He sees us all; +Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, +Searching the sky, and going our ways again, +Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . +There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees +What we are blind to,--we who mass and crowd +From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. + +The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, +Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; +Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. +The yellow lamps wink one by one again. +The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. + + +III. + +One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, +With wave upon slowly shattering wave, +Turned to the city of towers as evening fell; +And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; +And saw how the towers darkened against the sky; +And across the distance heard the toll of a bell. + +Along the darkening road he hurried alone, +With his eyes cast down, +And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, +With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . +And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown +Here in the quiet of evening air, +These empty and voiceless places . . . +And he hurried towards the city, to enter there. + +Along the darkening road, between tall trees +That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. +Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. +Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. +And death was observed with sudden cries, +And birth with laughter and pain. +And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies +And night came down again. + + +IV. + +Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, +Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, +The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. +From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, +Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. + +They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, +Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. +And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, +And some strange shadows threw. + +And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, +Restlessly moving in each lamplit room, +From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; +From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: +From some, a dazzling desire. + +And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, +Combing with lifted arms her golden hair, +Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; +And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death +As she blew out her light. + +And there was one who turned from clamoring streets, +And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, +And looked at the windy sky, +And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze +And birds in the dead boughs cry . . . + +And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, +To mingle among the crowds again, +To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; +And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, +With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. + +And one, from his high bright window looking down +On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, +Hearing a sea-like murmur rise, +Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, +And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. + + +V. + +The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . +It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls +Down golden-windowed walls. +We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, +We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, +But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while +We shall lie down again. + +The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, +Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . +One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, +We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; +But whether he lives or dies we do not know. + +One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; +The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. +He sings of a house he lived in long ago. +It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; +The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. +And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, +And throwing him pennies, we bear away +A mournful echo of other times and places, +And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. + +Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; +Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; +In broken slow cascades. +The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; +Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . + +And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, +Vaguely and incoherently, some dream +Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . +A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; +Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. + +We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; +We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; +We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. +We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. +We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. + +And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, +Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, +Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; +Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream +Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. + + +VI. + +Over the darkened city, the city of towers, +The city of a thousand gates, +Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, +Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, +The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, +With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. +On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, +And dreams in white at the city's feet; +On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. +Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. +Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. + +The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea +And sails toward the far-off city, that seems +Like one vague tower. +The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, +And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him +In a quiet shower. + +Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; +Rain thrills over the roofs again; +Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; +The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; +And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, +And among whirled leaves +The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, +From wall to remoter wall, +Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound +And close grey wings and fall . . . + +. . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember +A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: +Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. +Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . +Voices about me rise . . . + +Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-- +'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down. +We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' +A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me +Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. +I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. + +'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled, +Thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' +'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.' +'I am the one you followed through crowded streets, +The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' + +'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell +Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: +A bell that broke great memories in my brain.' +'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you, +Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' + +'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding +The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. +They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago. +I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, +And returned to see it again. And it was so.' + + +Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! +I am dissolved and woven again . . . +Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. +Thousands of voices weave in the rain. + +'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking +At a dazzle of golden lights. +Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking +Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: +Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, +Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, +And turned, as she reached the door, +To smile once more . . . +Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. +Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, +Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon +On a night in June . . . +She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after; +She dances in dreams over white-waved water; +Her body is white and fragrant and cool, +Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . +I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights +Of a broken music and golden lights, +Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling +Between my hands and their white desire: +And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, +Dipping to screen a fire . . . +I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees, +But as I lean to kiss her face, +She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves, +And run in a moonless place; +And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, +And shattering trees and cracking walls, +And a net of intense white flame roars over the town, +And someone cries; and darkness falls . . . +But now she has leaned and smiled at me, +My veins are afire with music, +Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; +I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' + +He rises and moves away, he says no word, +He folds his evening paper and turns away; +I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; +Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, +And some sit motionless in their accustomed places. + +Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, +Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; +The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. +Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. +One peers out in the night for the place to change. + +Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, +It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, +Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. +The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. +Remote and hurried the great bells beat. + +'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, +Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. +And to-day the woman I love lies dead. +I gave her roses, a ring with opals; +These hands have touched her head. + +'I bound her to me in all soft ways, +I bound her to me in a net of days, +Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. +How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you? +There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. + +'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . +Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city +Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' +His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. +Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. + +'No, do not stare so--he is weak with grief, +He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; +He is confused with pain. +I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . +He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' + +The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, +The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. +We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; +And at last a silence falls. + + +VII. + +Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers +The golden lights go out . . . +The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, +In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, +We lie face down, we dream, +We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem +To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . +Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. +A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, +A vortex of soundless hours. + +'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. +But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. +The woman is dead. +She died--you know the way. Just as we planned. +Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. +Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' + +He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. +The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. +His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. +The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. +Into the night he fades. + +Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; +Blowing the water that gleams in the street; +Blowing the rain, the sleet. +In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, +Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; +Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . +Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . + +And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing +Above their heads a goblin night go by; +Children are waked, and cry, +The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams +That her lover is caught in a burning tower, +She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . +And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, +She dreams of an evening, long ago: +Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, +Some of them softly catching afire; +And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, +Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . +The leaves are a pale and glittering green, +The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, +Shadows of dancers pass . . . +The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean +Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, +The face is beginning to change,-- +It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, +She is held and kissed. +She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . +With a smoking ghost of shame . . . + +Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain +Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . +The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; +It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; +And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams +And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. + +One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, +Who dreamed for years in a tower, +Seizes this hour +Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, +Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, +Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, +To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, +Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, +And at last is gone, +Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . + +The mother whose child was buried to-day +Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; +And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. +He would have grown as easily as a tree, +He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, +He would have been his father again . . . +His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. +She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. + +Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; +We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: +Windows rattle above our beds; +We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, +Hear sounds far off,--and dream, with quivering breath, +Our curious separate ways through life and death. + + +VIII. + +The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, +Over the pale grey tumbled towers,-- +And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. +Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, +Curls like a dream among the motionless trees +And seems to freeze. + +The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, +Whirls over sleeping faces, +Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; +And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . + +And one from his high window, looking down, +Peers at the cloud-white town, +And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . +It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain +Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. + + + +PART II. + + +I. + +The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. +The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. +Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. +The city stirs like one that is half in dream. + +And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, +Where one by one we wake and rise. +We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, +We rub the darkness from our eyes, + +And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . +And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, +Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer +Compassionate over our towers bending. + +There, like one who gazes into a crystal, +He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; +He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, +Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. + +Each gleaming point of light is like a seed +Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. +Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, +Each hurrying face records its strange desires. + +We descend our separate stairs toward the day, +Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, +Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, +And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. + + +II. THE FULFILLED DREAM + +More towers must yet be built--more towers destroyed-- +Great rocks hoisted in air; +And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight +With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . +And so he did not mention his dream of falling +But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears +That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath +Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by +And the small tree swell beneath him . . . +He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, +Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,-- +And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail. + +Something had changed--but it was not the street-- +The street was just the same--it was himself. +Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door +The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; +The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; +The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, +Reading the morning paper . . . + +He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, +As if he knew for certain he walked to death: +But with his usual pace,--deliberate, firm, +Looking about him calmly, watching the world, +Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again +Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, +Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, +And saw the windows flashing upward past him,-- +He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror +How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . +He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. + +Was forty, then, too old for work like this? +Why should it be? He'd never been afraid-- +His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . +But dreams had meanings. +He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, +All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; +And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, +It seemed to whirl and swim, +It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . +He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; +His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; +He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten? +Because he would not need it? + +Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again +About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, +Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,-- +That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,-- +He waved his hand for signal, and up he went +In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; +Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; +Above the flattening roofs, until the sea +Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped +Giddily out, from that security, +To the red rib of iron against the sky, +And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; +And looking down one instant, saw the tree +Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, +And up again, feeling his blood go wild. + +He gave the signal; the long girder swung +Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, +Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers +Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets +Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; +He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought +A place so high in the air should be more quiet. +The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, +Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, +And felt his body go suddenly small and light; +Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; +And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree +Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, +'By God--I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' + + +III. INTERLUDE + +The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls +On bright red roofs and walls; +The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; +We go from door to door in the streets again, +Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, +Recalling other times and places . . . +We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, +We crowd together and wait, +A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, +The ambulance drives away. +We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say +'A man fell off the building and was killed-- +Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again +Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, +And go our separate ways, each bearing with him +A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,-- +A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. + +A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, +The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, +Wings are upon our feet. +The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, +Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. +We bear our dreams among us, bear them all, +Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, +Climb to beauty and die. +The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, +And smiles at the hostile sky. +The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. +The murderer hears a cry. + + +IV. NIGHTMARE + +'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . +Draw three cards, and lay them down, +Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, +And think of time . . . My father was a clown, +My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; +And she was gotten with child in a strange way; +And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, +With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' + +I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain +And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. +The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. +A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. +Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. + +'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. +You will live long, love many times. +I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. +I see a shadow of secret crimes. + +'There was a man who came intent to kill you, +And hid behind a door and waited for you; +There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. +There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, +Crawled after you, and died. + +'There is a ghost of murder in your blood-- +Coming or past, I know not which. +And here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes, +And white-skinned as a witch . . .' + +The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling +On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. +Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; +Something is creeping at me, something vile; + +And suddenly on the wall behind her head +I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, +The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. +I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, +And hear swift steps retreat . . . + +The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. +Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. +I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. +I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; +You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . + +Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, +Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . +My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. +We loiter, dreaming together, along the street. + + +V. RETROSPECT + +Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, +Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. +A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, +Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, +And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. + +And one old man looks down from a dusty window +And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain +And desires once more to walk among those trees. +Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. +Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. +And soon the pond must freeze. + +The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, +Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; +A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. +But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears +More in his secret heart than in his ears,-- +A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. +He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, +The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,-- +Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . +And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. + +Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; +It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; +It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. +Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? +Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? +Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. + +He opened his book once more, beside the window, +And read the printed words upon that page. +The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, +The quiet words enchanted time and age. + +'Death is never an ending, death is a change; +Death is beautiful, for death is strange; +Death is one dream out of another flowing; +Death is a chorded music, softly going +By sweet transition from key to richer key. +Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' + + +VI. ADELE AND DAVIS + +She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. +And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, +To shut out, if she could, this dingy room, +The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,-- +Yellows and greens in the dark,--she walked again +Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . +Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, +Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked +In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, +And wondered if she dared to ask for poison: +But it was late, few customers were there, +The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, +And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river, +She listened to the water slapping the wall, +And felt queer fascination in its blackness: +But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, +The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray +Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so +She dragged herself once more to home, and bed. + +Paul hadn't guessed it yet--though twice, already, +She'd fainted--once, the first time, on the stage. +So she must tell him soon--or else--get out . . . +How could she say it? That was the hideous thing. +She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, +Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, +If he refused to marry her . . . well, what? +She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, +His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words +Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent, +Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, +And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, +And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,--listen-- +There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped, +Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say? +'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!' +'But what I've got to say--IS--serious!' +Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, +His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying-- +He always did--and what could she do but cry? +Perhaps, then, he would guess--perhaps he wouldn't. +And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'-- +She knew she'd never tell--just say she was sick . . . +And after that, when would she dare again? +And what would he do--even suppose she told him? + +If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!-- +She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was, +Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind +To pay out Felix for never having liked her, +By making people think that it was he . . . +She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,-- +Just saying 'Felix did it--and wouldn't marry.' +And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . . +Paul would never forgive her--he'd never forgive her! +Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . . +She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. + +And then she closed her eyes and walked again +Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: +Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind +She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, +Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. +But it was late. No customers were there,-- +Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! +And then--what poison would she dare to ask for? +And if they asked her why, what would she say? + + +VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES + +Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, +Two lovers blow together like music blowing: +And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. +Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, +They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. +'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, +They look at the great clock's golden hands, +They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: +Only, their words like music seem to play; +And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. + +'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars +Down the smooth heaven of her memory. +She stands again by a garden wall, +The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, +Water sings from an opened tap, the bees +Glisten and murmur among the trees. +Someone calls from the house. She does not answer. +Backward she leans her head, +And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough +She sees an infinite May sky spread +A vault profoundly blue. +The voice from the house fades far away, +The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . +The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . +Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . ' +She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know +She smiles from long ago . . . + +She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him +Roars like a vast invisible sea, +Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; +He is released of weight, his body is free, +He lifts his arms to swim, +Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . +The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach +With a whirring sound like wind in bells, +He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands +Reaching his lazy hands +Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . + +'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' +They pause and smile, not caring what they say, +If only they may talk. +The crowd flows past them like dividing waters. +Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. + +'Pink,--to-day!'--Face turns to dream-bright face, +Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, +Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. +She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. +She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . + +Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: +Time, like a flurry of rain, +Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. +Once, long ago, one night, +She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, +Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror +A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, +Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, +She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float +In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . + +'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, +We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, +The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. +'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! +Look how the tower is changed and glows!' + +Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, +We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; +A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; +We tremble like wind-blown grass. + +What was this dream we had, a dream of music, +Music that rose from the opening earth like magic +And shook its beauty upon us and died away? +The long cold streets extend once more before us. +The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. + + +VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES + +Well,--it was two days after my husband died-- +Two days! And the earth still raw above him. +And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. +In number four--the room with the red wall-paper-- +Some chorus girls and men were singing that song +'They'll soon be lighting candles +Round a box with silver handles'--and hearing them sing it +I started to cry. Just then he came along +And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, +And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled +And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down +Where I was leaning against the wall, +And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . +And I was so sad, thinking about it,-- +Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, +With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,-- +That I was happy to have him sympathize, +To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. +And before I knew it, he got me into a room +Where a table was set, and no one there, +And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, +And talked to me, telling me not to cry, +That it was all right, he'd look after me,-- +But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, +Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, +That when he turned my face between his hands, +And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, +And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me-- +Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, +Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, +And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. +For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief +Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed +As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, +To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it-- +And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! +And so we sat and talked, not talking much, +But meaning as much in silence as in words, +There in that empty room with palms about us, +That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there +I felt my future changing, day by day, +With unknown streets opening left and right, +New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, +Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, +Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains +Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,-- +And thinking of this, and through it half remembering +A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, +The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,-- +It seemed as if my brain would break in two. +My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, +And told him I must go, and said good-night-- +I couldn't see the end. How would it end? +Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? +And did I want him to--or would I rather +Look for another job?--He took my shoulders +Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, +And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, +That would have--well, I don't know; but he didn't . . +And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, +Hoping to close the door before that party +In number four should sing that song again-- +'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'-- +And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. +And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. + + +IX. INTERLUDE + +The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, +The hours go silently over our lifted faces, +We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. +Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. +We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. + +We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, +We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. +The door swings shut behind the latest comer. +We set our watches, regard the time. + +What have we done? I close my eyes, remember +The great machine whose sinister brain before me +Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. +My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. +I dropped great beams to the dusty street. + +My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, +And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. +I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. +Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. + +Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, +These walls whose windows gap against the sky, +Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble +Will build a glittering tower before we die . . . + +The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, +The young girl hums beneath her breath. +One goes out to beauty, and does not know it. +And one goes out to death. + + +X. SUDDEN DEATH + +'Number four--the girl who died on the table-- +The girl with golden hair--' +The purpling body lies on the polished marble. +We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . + +One, who held the ether-cone, remembers +Her dark blue frightened eyes. +He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast +More hurriedly fall and rise. +Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head +Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,-- +And, suddenly, she lay dead. + +And all the dreams that hurried along her veins +Came to the darkness of a sudden wall. +Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, +They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, +Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all. + +What was her name? Where had she walked that morning? +Through what dark forest came her feet? +Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street? + +Backward he dreamed along a chain of days, +He saw her go her strange and secret ways, +Waking and sleeping, noon and night. +She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair. +She read a story by candlelight. + +Her shadow ran before her along the street, +She walked with rhythmic feet, +Turned a corner, descended a stair. +She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, +Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, +And drew deep breaths of air. + +Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music +Murmured within the walls of lighted windows. +She lifted her face to the light and danced. +The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, +Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced. + +Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, +Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid +Opened its golden heart on her breast . . . +She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, +Leaned on her partner's arm to rest. +The violins were weaving a weft of silver, +The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold, +And time was caught in a glistening pattern, +Time, too elusive to hold . . . + +Shadows of leaves fell over her face,--and sunlight: +She turned her face away. +Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness +With every step and day. + +Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, +At a great distance, across the night, +Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly +From purple light to light. + +Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, +'I am the murderer, death. +I am the lover who keeps his appointment +At the doors of breath!' + +She rose and stared at her own reflection, +Half dreading there to find +The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, +Or reaching from behind +To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . . +Or was this in her mind? . . . + +She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered +Along the tossing strands. +Was there a stillness in this hair,-- +A quiet in these hands? + +Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes, +Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust. +She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever. +Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . . +And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed, +And music ebbed with the ebbing hours. +And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds +Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers. + + +XI. + +Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares +With purple lights in the canyoned street. +The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . . +The trodden grass in the park is covered with white, +The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . . +The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night. + +And one, from his high bright window looking down +Over the enchanted whiteness of the town, +Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, +Desires like this to forget what will not pass, +The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, +Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. +Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, +Slurred bells of grief and pain, +Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places. +He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow. +He desires to forget a million faces . . . + +In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. +The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it. +In one room fade grey violets in a vase. +Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. +In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays +The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. +His hands are trembling, his short breath fails. + +In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, +And thinks the air is fire. +The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings +With the sudden hand of desire. + +And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; +And one lies staring, and thinks of death. +And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, +And holds her breath . . . + +Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, +Coil and revolve and dream, +Vanish or gleam? +Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. +Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. + +And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; +And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, +And walls flung down . . . +And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, +And whiteness hushes the town. + + + +PART III + + +I + +As evening falls, +And the yellow lights leap one by one +Along high walls; +And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, +The muted city seems +Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams +Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . +Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, +Flash, are extinguished, flash again, +To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain +And die away . . . +As evening falls, +A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,-- +A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . +The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, +The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, +The watchman climbs the stair . . . +The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, +And runs among them, and is beaten down; +The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; +The tired clown +Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, +Motionless in their places, +Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . . +The dancer smooths her hair, +Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door +To dance once more, +Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, +Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes. + +As darkness falls +The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls +Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, +Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. +How shall we live tonight? Where shall we turn? +To what new light or darkness yearn? +A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; +And one by one in myriads we descend +By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, +Through half-lit halls which reach no end. + + +II. THE SCREEN MAIDEN + +You read--what is it, then that you are reading? +What music moves so silently in your mind? +Your bright hand turns the page. +I watch you from my window, unsuspected: +You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . + +. . . The poet--what was his name--? Tokkei--Tokkei-- +The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, +And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; +For his lover was dead, he never would love again. + +Rain in the dreams of the mind--rain forever-- +Rain in the sky of the heart--rain in the willows-- +But then he saw this face, this face like flame, +This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi; +And took it home with him; and with it came + +What unexpected changes, subtle as weather! +The dark room, cold as rain, +Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April, +Warmed its corners with light again, + +And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, +And the quiet lady there, +So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, +Seemed ready to loose her hair, + +And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, +The word already clear, +Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . +He held his breath to hear, + +And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, +And held a candle, and searched her face +Through all the little shadows, to see what secret +Might give so warm a grace . . . + +Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? +The eyes, half-turned aside? +The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . +The secret was denied, + +He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, +And slept; and as he slept +A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, +And chided him, and wept. + +And in the morning, waking, he remembered, +And thought the dream was strange. +Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? +He turned, and felt a change, + +As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . +Yet there was only sunlight there. +Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, +And held his breath to stare, + +And could have sworn her cheek had turned--a little . . . +Had slightly turned away . . . +Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, +Nor left his room that day. + +And that day, and for many days thereafter, +He sat alone, and thought +No lady had ever lived so beautiful +As Hiroshigi wrought . . . + +Or if she lived, no matter in what country, +By what far river or hill or lonely sea, +He would look in every face until he found her . . . +There was no other as fair as she. + +And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, +And brought her every day +Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, +And somehow, she seemed to say, + +That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, +That she was happy there; +And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, +And desired to touch her hair, + +To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly +With delicate finger-tips +The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish +Upon her lips . . . + +Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; +And night by night a dread +Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi +Was many centuries dead,-- + +And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . +Dead, and long turned to dust . . . +The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, +The peach leaves flew in a gust, + +And he would surely have died; but there one day +A wise man, white with age, +Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi +Knew more than archimage,-- + +Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, +Till partly it entered there . . . +Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . +Do all I say with care, + +And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' +So then this ghost, Tokkei, +Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, +And alone at the end of day + +Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, +And saw the quiet eyes +Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, +And knelt, and did not rise, + +And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' +Said it three times aloud. +And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense +Rose to the walls in a cloud, + +And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; +And suddenly, with a sigh, +The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, +And stood, while worlds went by, + +And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; +And the poet trembled, and said, +'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'--'Yes, I will stay.'-- +'But what when I am dead?' + +'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, +And then we shall die no more.' +Music came down upon them, and spring returning, +They remembered worlds before, + +And years went over the earth, and over the sea, +And lovers were born and spoke and died, +But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, +Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . + + +III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS + +The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; +The music changes tone, you wake, remember +Deep worlds you lived before,--deep worlds hereafter +Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, +Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. + +Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. +Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. +Elaine was married and soon to have a child. +You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; +They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. + +To-morrow--what? And what of yesterday? +Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, +Through many doors to the one door of all. +Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: +Or see a skeleton fall . . . + +We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? +We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. +We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. +You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. +It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. + +This is the thing remembered I would forget-- +No matter where I go, how soft I tread, +This windy gesture menaces me with death. +Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; +Touches my throat and stops my breath. + +My fans--my jewels--the portrait of my husband-- +The torn certificate for my daughter's grave-- +These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. +They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. +They signify no crime. + +Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: +Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: +No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. +Dreams--they are madness. Staring eyes--illusion. +Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . + + +IV. ILLICIT + +Of what she said to me that night--no matter. +The strange thing came next day. +My brain was full of music--something she played me--; +I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it +Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, +Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, +Urging to restlessness: verging on grief. +I tried to play the tune, from memory,-- +But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed +And found no resolution--only hung there, +And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . . +What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? +'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . +A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, +Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . +And someone walking alone; and someone saying +That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' +These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them +A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow +I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady? +The one who always danced in golden slippers-- +And had I danced with her,--upon this music? +Or was it further back--the unplumbed twilight +Of childhood?--No--much recenter than that. + +You know, without my telling you, how sometimes +A word or name eludes you, and you seek it +Through running ghosts of shadow,--leaping at it, +Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, +Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: +Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, +You hear it, see it flash among the branches, +And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it-- +Well, it was so I followed down this music, +Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, +Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, +Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars--; +Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, +The thing resolved itself: and I remembered +An April afternoon, eight years ago-- +Or was it nine?--no matter--call it nine-- +A room in which the last of sunlight faded; +A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; +And, she who played the same thing later, playing. + +She played this tune. And in the middle of it +Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands +Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, +With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, +One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, +And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. + +'You know--we've got to end this--Miriam loves you . . . +If she should ever know, or even guess it,-- +What would she do?--Listen!--I'm not absurd . . . +I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women-- +To understand them--which you've never had-- +You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, +Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, +Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, +Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, +Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, +Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . +Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness +That she could neither break it--nor conclude? +It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, +Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,-- +Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . + +Well, April passed with many other evenings, +Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, +With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . +And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . +And after that, when eight deep years had passed-- +Or nine--we met once more,--by accident . . . +But was it just by accident, I wonder, +She played this tune?--Or what, then, was intended? . . . + + +V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT + +The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, +Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; +You strike a match and stare upon the flame. +The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, +And dwindles away as silently as it came. + +This melody, you say, has certain voices-- +They rise like nereids from a river, singing, +Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. +Wherever you go you bear this river with you: +A leaf falls,--and it flows, and you have pain. + +So says the tune to you--but what to me? +What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, +The violinist who suavely draws his bow? +That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. +A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. + +Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping +Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: +At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. +Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. +A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. +And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: +And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, +And the great sea shakes its walls. +And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls +This melody once more: +'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' + +So says the tune to him--but what to me? +What are the worlds I see? +What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . +I go my secret way, down secret alleys; +My errand is not so simple as it seems. + + +VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD + +This is the house. On one side there is darkness, +On one side there is light. +Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns-- +O, any number--it will still be night. +And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward +To long sonorous halls. +And here is spring forever at these windows, +With roses on the walls. + +This is her room. On one side there is music-- +On one side not a sound. +At one step she could move from love to silence, +Feel myriad darkness coiling round. +And here are balconies from which she heard you, +Your steady footsteps on the stair. +And here the glass in which she saw your shadow +As she unbound her hair. + +Here is the room--with ghostly walls dissolving-- +The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; +And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' +So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!-- +Through windy corridors of darkening end. + +Here she could stand with one dim light above her +And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, +Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. +And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, +She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. + +Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. +Your words were windows,--large enough for moonlight, +Too small to let her through. +Your letters--fragrant cloisters faint with music. +The music that assuaged her there was you. + +How many times she heard your step ascending +Yet never saw your face! +She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, +Till silence swept the place. +Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . . +You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken. + +A certain rose-leaf--sent without intention-- +Became, with time, a woven web of fire-- +She wore it, and was warm. +A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, +Became, with time, the flashings of a storm. + +Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you +Of secret idols carved in secret chambers +From all you did and said. +Nothing was done, until at last she knew you. +Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. + +How did she die?--You say, she died of poison. +Simple and swift. And much to be regretted. +You did not see her pass +So many thousand times from light to darkness, +Pausing so many times before her glass; + +You did not see how many times she hurried +To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, +Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. +You did not know how long she clung to music, +You did not hear her sing. + +Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely +From sound to silence--close, herself, those windows? +Or was it true, instead, +That darkness moved,--for once,--and so possessed her? . . . +We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. + + +VII. PORCELAIN + +You see that porcelain ranged there in the window-- +Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, +And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? +See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! +They're works of art--minutely seen and felt, +Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure +To spend your blood like this? + +Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, +If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming +Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal-- +My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting +Day after day, close to a certain window, +Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . + +Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . +Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . +Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, +Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, +Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, +You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me-- +An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, +Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, +Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, +Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. +On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night +Of two soft-patterned toads--I thought them stones, +Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,-- +Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,-- +It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. +Here,--as I coil the stems between two leaves,-- +It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, +I cried the secret between two universes . . . +A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said +Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,-- +Though with his eyes wide open,-- +And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part +Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, +Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, +Amazing leaves, folding one on another, +Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals-- +All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, +I need no hasheesh for it--it's too easy! +Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking +In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, +Violets purple as death, dripping with water, +And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. + +Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets-- +With scalloped edges gilded--here you have me +Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,-- +There's something lacking--force, or will, or passion, +I don't know what it is--and so, sometimes, +When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, +Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, +I get uneasy--just like poplar trees +Ruffling their leaves--and I begin to think +Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, +And that delicious night. Where is she now? +I meant to write--but she has moved, by this time, +And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. +Well, there is more--I'm getting old and timid-- +The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! +I never strike out boldly as I used to-- +But sit here, painting violets, and remember +That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, +Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,-- +Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,-- +Were thought so beautiful.--And so they were. +Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . +Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! +Well, I suppose such days can come but once. +Lord, how happy we were! . . . + +Here, if you only knew it, is a story-- +Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, +And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: +A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . +Who killed himself by diving against a wall. +Here is a recollection of my wife, +When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. +It's funny how things change,--just change, by growing, +Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,-- +A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; +A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . +Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! + +This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, +If you look hard enough. This, in its way, +Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you +In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, +Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . +Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist-- +You have my head before you . . . on a platter. + + +VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE + +Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower +Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: +At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . +The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. +We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. + +We are like music, each voice of it pursuing +A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, +Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. +What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . +We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. + +One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, +Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; +One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. +One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . +Upward and downward, past him there, we stream. + +One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. +Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. +A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. +He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: +A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. + +Death, from street to alley, from door to window, +Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching, +Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. +But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect? +Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? + +Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, +A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes +Down jangled streets, and dies. +The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, +Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. + +Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; +Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; +From freezing rooms as bare as rock. +The curtains are closed across deserted windows. +Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. + +Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; +Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; +Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; +Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; +Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; + +Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, +And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; +Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,-- +They are blown away like windflung chords of music, +They drift away; the sudden music has died. + +And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly +And sees the shadow of death in many faces, +And thinks the world is strange. +He desires immortal music and spring forever, +And beauty that knows no change. + + +IX. CABARET + +We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. +You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing +As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' +Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, +'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' + +You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . . +How many others like ourselves, this instant, +Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? +How many others, laughing, sip their coffee-- +Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . + +'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) +When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: +And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. +Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter +What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play? + +'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,-- +Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; +No pity dims our eyes . . . +How many others, like ourselves, this instant, +See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' + +Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . +When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, +And even those most like angels creep for schemes. +The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, +Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. + +But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, +Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons +To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . +And all these others who at your conjuration +Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,-- + +Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, +Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, +Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,-- +Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting +This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, + +Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, +Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, +Lean to the music, rise, +And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion +With kindness in their eyes . . . + +They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) +'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! +And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' +They say 'How strange it is that one such evening +Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' + +And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, +They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, +And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. +With secret symbols they play on secret passions. +With cunning eyes they see + +The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, +The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . +The pendulum on the wall +Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; +Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. + + +X. LETTER + +From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees +The soft blue starlight through the one small window, +The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,-- +And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. + +It is so long, indeed, since I have written,-- +Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,-- +That these first words I write seem cold and strange. +Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? +Altered, of course--just as I too have altered-- +And whether towards each other, or more apart, +We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter-- +Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure-- + +Pondering much on all you say in it +Of mystic consciousness--divine conversion-- +The sense of oneness with the infinite,-- +Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . +Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, +If one's to talk through this dark world contented. +But is the world so dark? Or is it rather +Our own brute minds,--in which we hurry, trembling, +Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. + +You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"-- +Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented +With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: +Even before the question grew to problem +And drove you bickering into metaphysics, +You met on lower planes the same great dragon, +Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, +In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, +One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, +The cruder first, more violent sensations, +Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted +With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,-- +Savoring all more delicate gradations + +In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, +Or thought on brain,--you passed, if I may say so, +From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. +Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, +As instruments of music, whereon our lives +Will play as we desire: and let us yield +These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves +To all experience plays . . . And so you went +From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, +Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; +And closing one by one your doors, drew in +Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, +Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. + +What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber-- +Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly +It is the last, and cunningest, resort +Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,-- +This world of lamentations, death, injustice, +Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, +Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,-- +Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, +Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: + +Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,-- +With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, +Coldly imperious,--this transient world, +What has it then to give, if not containing +Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,-- +Momentary and trivial for the most part, +Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,-- +And know how much outweighed they are by darkness. +We are like searchers in a house of darkness, +A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, +Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, +Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, +An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway +Leading to who knows what; but never seeing +The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little, +And then grow tired. No matter what we touch, +Dust is the answer--dust: dust everywhere. +If this were all--what were the use, you ask? +But this is not: for why should we be seeking, +Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, +To lift our minds, if there were only dust? +This is the central chamber you have come to: +Turning your back to the world, until you came +To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, +And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. + +Well, in a measure, so only do we all. +I am not sure that you can be refuted. +At the very last we all put faith in something,-- +You in this ghost that animates your world, +This ethical ghost,--and I, you'll say, in reason,-- +Or sensuous beauty,--or in my secret self . . . +Though as for that you put your faith in these, +As much as I do--and then, forsaking reason,-- +Ascending, you would say, to intuition,-- +You predicate this ghost of yours, as well. +Of course, you might have argued,--and you should have,-- +That no such deep appearance of design +Could shape our world without entailing purpose: +For can design exist without a purpose? +Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children +Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, +Strange patterns drawn,--circles, arcs, ellipses, +Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder? + +Did someone draw them here before we came? +Or was it just the sea?--We pore upon them, +But find no answer--only suppositions. +And if these perfect shapes are evidence +Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: +We never come upon him at his work, +He never troubles us. He stands aloof-- +Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned +With what we are or do. You, if you like, +May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, +Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing +You see, without much reason, will in law. +I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, +Happily so for us, by accident: +We go our ways untroubled save by laws +Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? + +If we were wise--which God knows we are not-- +(Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle +Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. +These brains of ours--these delicate spinal clusters-- +Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? +Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? +Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, +Until you managed to see that world as omen,-- +Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, +Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?-- +You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. +I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. +You find your pleasure in being at one with all things-- +Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling +As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too-- +With reservations. I find more varied pleasure +In understanding: and so find beauty even +In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. + +Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. +For household news--what have you heard, I wonder? +You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time-- +Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done-- +We found it out too late. His death has changed me, +Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, +Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, +Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom +To see them clearly, meditate upon them, +And understand what things flow out of them. +Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. +Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, +And bring old times with you?--If you could see me +Sitting here by the window, watching Venus +Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,-- +Just where you used to sit,--I'm sure you'd come. +This year, they say, the springtime will be early. + + +XI. CONVERSATION: UNDERTONES + +What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? +You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; +You smile a little. . . .Outside, the night goes by. +I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . +Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees. + +'These lines--converging, they suggest such distance! +The soul is drawn away, beyond horizons. +Lured out to what? One dares not think. +Sometimes, I glimpse these infinite perspectives +In intimate talk (with such as you) and shrink . . . + +'One feels so petty!--One feels such--emptiness!--' +You mimic horror, let fall your lifted hand, +And smile at me; with brooding tenderness . . . +Alone on darkened waters I fall and rise; +Slow waves above me break, faint waves of cries. + +'And then these colors . . . but who would dare describe them? +This faint rose-coral pink . . this green--pistachio?-- +So insubstantial! Like the dim ghostly things +Two lovers find in love's still-twilight chambers . . . +Old peacock-fans, and fragrant silks, and rings . . . + +'Rings, let us say, drawn from the hapless fingers +Of some great lady, many centuries nameless,-- +Or is that too sepulchral?--dulled with dust; +And necklaces that crumble if you touch them; +And gold brocades that, breathed on, fall to rust. + +'No--I am wrong . . . it is not these I sought for--! +Why did they come to mind? You understand me-- +You know these strange vagaries of the brain!--' +--I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees; +Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees; +These strange vagaries of yours are all too plain. + +'But why perplex ourselves with tedious problems +Of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, +With all that's in our secret hearts to say!--' +Hearts?--Your pale hand softly strokes the satin. +You play deep music--know well what you play. +You stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, +You smile, with faintly perfumed lips, +You loose your thoughts like birds, +Brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . . +We know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound +In tremulous webs of sound. + +'How beautiful is intimate talk like this!-- +It is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, +Stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, +To hear a hidden music . . . Our own vast shadows +Lean to a giant size on the windy walls, +Or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls +Echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, +Music sings far off, flows suddenly near, +And dies away like rain . . . +We walk through subterranean caves again,-- +Vaguely above us feeling +A shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, +Strange half-lit things, +Soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . . +And here a beautiful face looks down upon us; +And someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . . +Have we seen all, I wonder, in these chambers-- +Or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, +Where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . ' + +The question falls: we walk in silence together, +Thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . . +This lamp, these books, this fire +Are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness. +Deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire. + + +XII. WITCHES' SABBATH + +Now, when the moon slid under the cloud +And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, +He heard in his blood the well-known bell +Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, +Slowly beating, slowly beating, +Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: +Sometimes it swung completely round, +Horribly gasping as if for breath; +Falling down with an anguished cry . . . +Now the red bat, he mused, will fly; +Something is marked, this night, for death . . . +And while he mused, along his blood +Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, +They rose in the cavern of his brain, +Like ghosts they died away again; +And hands upon his heart were laid, +And music upon his flesh was played, +Until, as he was bidden to do, +He walked the wood he so well knew. +Through the cold dew he moved his feet, +And heard far off, as under the earth, +Discordant music in shuddering tones, +Screams of laughter, horrible mirth, +Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, +And the long-drawn wail of one in pain. +To-night, he thought, I shall die again, +We shall die again in the red-eyed fire +To meet on the edge of the wood beyond +With the placid gaze of fed desire . . . +He walked; and behind the whisper of trees, +In and out, one walked with him: +She parted the branches and peered at him, +Through lowered lids her two eyes burned, +He heard her breath, he saw her hand, +Wherever he turned his way, she turned: +Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; +Moving her white knees as he moved . . . +This is the one I have always loved; +This is the one whose bat-soul comes +To dance with me, flesh to flesh, +In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . . + +The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, +Sank down behind a rushing sky. +He heard a sweet song just begun +Abruptly shatter in tones and die. +It whirled away. Cold silence fell. +And again came tollings of a bell. + + * * * * * + +This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides +Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind. +In the clear darkness, while the moon hides, +They come like dreams, like something remembered . . +Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, +Forget these things that trouble your eyes, +Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed, +Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . . + +The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved, +What was the word you said? +Something about clear music that sang through water . . . +I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves. +Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead. +Someone lies in the garden and grieves. +Look how the branches are tossed in this air, +Flinging their green to the earth! +Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, +The moon stares down like a half-closed eye. +The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, +Oaks crash down in the darkness, +We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone. + + * * * * * + +The moon was darkened: across it flew +The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, +Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, +The witch! he said. And he heard a cry, +And another came, and another came, +And one, grown duskily red with blood, +Floated an instant across the moon, +Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . . +The earth has veins: they throb to-night, +The earth swells warm beneath my feet, +The tips of the trees grow red and bright, +The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat, +They press together, they push and sigh, +They listen to hear the great bat cry, +The great red bat with the woman's face . . . +Hurry! he said. And pace for pace +That other, who trod the dark with him, +Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands +And closed her eyes, the better to see +The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, +The fire-lit rock, the sarabands. +I am here! she said. The bough he broke-- +Was it the snapping bough that spoke? +I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed +Cold in starlight among dark leaves, +The head thrown backward as he had dreamed, +The shadowy red deep jasper mouth; +And the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts, +Passed beside him, and vanished away. +I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!' +And laughter arose, and near and far +Answering laughter rose and died . . . +Who is there? in the dark? he cried. +He stood in terror, and heard a sound +Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; +They rushed, were still; a silence fell; +And he heard deep tollings of a bell. + + * * * * * + +Look beloved! Why do you hide your face? +Look, in the centre there, above the fire, +They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love! +They are playing a piercing music upon him +With a bow of living wire! . . . +The virgin harlot sings, +She leans above the beautiful anguished body, +And draws slow music from those strings. +They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, +They trample him with their naked feet, +His cries are lost in laughter, +Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and + beat, +They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . . +Have we not heard that cry before? +Somewhere, somewhere, +Beside a sea, in the green evening, +Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . . +Was it you? was it I? +They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, +The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, +Look! he has caught one by the hair, +She screams and falls, he bears her away with him, +And the night grows full of whistling wings. +Far off, one voice, serene and sweet, +Rises and sings . . . + +'By the clear waters where once I died, +In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .' +Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them? +It was long ago. +Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; +The treetops tremble and glow. + + * * * * * + +In the clear dark, on silent wings, +The red bat hovers beneath her moon; +She drops through the fragrant night, and clings +Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, +With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, +To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds. +The maidens circle in dance, and raise +From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; +Their knees and breasts are white and bare, +They have hung pale roses in their hair, +Each of them as she dances by +Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye. +See how the red wing wraps him round, +See how the white youth struggles in vain! +The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; +He writhes in the soft red veiny wings, +But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . . +This is the secret feast of love, +Look well, look well, before it dies, +See how the red one trembles above, +See how quiet the white one lies! . . . . + +Wind through the trees. . . .and a voice is heard +Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . . +'By the clear waters where once I died, +In the calm evening bright with stars, +One among numberless avatars, +I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, +And lay on the stones and gave my flesh, +And entered the hunger of him I loved. +How shall I ever escape this mesh +Or be from my lover's body removed?' +Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air +And the maenads dance with flying hair. + + * * * * * + +The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, +Rise in the starlight, one by one, +They draw their knives on the spurting throats, +They smear the column with blood of goats, +They dabble the blood on hair and lips +And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. +They stand like stones and stare at the sky +Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . +In the green moonlight still they stand +While wind flows over the darkened sand +And brood on the soft forgotten things +That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . +Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . +They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . +And then, as the shadow closes the moon, +Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, +And rush through the dark, and fill the night +With a slowly dying clamor of sound. +There, where the great walls crowd the stars, +There, by the black wind-riven walls, +In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . +Who are these pilgrims, who are these, +These three, the one of whom stands upright, +While one lies weeping and one of them crawls? +The face that he turned was a wounded face, +I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . +Hooves had trampled and torn this place, +And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. +Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, +The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . +Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . . +I will lie on this grass as a lover lies +And reach to the north and reach to the south +And seek in the darkness for her mouth. + + * * * * * + +Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind +Shatter pale foam among great trees, +Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, +Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, +I run to find you, I run and cry, +Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I. +It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, +Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. +Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . . +Is this you? Is this you? +Bats in this air go whirring. . . . +And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, +Is this the soft mouth I knew? +Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; +And the patter of dew. + + * * * * * + +Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance! +Dance till the brain is red with speed! +Dance till you fall! Lift your torches! +Kiss your lovers until they bleed! +Backward I draw your anguished hair +Until your eyes are stretched with pain; +Backward I press you until you cry, +Your lips grow white, I kiss you again, +I will take a torch and set you afire, +I will break your body and fling it away. . . . +Look, you are trembling. . . .Lie still, beloved! +Lock your hands in my hair, and say +Darling! darling! darling! darling! +All night long till the break of day. + +Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . . +Or the far tolling of that tower? +The voices are still that cried around us. . . . +The woods grow still for the sacred hour. +Rise, white lover! the day draws near. +The grey trees lean to the east in fear. +'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .' +Beloved, whose voice was this that cried? +'By the clear waters that reach the sun +By the clear waves that starward run. . . . +I found love's body and lost his soul, +And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . . +How shall I ever again be whole, +By what dark waters shall I be healed?' + +Silence. . . .the red leaves, one by one, +Fall. Far off, the maenads run. + +Silence. Beneath my naked feet +The veins of the red earth swell and beat. +The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, +Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . . +Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon. +The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. + + * * * * * + +The great bell cracks and falls at last. +The moon whirls out. The sky grows still. +Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars +And suddenly drops behind the hill! +Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, +We sit in the room by candle-light. +We peer in each other's veins and see +No sign of the things we saw this night. +Only, a song is in your ears, +A song you have heard, you think, in dream: +The song which only the demon hears, +In the dark forest where maenads scream . . . + +'By the clear waters where once I died . . . +In the calm evening bright with stars . . . ' +What do the strange words mean? you say,-- +And touch my hand, and turn away. + + +XIII. + +The half-shut doors through which we heard that music +Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. +The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. +Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain +Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. +In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. + +Where have we been? What savage chaos of music +Whirls in our dreams?--We suddenly rise in darkness, +Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. +We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming +A warm white moonlit shore; + +Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, +Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, +Or a singing sound of rain . . . +We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, +And enter our dreams again. + + + +PART IV. + + +I. CLAIRVOYANT + +'This envelope you say has something in it +Which once belonged to your dead son--or something +He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?-- +The soul flies far, and we can only call it +By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, +Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . ' + +. . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, +Over the low roofs white with snow; +Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, +One by one they melt and flow,-- + +Streaming one by one over trees and towers, +Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; +Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows +Flow under them one by one . . . + +' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit +Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit +Young and strong and beautiful . . . + +He says that he is happy, is much honored; +Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind +Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . . +The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken +And laid aside . . . ' + +'Ask him why he did the thing he did!' + +'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you: +Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . . +What seems calamity is less than a sigh; +What seems disgrace is nothing.' + +'Ask him if the one he hurt is there, +And if she loves him still!' + +'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,-- +Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . . +A cloud of spirits has gathered about him. +They praise him and call him, they do him honor; +He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.' + +. . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, +Over the low roofs white with snow . . . +Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, +One by one they sing and flow; + +Over the outstretched lands of days remembered, +Over remembered tower and wall, +One by one they gather and talk in the darkness, +Rise and glimmer and fall . . . + +'Ask him why he did the thing he did! +He knows I will understand!' + + 'It is too late: +He will not hear me: I have lost my power.' + +'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me. +God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.' + + +II. DEATH: AND A DERISIVE CHORUS + +The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, +And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly +Towards the dazzling street. +Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing. +The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet. + +Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting +To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry, +We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow. +She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward. +We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow. + +Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!-- +Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . . +She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes. +Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been? +She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries. + +Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,-- +Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . . +She thinks she's heard a message from one dead! +What did he tell you? Is he well and happy? +Don't lie to us--we all know what he said. + +He said the one he murdered once still loves him; +He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; +And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . . +But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,-- +Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know! +That's what you get for meddling so with heaven! + +Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going? +We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits. +Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry! +What have you got in an envelope, old lady? +A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye? + +How do you know the medium didn't fool you? +Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it. +Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son. +What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair? +We know your secret! what's done is done. + +Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful, +Right into an open grave. . . .but what's the hurry? +You don't think you will find him when you're dead? +Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,-- +Look at her eyes all red! + +We know you--know your name and all about you, +All you remember and think, and all you scheme for. +We tear your secret out, we leave you, go +Laughingly down the street. . . .Die, if you want to! +Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!-- + +. . . .She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body +Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her? +Was no one with her when she fell? . . . +We eddy about her, move away in silence. +We hear slow tollings of a bell. + + +III. PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT + +Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: +We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, +Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, +So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,-- +Yet know so little of them; only seeing +The small bright circle of our consciousness, +Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know-- +Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, +I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find +A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, +And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, +A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, +While one tall woman sent her voice above them +In powerful sweetness. . . .Closing then the door +I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,-- +And walked in a quiet hallway as before. +Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, +Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . +We hear a sudden music, see a playing +Of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence. +The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) +Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,-- +As it continues after our departure, +So, we divine, it played before we came . . . +What do you know of me, or I of you? . . . +Little enough. . . .We set these doors ajar +Only for chosen movements of the music: +This passage, (so I think--yet this is guesswork) +Will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,-- +More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it +He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered +And thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork) + +The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, +Perplexed with implications; he suspects me +Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . +Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,-- +Simple and clear; and all the while he listens +I make pretence to think my doors are closed. +This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong +Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? +Or only mocking?'--There I let it end. . . . +Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it-- +When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, +Talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open +Without intention; and the hungry watcher +Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, +And laughs. . . .but this, for many counts, is seldom. +And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, +Our lovers too, only such few clear notes +As we shall deem them likely to admire: +'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' +Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . .all the while +Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,-- +Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, +The sombre note that gives the chord its power; +Or a white loveliness--if such we know-- +Too much like fire to speak of without shame. + +Well, this being so, and we who know it being +So curious about those well-locked houses, +The minds of those we know,--to enter softly, +And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, +From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, +Breathing deliberately the very air, +Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness +To learn what ghosts are there,-- +Suppose for once I set my doors wide open +And bid you in. . . .Suppose I try to tell you +The secrets of this house, and how I live here; +Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . +Deceiving you--as far as I may know it-- +Only so much as I deceive myself. + +If you are clever you already see me +As one who moves forever in a cloud +Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud +Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, +Changing such outlines as a light may change, +Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing +Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained +In a world of things that flatter me: a sky +Just as I would have had it; trees and grass +Just as I would have shaped and colored them; +Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, +And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,-- +In some deep way I am aware these praise me: +Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, +They point, somehow, to me. . . .This water says,-- +Shimmering at the sky, or undulating +In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, +Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths +To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,-- +This water says, there is some secret in you +Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive +To all that circles you. This bare tree says,-- +Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, +Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches +Flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says, +There is some cold austerity in you, +A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, +Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, +Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, +Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! +What teeming Aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves! +These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, +Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, +Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; +Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; +Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; +Walls windowless where darkness is desired; +Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,-- +Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,-- +All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: +You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, +Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, +When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . +This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, +Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, +This cool room says,--just such a room have you, +It waits you always at the tops of stairways, +Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, +Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . +And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, +Hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings +Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, +Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins +Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions +Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,-- +This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,-- +This says, just such an involuted beauty +Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, +Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, +Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: +You need but sit and close your eyes a moment +To see these deep designs unfold themselves. + +And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me-- +I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; +And in this world you see me like a wraith +Blown softly here and there, on silent winds. +'Praise me'--I say; and look, not in a glass, +But in your eyes, to see my image there-- +Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; +You look at me, with interest unfeigned, +And listen--I am pleased; or else, alone, +I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward +From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending; +Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,-- +Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, +Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,-- +But all with one deep meaning: this is I, +This is the glistening secret holy I, +This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, +This singing ghost. . . .And hearing, I am warmed. + + * * * * * + +You see me moving, then, as one who moves +Forever at the centre of his circle: +A circle filled with light. And into it +Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, +Or huddle in dark again. . . .A clock ticks clearly, +A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; +Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; +And through these things my pencil pushes softly +To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. +Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; +Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn +And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, +Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture +Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung +Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. +'Beauty!' I cry. . . .My feet move on, and take me +Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. +Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, +Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . +Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, +The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, +And darkness rides my heart. . . .These skeleton elm-trees-- +Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky-- +Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness +Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . +A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: +The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, +Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, +Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, +The eaves make liquid music. . . .Hours have passed, +And nothing changes, and everything is changed. +Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,-- +And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized +Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. + +If you could solve this darkness you would have me. +This causeless melancholy that comes with rain, +Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes +Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? +Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him, +Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; +And you, I saw too much; and you, too little; +And the word I chose for you, the golden word, +The word that should have struck so deep in purpose, +And set so many doors of wish wide open, +You let it fall, and would not stoop for it, +And smiled at me, and would not let me guess +Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together, +With other things, still slighter, wove to music, +And this in time drew up dark memories; +And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me, +Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, +Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, +And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, +And cries that none can answer, few will hear. +Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly +If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious, +Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? + +Or 'one day dies eventless as another, +Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, +And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? +Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, +And beauty shines in vain'?-- + + These things you ask for, +These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife, +At the dark end of evening, when she leaned +And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs +Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,-- +Calling to mind remote and small successions +Of countless other evenings ending so,-- +I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; +Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands +Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin, +I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, +I saw myself alone there, palely watching, +Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted +That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass, +And I should meet this girl,--my second wife-- +And drop the masque of grief for one of passion. +Forward we move to meet, half hesitating, +We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, +Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending +We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude +Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches. +We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us, +Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, +Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . +. . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . .My first wife's voice +Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing--nothing much-- +Just wondering where we'd be two years from now, +And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse +Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, +And pity to echoed love. And one more evening +Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. + +And, as it is with this, so too with all things. +The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: +New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, +And those on older still; and so forever. +The old shines through the new, and colors it. +What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,-- +All things return. I write a line with passion +(Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) +Only to find the same thing, done before,-- +Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . +This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,-- +Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; +The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, +And broke the accustomed order of our days, +And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . +What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? +What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? + +You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, +Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,-- +Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,-- +No more for me than you. I move here always, +From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, +Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. +This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . +Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, +Once more I have deceived you. . . .I withhold +The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; +And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. + + +IV. COUNTERPOINT: TWO ROOMS + +He, in the room above, grown old and tired, +She, in the room below--his floor her ceiling-- +Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, +And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . +She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, + +His watch--the same he has heard these cycles of ages-- +Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. +The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. +The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her. +The world whirs on. . . .New stars come up to shine. + +His youth--far off--he sees it brightly walking +In a golden cloud. . . .Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness +Walls it around with dripping enormous walls. +Old age--far off--her death--what do they matter? +Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. + +She hears slow steps in the street--they chime like music; +They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, +Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . +He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. +Far off they pass. He knows they will never return. + +Far off--on a smooth dark road--he hears them faintly. +The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, +Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath +Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. +And death seems nearer to him: or he to death. + +What's death?--She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. +The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, +She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, +The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. +A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. + +What's death--what's death? The spring returns like music, +The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, +The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. +The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. +Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . +And death seems far away, a thing of roses, +A golden portal, where golden music closes, +Death seems far away: +And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, +And spring returns to stay. . . . + +He, in the room above, grown old and tired, +Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, +And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. +And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. +. . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky. + + +V. THE BITTER LOVE-SONG + +No, I shall not say why it is that I love you-- +Why do you ask me, save for vanity? +Surely you would not have me, like a mirror, +Say 'yes,--your hair curls darkly back from the temples, +Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness, +Your eyes are April grey. . . .with jonquils in them?' +No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . . +I'll say--my childhood broke through chords of music +--Or were they chords of sun?--wherein fell shadows, +Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight; +Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me +With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. . +I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning, +My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover, +And drowsed there like a bee. . . .blue days behind me +Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic, +Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . .days before me +Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold, +Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights. +Confused soft clouds of music fled above me. + +Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. +I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight, +Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty, +Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep. + +No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you-- +Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' +You would not have me say what you know better? +Let me instead be silent, only saying--: +My childhood lives in me--or half-lives, rather-- +And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music +Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . +Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, +Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, +Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, +Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . . +I lay in my bed and through the tall night window +Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds, +And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . . +How should I know--how should I now remember-- +What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? +What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them? + +This I shall say.--I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. . +Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny, +Stared at the sky. And silently there above us +Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge, +Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows, +Swift and blue, or dark. . . .What did they mean? +What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty? +Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle? +Only I know these things leaned over me, +Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly, +Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated, +I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . . +You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them, +Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers, +These presences. . . .I drowse, they stream above me, +I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream. + +You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you) +Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight. +You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) +In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing. +It is not you I laugh for, you I touch! +My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs, +Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops; +And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . . + + +VI. CINEMA + +As evening falls, +The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls +Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, +Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. +How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? +To what new light or darkness yearn? +A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; +And one by one in myriads we descend +By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, +Through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . . + +Take my arm, then, you or you or you, +And let us walk abroad on the solid air: +Look how the organist's head, in silhouette, +Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . . +The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, +Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, +They have hurried down from a myriad secret places, +From windy chambers next to the skies. . . . +The music comes upon us. . . .it shakes the darkness, +It shakes the darkness in our minds. . . . +And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, +Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, +And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . . + +Take my hand, then, walk with me +By the slow soundless crashings of a sea +Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,-- +Take my hand +And walk with me once more by crumbling walls; +Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, +To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, +Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . . +Did you once love me? Did you bear a name? +Did you once stand before me without shame? . . . +Take my hand: your face is one I know, +I loved you, long ago: +You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; +You are like spring returned through snow. +Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight, +And many nights I slept and dreamed of you; +Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, +This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . . +Music murmurs beneath us like a sea, +And faints to a ghostly whisper . . . Come with me. + +Are you still doubtful of me--hesitant still, +Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember +What you would gladly, if you could, forget? +You were unfaithful once, you met your lover; +Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; +And I was silent,--you remember my silence yet . . . +You knew, as well as I, I could not kill him, +Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate. +No, and it was not you I saw with anger. +Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate, +Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, +That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, +Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, +Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain. + +How could I find it in my heart to hurt you, +You, whom this love could hurt much more than I? +No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity; +And only hated you when I saw you cry. +We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,-- +Had I the right,--I should forgive you now . . . +We were two dupes . . . Come, let us walk in starlight, +And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow. + +Take my hand, then, come with me +By the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . . +Look how the long volutes of foam unfold +To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . . +Take my hand, +Do not remember how these depths are cold, +Nor how, when you are dead, +Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head. +You lean your face upon your hands and cry, +The blown sand whispers about your feet, +Terrible seems it now to die,-- +Terrible now, with life so incomplete, +To turn away from the balconies and the music, +The sunlit afternoons, +To hear behind you there a far-off laughter +Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . +Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! +Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! +Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! +Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . + +As evening falls, +The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls +Tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us, +The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, +And to and fro we move and lean and change . . . +You, in a world grown strange, +Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, +Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, +Sink suddenly down and cry . . . +You hear the applause that greets your latest rival, +You are forgotten: your rival--who knows?--is I . . . +I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, +I am inspired and young . . . and though I see +You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, +I bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . . +Failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . . +The night must come . . . and I'll be one who clings, +Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,-- +To keep some youngster waiting in the wings. + +The music changes tone . . . a room is darkened, +Someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens, +And all is dark again; till suddenly falls +A wandering disk of light on floor and walls, +Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, +Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; +And then at last, in the chaos of that place, +Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face. +Well, I have found you. We have met at last. +Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes +I see the horrible huddlings of your past,-- +All you remember blackens, utters cries, +Reaches far hands and faint. I hold the light +Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,-- +Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . . +Now all the hatreds of my life have met +To hold high carnival . . . we do not speak, +My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, +And press, and fling you down . . . and then forget. + +Who plays for me? What sudden drums keep time +To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? +What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . . +What violin so faintly cries +Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . . +The room grows dark once more, +The crack of white light narrows around the door, +And all is silent, except a slow complaining +Of flutes and violins, like music waning. + +Take my hand, then, walk with me +By the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . . +Look, how white these shells are, on this sand! +Take my hand, +And watch the waves run inward from the sky +Line upon foaming line to plunge and die. +The music that bound our lives is lost behind us, +Paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place +Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure +We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face. +The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, + +The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, +Once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . . +Now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen +To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain +And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain. +Have I not seen you, have we not met before +Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? +You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand +And peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes, +Flash in the sun, go down . . . I hear slow sand, +And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . . + + * * * * * + +The music ends. The screen grows dark. We hurry +To go our devious secret ways, forgetting +Those many lives . . . We loved, we laughed, we killed, +We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves. +The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled. + +Whose body have I found beside dark waters, +The cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? +Staring with wide eyes at the sky? +I bent my head above it, and cried in silence. +Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry. + +Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened. +Again I loved, and love itself was darkened. +Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. +The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. +The doors of night are closed. We go our ways. + + +VII. + +The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. +The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: +And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. +A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. +Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. + +And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, +The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, +And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. +The purple lights leap down the hill before him. +The gorgeous night has begun again. + +'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, +I will hold my light above them and seek their faces, +I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . ' +The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, +Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, +Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. + +We hear him and take him among us like a wind of music, +Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; +We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, +We pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair, +With laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word, +We flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer +Moves on among us like light, like evening air . . . + +Good night! good night! good night! we go our ways, +The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, +The cold rain falls, the rain sings. +We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces +To what the eternal evening brings. + +Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, +We have built a tower of stone high into the sky. +We have built a city of towers. +Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. +Our souls are light. They have shaken a burden of hours. . . . +What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . +Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . +And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; +Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; +And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. + +1916-1917 + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The House of Dust + diff --git a/old/old/hdust10.zip b/old/old/hdust10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..35dd552 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/hdust10.zip |