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diff --git a/18242.txt b/18242.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed77af4 --- /dev/null +++ b/18242.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2828 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Behind the Arras, by Bliss Carman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Behind the Arras + A Book of the Unseen + +Author: Bliss Carman + +Illustrator: T. B. Meteyard + +Release Date: April 24, 2006 [EBook #18242] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEHIND THE ARRAS *** + + + + +Produced by Louise Hope, Thierry Alberto and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + + Behind the Arras + A Book of the + Unseen + + By Bliss Carman + + With Designs by T. B. Meteyard + + [Illustration: VT CRESCIT] + + Boston and New York + Lamson, Wolffe, and Company + M.DCCC.XC.V + + + + + Copyright, 1895. + by Lamson, Wolffe, & Co. + All rights reserved. + + + + + Contents + + Behind the Arras 1 + Fancy's Fool 16 + The Moondial 19 + The Face in the Stream 23 + The Cruise of the Galleon 29 + A Song before Sailing 32 + In the Wings 35 + The Red Wolf 37 + The Faithless Lover 44 + The Crimson House 46 + The Lodger 49 + Beyond the Gamut 66 + The Juggler 81 + Hack and Hew 85 + The Night Express 87 + The Dustman 91 + The Sleepers 94 + At the Granite Gate 96 + Exit Anima 100 + + + + +To G. H. B. + + "I shut myself in with my soul, + And the shapes come eddying forth." + + + + +[Illustration: Behind the Arras] + + + + +_Behind the Arras_ + + +I like the old house tolerably well, +Where I must dwell +Like a familiar gnome; +And yet I never shall feel quite at home: +I love to roam. + +Day after day I loiter and explore +From door to door; +So many treasures lure +The curious mind. What histories obscure +They must immure! + +I hardly know which room I care for best; +This fronting west, +With the strange hills in view, +Where the great sun goes,--where I may go too, +When my lease is through,-- + +Or this one for the morning and the east, +Where a man may feast +His eyes on looming sails, +And be the first to catch their foreign hails +Or spy their bales. + +Then the pale summer twilights towards the pole! +It thrills my soul +With wonder and delight, +When gold-green shadows walk the world at night, +So still, so bright. + +There at the window many a time of year, +Strange faces peer, +Solemn though not unkind, +Their wits in search of something left behind +Time out of mind; + +As if they once had lived here, and stole back +To the window crack +For a peep which seems to say, +"Good fortune, brother, in your house of clay!" +And then, "Good day!" + +I hear their footsteps on the gravel walk, +Their scraps of talk, +And hurrying after, reach +Only the crazy sea-drone of the beach +In endless speech. + +And often when the autumn noons are still, +By swale and hill +I see their gipsy signs, +Trespassing somewhere on my border lines; +With what designs? + +I forth afoot; but when I reach the place, +Hardly a trace, +Save the soft purple haze +Of smouldering camp-fires, any hint betrays +Who went these ways. + +Or tatters of pale aster blue, descried +By the roadside, +Reveal whither they fled; +Or the swamp maples, here and there a shred +Of Indian red. + +But most of all, the marvellous tapestry +Engrosses me, +Where such strange things are rife, +Fancies of beasts and flowers, and love and strife, +Woven to the life; + +Degraded shapes and splendid seraph forms, +And teeming swarms +Of creatures gauzy dim +That cloud the dusk, and painted fish that swim, +At the weaver's whim; + +And wonderful birds that wheel and hang in the air; +And beings with hair, +And moving eyes in the face, +And white bone teeth and hideous grins, who race +From place to place; + +They build great temples to their John-a-nod, +And fume and plod +To deck themselves with gold, +And paint themselves like chattels to be sold, +Then turn to mould. + +Sometimes they seem almost as real as I; +I hear them sigh; +I see them bow with grief, +Or dance for joy like an aspen leaf; +But that is brief. + +They have mad wars and phantom marriages; +Nor seem to guess +There are dimensions still, +Beyond thought's reach, though not beyond love's will, +For soul to fill. + +And some I call my friends, and make believe +Their spirits grieve, +Brood, and rejoice with mine; +I talk to them in phrases quaint and fine +Over the wine; + +I tell them all my secrets; touch their hands; +One understands +Perhaps. How hard he tries +To speak! And yet those glorious mild eyes, +His best replies! + +I even have my cronies, one or two, +My cherished few. +But ah, they do not stay! +For the sun fades them and they pass away, +As I grow gray. + +Yet while they last how actual they seem! +Their faces beam; +I give them all their names, +Bertram and Gilbert, Louis, Frank and James, +Each with his aims; +One thinks he is a poet, and writes verse +His friends rehearse; +Another is full of law; +A third sees pictures which his hand can draw +Without a flaw. + +Strangest of all, they never rest. Day long +They shift and throng, +Moved by invisible will, +Like a great breath which puffs across my sill, +And then is still; + +It shakes my lovely manikins on the wall; +Squall after squall, +Gust upon crowding gust, +It sweeps them willy nilly like blown dust +With glory or lust. + +It is the world-ghost, the time-spirit, come +None knows where from, +The viewless draughty tide +And wash of being. I hear it yaw and glide, +And then subside, + +Along these ghostly corridors and halls +Like faint footfalls; +The hangings stir in the air; +And when I start and challenge, "Who goes there?" +It answers, "Where?" + +The wail and sob and moan of the sea's dirge, +Its plangor and surge; +The awful biting sough +Of drifted snows along some arctic bluff, +That veer and luff, + +And have the vacant boding human cry, +As they go by;-- +Is it a banished soul +Dredging the dark like a distracted mole +Under a knoll? + +Like some invisible henchman old and gray, +Day after day +I hear it come and go, +With stealthy swift unmeaning to and fro, +Muttering low, + +Ceaseless and daft and terrible and blind, +Like a lost mind. +I often chill with fear +When I bethink me, What if it should peer +At my shoulder here! + +Perchance he drives the merry-go-round whose track +Is the zodiac; +His name is No-man's-friend; +And his gabbling parrot-talk has neither trend, +Beginning, nor end. + +A prince of madness too, I'd cry, "A rat!" +And lunge thereat,-- +Let out at one swift thrust +The cunning arch-delusion of the dust +I so mistrust, + +But that I fear I should disclose a face +Wearing the trace +Of my own human guise, +Piteous, unharmful, loving, sad, and wise, +With the speaking eyes. + +I would the house were rid of his grim pranks, +Moaning from banks +Of pine trees in the moon, +Startling the silence like a demoniac loon +At dead of noon, + +Or whispering his fool-talk to the leaves +About my eaves. +And yet how can I know +'T is not a happy Ariel masking so +In mocking woe? + +Then with a little broken laugh I say, +Snatching away +The curtain where he grinned +(My feverish sight thought) like a sin unsinned, +"Only the wind!" + +Yet often too he steals so softly by, +With half a sigh, +I deem he must be mild, +Fair as a woman, gentle as a child, +And forest wild. + +Passing the door where an old wind-harp swings, +With its five strings, +Contrived long years ago +By my first predecessor bent to show +His handcraft so, + +He lays his fingers on the aeolian wire, +As a core of fire +Is laid upon the blast +To kindle and glow and fill the purple vast +Of dark at last. + +Weird wise and low, piercing and keen and glad, +Or dim and sad +As a forgotten strain +Born when the broken legions of the rain +Swept through the plain-- + +He plays, like some dread veiled mysteriarch, +Lighting the dark, +Bidding the spring grow warm, +The gendering merge and loosing of spirit in form, +Peace out of storm. + +For music is the sacrament of love; +He broods above +The virgin silence, till +She yields for rapture shuddering, yearning still +To his sweet will. + +I hear him sing, "Your harp is like a mesh, +Woven of flesh +And spread within the shoal +Of life, where runs the tide-race of the soul +In my control. + +"Though my wild way may ruin what it bends, +It makes amends +To the frail downy clocks, +Telling their seed a secret that unlocks +The granite rocks. + +"The womb of silence to the crave sound +Is heaven unfound, +Till I, to soothe and slake +Being's most utter and imperious ache, +Bid rhythm awake. + +"If with such agonies of bliss, my kin, +I enter in +Your prison house of sense, +With what a joyous freed intelligence +I shall go hence." + +I need no more to guess the weaver's name, +Nor ask his aim, +Who hung each hall and room +With swarthy-tinged vermilion upon gloom; +I know that loom. + +Give me a little space and time enough, +From ravelings rough +I could revive, reweave, +A fabric of beauty art might well believe +Were past retrieve. + +O men and women in that rich design, +Sleep-soft, sun-fine, +Dew-tenuous and free, +A tone of the infinite wind-themes of the sea, +Borne in to me, + +Reveals how you were woven to the might +Of shadow and light. +You are the dream of One +Who loves to haunt and yet appears to shun +My door in the sun; + +As the white roving sea tern fleck and skim +The morning's rim; +Or the dark thrushes clear +Their flutes of music leisurely and sheer, +Then hush to hear. + +I know him when the last red brands of day +Smoulder away, +And when the vernal showers +Bring back the heart to all my valley flowers +In the soft hours. + +O hand of mine and brain of mine, be yours, +While time endures, +To acquiesce and learn! +For what we best may dare and drudge and yearn, +Let soul discern. + +So, fellows, we shall reach the gusty gate, +Early or late, +And part without remorse, +A cadence dying down unto its source +In music's course; + +You to the perfect rhythms of flowers and birds, +Colors and words, +The heart-beats of the earth, +To be remoulded always of one worth +From birth to birth; + +I to the broken rhythm of thought and man, +The sweep and span +Of memory and hope +About the orbit where they still must grope +For wider scope, + +To be through thousand springs restored, renewed, +With love imbrued, +With increments of will +Made strong, perceiving unattainment still +From each new skill. + +Always the flawless beauty, always the chord +Of the Overword, +Dominant, pleading, sure, +No truth too small to save and make endure. +No good too poor! + +And since no mortal can at last disdain +That sweet refrain, +But lets go strife and care, +Borne like a strain of bird notes on the air, +The wind knows where; + +Some quiet April evening soft and strange, +When comes the change +No spirit can deplore, +I shall be one with all I was before, +In death once more. + + + + +_Fancy's Fool_ + + +"Cornel, cornel, green and white, +Spreading on the forest floor, +Whither went my lost delight +Through the silent door?" + +"Mortal, mortal, overfond, +How come you at all to know +There be any joys beyond +Blisses here and now?" + +"Cornel, cornel, white and cool, +Many a mortal, I've heard tell, +Who is only Fancy's fool +Knows that secret well." + +"Mortal, mortal, what would you +With that beauty once was yours? +Perishable is the dew, +And the dust endures." + +"Cornel, cornel, pierce me not +With your sweet, reserved disdain! +Whisper me of things forgot +That shall be again." + +"Mortal, we are kinsmen, led +By a hope beyond our reach. +Know you not the word unsaid +Is the flower of speech?" + +All the snowy blossoms faded, +While the scarlet berries grew; +And all summer they evaded +Anything they knew. + +"Cornel, cornel, green and red +Flooring for the forest wide, +Whither down the ways of dread +Went my starry-eyed?" + +"Mortal, mortal, is there found +Any fruitage half so fair +In the dim world underground +As there grows in air?" + +"Wilding cornel, you can guess +Nothing of eternal pain, +Growing there in quietness +In the sun and rain." + +"Mortal, where your heart would be +Not a wanderer may go, +But he shares the dark with me +Underneath the snow." + +And the scarlet berries scattered +With the coming on of fall; +Not to one of them it mattered +Anything at all. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Moondial_ + + +Iron and granite and rust, +In a crumbling garden old, +Where the roses are paler than dust +And the lilies are green with gold, + +Under the racing moon, +Inconscious of war or crime, +In a strange and ghostly noon, +It marks the oblivion of time. + +The shadow steals through its arc, +Still as a frosted breath, +Fitful, gleaming, and dark +As the cold frustration of death. + +But where the shadow may fall, +Whether to hurry or stay, +It matters little at all +To those who come that way. + +For this is the dial of them +That have forgotten the world, +No more through the mad day-dream +Of striving and reason hurled. + +Their heart as a little child +Only remembers the worth +Of beauty and love and the wild +Dark peace of the elder earth. + +It registers the morrows +Of lovers and winds and streams, +And the face of a thousand sorrows +At the postern gate of dreams. + +When the first low laughter smote +Through Lilith, the mother of joy, +And died and revived from the throat +Of Helen, the harpstring of Troy, + +And wandering on through the years, +From the sobbing rain and the sea, +Caught sound of the world's gray tears +Or sense of the sun's gold glee, + +Whenever the wild control +Burned out to a mortal kiss, +And the shuddering storm-swept soul +Climbed to its acme of bliss, + +The green-gold light of the dead +Stood still in purple space, +And a record blind and dread +Was graved on the dial's face. + +And once in a thousand years +Some youth who loved so well +The gods had loosed him from fears +In a vision of blameless hell, + +Has gone to the dial to read +Those signs in the outland tongue, +Written beyond the need +Of the simple and the young. + +For immortal life, they say, +Were his who, loving so, +Could explain the writing away +As a legend written in snow. + +But always his innocent eyes +Were frozen into the stone. +From that awful first surprise +His soul must return alone. + +In the morning there he lay +Dead in the sun's warm gold. +And no man knows to this day +What the dim moondial told. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Face in the Stream_ + + +The sunburnt face in the willow shade +To the face in the water-mirror said, + +"O deep mysterious face in the stream, +Art thou myself or am I thy dream?" + +And the face deep down in the water's side +To the face in the upper air replied, + +"I am thy dream, them poor worn face, +And this is thy heart's abiding place. + +"Too much in the world, come back and be +Once more my dream-fellow with me, + +"In the far-off untarnished years +Before thy furrows were washed with tears, + +"Or ever thy serious creature eyes +Were aged with a mist of memories. + +"Hast thou forgotten the long ago +In the garden where I used to flow, + +"Among the hills, with the maple tree +And the roses blowing over me?-- + +"I who am now but a wraith of this river, +Forsaken of thee forever and ever, + +"Who then was thine image fair, forecast +In the heart of the water rimpling past. + +"Out in the wide of the summer zone +I lulled and allured thee apart and alone, + +"The azure gleam and the golden croon +And the grass with the flaky roses strewn. + +"There you would lie and lean above me, +The more you lingered the more to love me, + +"Till I became, as the year grew old, +Thy fairest day-dream's fashion and mould, + +"Deep in the water twilight there, +Smiling, elusive, wonderful, fair, + +"The beautiful visage of thy clear soul +Set in eternity's limpid shoal, + +"Thy spirit's countenance, the trace +Of dawning God in the human face. + +"And when yellow leaves came down +Through the silent mornings one by one + +"To the frosty meadow, as they fell +Thy pondering heart said, 'All is well; + +"'Aye, all is best, for I stake my life +Beyond the boundaries of strife,' + +"And then thy feet returned no more,-- +While years went over the garden floor, + +"With frost and maple, with rose and dew, +In the world thy river wandered through;-- + +"Came never again to revive and recall +Thy youth from its water burial. + +"But now thy face is battle-dark; +The strife of the world has graven a mark + +"About the lips that are no more mine, +Too sweet to forget, too strong to repine. + +"With the ends of the earth for thy garden now, +What solace and what reward hast thou?" + +Then he of the earth's sun-traversed side +To him of the under-world replied, + +"O glad mysterious face in the stream, +My lost illusion, my summer dream, + +"Thou fairer self of a fonder time, +A far imperishable clime, + +"For thy dear sake I have fared alone +And fronted failure and housed with none. + +"What youth was that, when the world was green, +In the lovely mythus Greek and clean, + +"Was doomed with his flowery kin to bide, +A blown white star by the river side, + +"And no more follow the sun, foot free, +Too long enamoured of one like thee? + +"Shall God who abides in the patient flower, +The painted dust sustained by his power, + +"Refuse to the wing of the dragonfly +His sanction over the open sky,-- + +"A frail detached and wandering thing +Torn loose from the blossomy life of spring? + +"And this is man, the myriad one, +Dust's flower and time's ephemeron. + +"And I who have followed the wander-list +For a glimpse of beauty, a wraith in the mist, + +"Shall be spilt at last and return to peace, +As dust which the hands of the wind release. + +"This is my solace and my reward, +Who have drained life's dregs from a broken shard." + +Wise and grave was the water face, +A youth grown man in a little space; + +While the wayworn face by the river side +Grew gentler-lipped and shadowy-eyed; + +For he heard like a sea-horn summoning him +That sound from the world's end vast and dim, + +Where the river went wandering out so far +Through a gate in the mountain left ajar, + +The sea birds love and the land birds flee, +The large bleak voice of the burly sea. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Cruise of the Galleon_ + + This laboring vast, Tellurian Galleon, + Riding at anchor off the orient sun, + Had broken its cable, and stood out to space. + + FRANCIS THOMPSON. + +Galleon, ahoy, ahoy! +Old earth riding off the sun, +And straining at your cable as you ride +On the tide, +Battered laboring and vast, +In the blast +Of the hurricane that blows between the worlds, +Ahoy! + +'Morning, shipmates! 'Drift and chartless? +Laded deep and rolling hard? +Never guessed, outworn and heartless, +There was land so close aboard? + +Ice on every shroud and eyelet, +Rocking in the windy trough? +No more panic; Man's your pilot; +Turns the flood, and we are off! + +At the story of disaster, +From the continents of sleep, +I am come to be your master +And put out into the deep. + +What tide current struck you hither, +Beating up the storm of years? +Where are those who stood to weather +These uncharted gulfs of tears? + +Did your fellows all drive under +In the maelstrom of the sun, +While you only, for a wonder, +Rode the wash you could not shun? + +We'll crowd sail across the sea-line,-- +Clear this harbor, reef and buoy, +Bowling down an open bee-line +For the latitudes of joy; + +Till beyond the zones of sorrow, +Past griefs haven in the night, +Some large simpler world shall morrow +This pale region's northern light. + +Not a fear but all the sea-room, +Wherein time is but a bay, +Yet shall sparkle for our lee-room +In the vast Altrurian day. + +And the dauntless seaworn spirit +Shall awake to know there are +What dominions to inherit, +Anchored off another star! + + + + +[Illustration] + +_A Song Before Sailing_ + + "Cras ingens iterabimus aequor." + +Wind of the dead men's feet, +Blow down the empty street +Of this old city by the sea +With news for me! + +Blow me beyond the grime +And pestilence of time! +I am too sick at heart to war +With failure any more. + +Thy chill is in my bones; +The moonlight on the stones +Is pale, and palpable, and cold; +I am as one grown old. + +I call from room to room +Through the deserted gloom; +The echoes are all words I know, +Lost in some long ago. + +I prowl from door to door, +And find no comrade more. +The wolfish fear that children feel +Is snuffing at my heel. + +I hear the hollow sound +Of a great ship coming round, +The thunder of tackle and the tread +Of sailors overhead. + +That stormy-blown hulloo +Has orders for me, too. +I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark, +My captain of the dark. + +O wind of the great East, +By whom we are released +From this strange dusty port to sail +Beyond our fellows' hail, + +Under the stars that keep +The entry of the deep, +Thy somber voice brings up the sea's +Forgotten melodies; + +And I have no more need +Of bread, or wine, or creed, +Bound for the colonies of time +Beyond the farthest prime. + +Wind of the dead men's feet, +Blow through the empty street! +The last adventurer am I, +Then, world, good-by! + + + + +_In the Wings_ + + +The play is Life; and this round earth, +The narrow stage whereon +We act before an audience +Of actors dead and gone. + +There is a figure in the wings +That never goes away, +And though I cannot see his face, +I shudder while I play. + +His shadow looms behind me here, +Or capers at my side; +And when I mouth my lines in dread, +Those scornful lips deride. + +Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out, +And startles me alone; +While all my fellows, wondering +At my stage-fright, play on. + +I fear that when my Exit comes, +I shall encounter there, +Stronger than fate, or time, or love, +And sterner than despair, + +The Final Critic of the craft, +As stage tradition tells; +And yet--perhaps 'twill only be +The jester with his bells. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Red Wolf_ + + +With the fall of the leaf comes the wolf, wolf, wolf, +The old red wolf at my door. +And my hateful yellow dwarf, with his hideous crooked laugh, +Cries "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door. + +With the still of the frost comes the wolf, wolf, wolf, +The gaunt red wolf at my door. +He's as tall as a Great Dane, with his grizzly russet mane; +And he haunts the silent woods at my door. + +The scarlet maple leaves and the sweet ripe nuts, +May strew the forest glade at my door, +But my cringing cunning dwarf, with his slavered kacking laugh, +Cries "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door. + +The violets may come, the pale wind-flowers blow, +And tremble by the stream at my door; +But my dwarf will never cease, until his last release, +From his "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door. + +The long sweet April wind may woo the world from grief, +And tell the old tales at my door; +The rainbirds in the rain may plead their far refrain, +In the glad young year at my door; + +And in the quiet sun, the silly partridge brood +In the red pine dust by my door; +Yet my squinting runty dwarf, with his lewd ungodly laugh, +Cries "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door. + +I'm his master (and his slave, with his "Wolf, wolf, wolf!") +As he squats in the sun at my door. +There morn and noon and night, with his cuddled low delight, +He watches for the wolf at my door. + +The wind may parch his hide, or freeze him to the bone, +While the wolf walks far from the door; +Still year on year he sits, with his five unholy wits, +And watches for the wolf at the door. + +But the fall of the leaf and the starting of the bud +Are the seasons he loves by the door; +Then his blood begins to rouse, this Caliban I house, +And it's "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door. + +In the dread lone of the night I can hear him snuff the sill; +Then it's "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door; +His damned persistent bark, like a husky's in the dark, +His "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door. + +I have tried to rid the house of the misbegotten spawn; +But he skulks like a shadow at my door, +With the same uncanny glee as when he came to me +With his first cry of wolf at my door. + +I curse him, and he leers; I kick him, and he whines; +But he never leaves the stone at my door. +Peep of day or set of sun, his croaking's never done +Of the Red Wolf of Despair at my door. + +But when the night is old, and the stars begin to fade, +And silence walks the path by my door, +Then is his dearest hour, his most unbridled power, +And low comes his "Wolf!" at the door. + +I turn me in my sleep between the night and day, +While dreams throng the yard at my door. +In my strong soul aware of a grewsome terror there +Soon to knock with command at my door. + +Is it the hollow voice of the census-taker Time +In his old idle round from door to door? +Or only the north wind, when all the leaves are thinned, +Come at last with his moan to my door? + +I cannot guess nor tell; only it comes and comes, +As from a vaster world beyond my door, +From centuries of eld, the death of freedom knelled, +A host of mortal fears at my door. + +Then I wake; and joy and youth and fame and love and bliss, +And all the good that ever passed my door, +Grow dim, and faint and fade, with the whole world unmade, +To perish as the summer at my door. + +The crouching heart within me quails like a shuddering thing, +As I turn on my pillow to the door; +Then in the chill white dawn, when life is half withdrawn, +Comes the dream-curdling "Wolf!" at my door. + +Only my yellow dwarf; (my servitor and lord!) +I hear him lift the latch of my door; +I see his wobbling chin and his unrepentant grin, +As he lets his oafship in at the door. + +He is low and humped and foul, and shambles like an ape; +And stealthily he barricades the door, +Then lays his goblin head against my lonely bed, +With a "Wolf, wolf, wolf," at the door! + +I loathe him, but I feed him; I'll tell you how it was +(Hear him now with his "Wolf!" at the door!) +That I ever took him in; he is--he is my kin, +And kin to the wolf at the door! + +I loathe him, yet he lives; as God lets Satan live, +I suffer him to slumber at my door, +Till that long-looked-for time, that splendid sudden prime, +When Spring shall go in scarlet by my door. + +That day I will arise, put my heel upon his throat, +And squirt his yellow blood upon the door; +Then watch him dying there, like a spider in his lair, +With a "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door. + +The great white morning sun shall walk the earth again, +And the children return to my door, +I shall hear their merry laugh, and forget my buried dwarf, +As a tale that is told at the door. + +Far from the quiet woods the gaunt red wolf shall flee, +As a cur that is stoned from the door; +And God's great peace come back along the lonely track, +To fill the golden year at my door. + + + + +_The Faithless Lover_ + + +I + +O Life, dear Life, in this fair house +Long since did I, it seems to me, +In some mysterious doleful way +Fall out of love with thee. + +For, Life, thou art become a ghost, +A memory of days gone by, +A poor forsaken thing between +A heartache and a sigh. + +And now, with shadows from the hills +Thronging the twilight, wraith on wraith, +Unlock the door and let me go +To thy dark rival Death! + + +II + +O Heart, dear Heart, in this fair house +Why hast thou wearied and grown tired, +Between a morning and a night, +Of all thy soul desired? + +Fond one, who cannot understand +Even these shadows on the floor, +Yet must be dreaming of dark loves +And joys beyond my door! + +But I am beautiful past all +The timid tumult of thy mood, +And thou returning not must still +Be mine in solitude. + + + + +_The Crimson House_ + + +Love built a crimson house, +I know it well, +That he might have a home +Wherein to dwell. + +Poor Love that roved so far +And fared so ill, +Between the morning star +And the Hollow Hill, + +Before he found the vale +Where he could bide, +With memory and oblivion +Side by side. + +He took the silver dew +And the dun red clay, +And behold when he was through +How fair were they! + +The braces of the sky +Were in its girth, +That it should feel no jar +Of the swinging earth; + +That sun and wind might bleach +But not destroy +The house that he had builded +For his joy. + +"Here will I stay," he said, +"And roam no more, +And dust when I am dead +Shall keep the door." + +There trooping dreams by night +Go by, go by. +The walls are rosy white +In the sun's eye. + +The windows are more clear +Than sky or sea; +He made them after God's +Transparency. + +It is a dearer place +Than kirk or inn; +Such joy on joy as there +Has never been. + +There may my longed-for rest +And welcome be, +When Love himself unbars +The door for me! + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Lodger_ + + +I cannot quite recall +When first he came, +So reticent and tall, +With his eyes of flame. + +The neighbors used to say +(They know so much!) +He looked to them half way +Spanish or Dutch. + +Outlandish certainly +He is--and queer! +He has been lodged with me +This thirty year; + +All the while (it seems absurd!) +We hardly have +Exchanged a single word. +Mum as the grave! + +Minds only his own affairs, +Goes out and in, +And keeps himself upstairs +With his violin. + +Mum did I say? And yet +That talking smile +You never can forget, +Is all the while + +Full of such sweet reproofs +The darkest day, +Like morning on the roofs +In flush of May. + +Like autumn on the hills; +At four o'clock +The sun like a herdsman spills +For drove and flock + +Peace with their provender, +And they are fed. +The day without a stir +Lies warm and red. + +Ah, sir, the summer land +For me! That is +Like living in God's hand, +Compared to this. + +His smile so quiet and deep +Reminds me of it. +I see it in my sleep, +And so I love it. + +An anarchist, say some; +But tush, say I, +When a man's heart is plumb, +Can his life be awry? + +Better than charity +And bigger too, +That heart. You've seen the sea? +Of course. To you + +'T is common enough, no doubt. +But here in town, +With God's world all shut out, +Save the leaden frown + +Of the sky, a slant of rain, +And a straggling star, +Such memories remain +The wonders they are. + +Once at the Isles of Shoals, +And it was June . . . +Now hear me dote! He strolls +Across my noon, + +Like the sun that day, where sleeps +My soul; his gaze +Goes glimmering down my deeps +Of yesterdays, + +Searching and searching, till +Its light consumes +The reluctant shapes that fill +Those purple glooms. + +Let others applaud, defame, +And the noise die down; +His voice saying your name, +Is enough renown. + +Too patient pitiful, +Too fierce at wrong, +To patronize the dull, +Or praise the strong. + +And yet he has a soul +Of wrath, though pent +Even when that white ghoul +Comes for his rent. + +The landlord? Hush! My God! +I think the walls +Take notes to help him prod +Us up. He galls + +My very soul to strife, +With his death's-head face. +He is foul too in his life, +Some hid disgrace, + +Some secret thing he does, +I warrant you, +For all his cheek to us +Is shaved so blue. + +He takes good care (by the shade +Of seven wives!) +That the undertaker's trade +He lives by thrives. + +Nor chick nor child has he. +So servile smug, +With that cringe in his knee,-- +God curse his lug! + +But him, you should have seen +Him yesterday; +The landlord's smirk turned green +At his smile. The way + +He served that bloodless fish, +Were like to freeze him. +But meeting elsewhere, pish! +He never sees him. + +Yet such a gentleman, +So sure and slow. +The vilest harridan +Is not too low, + +If there is pity's need; +And no man born, +For cruelty or greed +Escapes that scorn. + +Most of all things, it seems, +He loves the town. +Watching the bright-faced streams +Go up and down, + +I have surprised him often +On Tremont street, +And marked the grave face soften, +The mouth grow sweet, + +In a brown study over +The men and women. +An unsuspected rover +That, for our Common. + +When the first jonquils come, +And spring is sold +On the street corners, some +Of the pretty gold + +Is sure to find its way +Home in his hand. +And many a winter day +At some cab-stand, + +He'll watch the cabmen feed +The pigeon flocks, +Or bid some liner speed +From the icy docks. + +His rooms? I much regret +You cannot see +His rooms, but they were let +With guarantee + +Of his seclusion there-- +Except myself. +Each morning, table, chair, +Lamp, hearth, and shelf, + +I rearrange, refreshen, +Put all to rights, +Then leave him in possession. +Ah, but the nights, + +The nights! Sir, if I dared +But once set eye +To keyhole, nor be scared, +From playing Paul Pry, + +I doubt not I should learn +A wondrous thing +Or two; and in return +Go blind till spring. + +The light under his door +Is glory enough, +It outshines any star +That I know of. + +Wirrah, my lad, my lad, +'T is fearsome strange, +The hints we all have had +Passing the range + +Of science, knowledge, law, +Or what you will, +Whose intangible touch of awe +Makes reason nil. + +Many a night I start, +Sudden awake, +Feeling my smothered heart +Flutter and quake; + +Like an aspen at dead of noon, +When not a breath +Is stirring to trouble the boon +Valley. A wraith + +Or a fetch, it must be, shivers +The soul of the tree +Till every leaf of it quivers. +And so with me. + +Was it the shuffle of feet +I heard go by, +With muffled drums in the street? +Was it the cry + +Of a rider riding the night +Into ashes and dawn, +With news in his nostrils and fright +Where his hoof-beats had gone? + +Did the pipes, at "Bonny Dundee," +Bid regiments form? +Did a renegade's soul get free +On a wail of the storm? + +Did a flock of wild geese honk +As they cleared the hill? +Or only a bittern cronk, +Then all was still? + +Was it a night stampede +Of a thousand head? +I know I shook like a reed +There on my bed. + +Nameless and void and wild +Was the fear before me, +Ere I bethought me and smiled +As the truth flashed o'er me. + +Of course, it was only his hand +Freeing the bass +Of his old Amati, grand +In the silence' face. + +Rummaging up and down, +From string to string, +Bidding the discords drown, +The harmonies spring, + +Where tides and tide-winds rove +Far out from land, +On the ocean of music a-move +At the will of his hand. + +Sobbing and grieving now, +Now glad as a bird, +Thou, thou, thou +Of the joys unheard, + +Luminous radiant sea +Of the sounds and time, +Surely, surely by thee +Is eternal prime. + +Holy and beautiful deep, +Spread down before +The imperial coming of sleep, +Endure, endure! + +And sleep, be thou the ranger +Over it wan. +And dream, be thou no stranger +There with the dawn. + +Then wings of the sun, go abroad +As a scarlet desire, +Unwearied, unwaning, unawed, +To quest and aspire, + +Till the drench of the dusk you drink +In the poppy-field west; +Then veer and settle and sink +As a gull to her nest. + +Wind, +Away, away! +And hurry your phantom kind +Through the gates of day, + +Or ever the king's dark cup +With its studs and spars +Be inverted, and earth look up +To the shuddering stars. + +Blaring and triumphing now, +Now quailing and lone, +Thou, thou, thou +Of the joys unknown! + +Unknown and wild, wild, +Where the merrymen be, +Sink to sleep, soul of a child, +Slumber, thou sea! + +All this his fiddle plays, +And many a thing +As strange, when his mood so lays +The bow to the string. + +Sleepless! He never sleeps +That I can find. +I marvel how he keeps +A bit of his mind. + +There is neither sight nor sound +In the world of sense, +But he has fathomed and found +In the silvery tense + +Keen cords on the amber wood. +As he wrings them thence, +Death smiles at his hardihood +For recompense. + +Oh fair they are, so fair! +No tongue can tell +How he sets them chiming there +Clear as a bell. + +An orchard of birds in June, +The winds that stream, +The cold sea-brooks that croon, +The storms that scream, + +The planets that float and swing +Like buoys on the tide, +The north-going legions in spring, +The hills that abide, + +The frigate-bird clouds that range, +The vagabond moon-- +That wilful lover of change-- +And the workaday sun, + +Dying summer and fall, +Seasons and men +And herds, he has them all +In his shadowy ken. + +He calls and they come, leaving strife, +Leaving discord and death, +Out of oblivion to life, +Though its span be a breath. + +There they are, all the beautiful things +I loved and lost sight of +Long since in the far-away springs, +Come back for a night of + +New being as good as their old, +Aye, better in fact, +For somehow he gilds their fine gold,-- +Gives the one thing they lacked, + +The breath, aspiration, desire, +Core, kindle, control, +Memory and rapture and fire,-- +The touch of man's soul. + +How know the true master? I know +By my joys and my fears, +For my heart crumbles down like the snow +With spring rain into tears. + +Now I am a precious one! +With nothing to do +But idle here in the sun +And gossip with you + +Of a stranger you have not seen, +As like never will. +I would every soul had a screen, +When the wind sets ill + +In the world's bleak house, like this +Strange lodger of mine. +His presence is worse to miss +Than sun's best shine. + +I put no thought at all +Upon the end, +If only I may call +Such a man friend. + +And a friend he is, heart light +With love for heft, +Proud as silence, whose right +Hand ignores his left. + +Yes, odd! he gives his name +As Spiritus. +But that is vague as a flame +In the wind to us. + +And then (but not a breath +Of this!) you see, +All his effects, my faith! +Are marked D.V. + +His cape-coat has a rip, +But for all that, +(Folk smile, suggest a dip +In the dyer's vat,-- + +Those purple aldermen +Who roll about +In coaches, drive till ten, +And die of gout), + +I think he finely shows +How learning's crumbs +At least can rival those +Of-- 'st, here he comes! + + + + +_Beyond the Gamut_ + + +Softly, softly, Niccolo Amati! +What can put such fancies in your head? +There, go dream of your blue-skied Cremona, +While I ponder something you have said. + +Something in that last low lovely cadence +Piercing the green dusk alone and far, +Named a new room in the house of knowledge, +Waiting unfrequented, door ajar. + +While you dream then, let me unmolested +Pass in childish wonder through that door,-- +Breathless, touch and marvel at the beauties +Soon my wiser elders must explore. + +Ah, my Niccolo, it's no great science +We shall ever conquer, you and I. +Yet, when you are nestled at my shoulder, +Others guess not half that we descry. + +As all sight is but a finer hearing, +And all color but a finer sound, +Beauty, but the reach of lyric freedom, +Caught and quivering past all music's bound; + +Life, that faint sigh whispered from oblivion, +Harks and wonders if we may not be +Five small wits to carry one great rhythmus, +The vast theme of God's new symphony. + +As fine sand spread on a disc of silver, +At some chord which bids the motes combine, +Heeding the hidden and reverberant impulse, +Shifts and dances into curve and line, + +The round earth, too, haply, like a dust-mote, +Was set whirling her assigned sure way, +Round this little orb of her ecliptic +To some harmony she must obey. + +Did the Master try the taut string merely, +Give a touch, and she must throb to time? +Think you how his bow must rouse the echoes, +Quailing triumphing on, secure, sublime! + +Ah, thought cannot far without the symbol! +Help me, little brother, hold the trend. +Dear good flesh, that keeps the spirit steady, +Lest it faint, grown dizzy at thought's end! + +Waves of sound (Is this your thought, Amati?), +Climbing into treble thin and clear, +Past the silence, change to waves of color, +We must say, when eye takes place of ear? + +Not a bird-song, but it has for fellow +Some-wood-flower, its speechless counterpart, +Form and color moulded to one cadence, +To voice something of the wild mute heart. + +Thrushes, we'll suppose, have for their tune-mates +The gold languorous lilies of the glade; +And the whippoorwill, that plaintive dreamer, +Some dark purple flower that loves the shade. + +The song-sparrow tells me what the clover +Nods about beneath the gorgeous blue; +While the snowballs tell me old love-stories +Thistle-birds half hinted as they flew. + +April's faith, in robin at his vespers, +Breathes a prayer too in my lilac blooms. +What the cloudy asters told the hillside, +My lone rainbird in the dusk resumes. + +Bobolink is voice for apple blossom, +Breezy, abundant, good for human joys; +Oriole has touched the burning secret +Poppies hide with their deliberate poise. + +Tiny twin-flowers, what are they but fancies, +Subtler than a field-lark can express? +Swallows make the low contented twitter +Lying just beyond the pansies' guess. + +Yellowbird, the hot noon's warbler, pierces +Sense where tiger-lilies may not pass. +Are not crickets and all field-wise creatures +Brahmins of the universal grass? + +Saffron butterflies and mute ephemera, +Doubt not, have their songs too, could we hear. +Every raindrop is a sea sonorous +As the great worlds thundering sphere to sphere. + +There's no silence and no dark forever, +Clangoring suns to us are placid stars; +Swift-foot lightning with his henchman thunder +Lags behind these gnomes in Leyden jars. + +Peal and flash and thrill and scent and savour +Pulse through rhythm to rapture, and control,-- +Who shall say how far along or finely?-- +The infinite tectonics of the soul. + +Low-bred peoples, Hottentots, Basutos, +Have a taste for scarlet and brass bands. +Our friend Monet, feeling red repulsive, +Sees blue shadows in pale purple lands. + +Sees not only, but instructs our seeing; +Taught by him a twelvemonth, we confess +Earth once robed in crude barbaric splendor, +Has put on a softer lovelier dress. + +Feast my eyes on some old Indian fabric, +Centuries of culture went to weave, +And I grow the fine fastidious artist, +No mere shop-made textile can deceive. + +Red the bass and violet the treble, +Soul may pass out where all color ends. +Ends? So we say, meaning where the eyesight +With some yet unborn perception blends. + +You, Amati, never saw a sunset,-- +Hear tornadoes in a spider's loom; +I, at my wits' end, may still develop +Unknown senses in life's larger room. + +Superhuman is not supernatural. +How shall half-way judge of journey done? +Shall this germ and protoplast of being +Rest mid-life and say his race is run? + +Softly there, my Niccolo, a moment! +Shall I then discard my simpler joys? +No, for look you, every sense's impulse +Is a means the master soul employs. + +Test and use of all things, lowest, highest, +Are alone of import to the soul; +Joys of earth are journey-aids to heaven, +Garb of the new sainthood sane and whole. + +Earth one habitat of spirit merely, +I must use as richly as I may,-- +Touch environment with every sense-tip, +Drink the well and pass my wander way. + +Ah, drink deep and let the parching morrow +Quench what thirst its newer need may bring! +Slake the senses now, that soul hereafter +Go not forth a starved defrauded thing. + +Not for sense sake only, but for soul sake; +That when soul must shed the leaves of sense, +Sun and sap may solace and support her, +Stored in those green hours for her defence. + +Shall the grub deny himself the rose-leaf +That he may be moth before his time? +Shall the grasshopper repress his drumbeats +For small envy of the kingbird's chime? + +Certain half-men, never touched by worship, +Soil the goodly feast they cannot use; +Others, maimed too, holding flesh a hindrance, +Vilify the bounty they refuse. + +He's most man who loves the purple shadows, +Yet must love the flaring autumn too,-- +Follow when the skrieling pipes bid forward, +Lie and gaze for hours into the blue. + +He would have gone down with Alexander, +Quelling unknown lands beneath the sun; +Watched where Buddha in the Bo tree shadows +Saw this life's web woven and undone; + +Freed his stifled heart in Shakespeare's people, +Sweet and elemental and serene; +Dared the unknown with Blake and Galileo; +Fronted death with Daulac's seventeen. + +So shall mighty peace possess his spirit +Whom the noonday leads alone apart, +Through the wind-clear early Indian summer, +Where no yearning more shall move his heart. + +Wise and foot-free, of the tranquil tenor, +He shall wayfare with the homeless tides; +Time enough, when life allures no longer, +To frequent the tavern death provides. + +Life be neither hermitage nor revel; +Lent or carnival alone were vain; +Sin and sainthood--Help me, little brother, +With your largo finder-thought again! + +Lift, uplift me, higher still and higher! +Climb and pause and tremble and plunge on, +Till I, toiling after you, come breathless +Where the mountain tops are touched with dawn! + +Dark this valley world; and drenched with slumber +We have kept the centuries of night. +Cry, Amati, pierce the waiting stillness +Tremulous with forecast of the light! + +Cry, Amati! Melt the twilight dirges +In "Te Deums" fit for marching men! +"Good," the days are chorusing, "shall triumph;" +Though the far-off morrows whisper, "When?" + +What is good? I hear your soft string answer, +"I am that whereon the round world leans, +I am every man's poor guess at wisdom; +Evil is the soul's misuse of means. + +"Up through me, with melody and meaning, +Well the floods of being or subside, +The first dim desire of self for selfhood, +The last smile that puts all self aside. + +"Hate is discord lessening through the ages; +Anger a false note, fear a slackened string. +Key thy soul up to the wiser manhood, +Gentler lovelier joy from spring to spring!" + +Here in turn I help you, little brother, +Half surmise what you have half explained. +Store it by to ripen, and repeat it +Long hereafter as a glimpse you gained, + +When the nineteenth century was dying, +From a strolling hand that held you dear,--. +Appanage of time put in your keeping +For my far-off heritor to hear. + +I imagine how his eye will kindle +When he fondles you as I do now,-- +Bends above you wooing like a lover, +While you yield him all your heart knows how. + +I shall have been dust a thousand summers, +But my dear unprofitable dreams +Shall be part of all the good that thrills you +In the oversoul's orchestral themes. + +What is good? While God's unfinished opus +Multitudinous harmony obeys, +Evil is a dissonance not a discord, +Soon to be resolved to happier phrase,-- + +From time immemorial permitted, +Lest the too sweet melody grow tame, +And, untouched of pathos or of daring, +Hearts should never know what hearts proclaim: + +The unstained unconquerable valor, +The unflinching loyalties of love. +Or if evil be at worst a blunder +No musician ever could approve, + +The mere bungling of a hand that faltered,-- +Mine or his who bade the planets poise,-- +What a thing unthinkable for smallness +Is your frayed E string one touch destroys. + +How that sea-gull out across the bay there +Rows himself at leisure up the blue! +Evil the mere eddy from his wing-sweep, +Good the morning path he must pursue. + +Good, you think, and evil live together, +Both persisting on from change to change +Through interminable conservation,-- +Primal powers no ruin can derange? + +Deed and accident alike unending +By eternal consequence of cause? +No. For good is impetus to Godward; +Evil, but our ignorance of laws. + +Say I let you, spite of all endeavor, +Mar some nocturne by a single note; +Is there immortality of discord +In your failure to preserve the rote? + +When the sound shall pass my sense's confines, +Melt away to color or thin flame, +Does it still malinger in the prism, +Falsify the crucible with shame? + +Hardly. For the melody and marring, +When they put the dear oblivion on, +Are become as fresh clay for the potter, +Neither good nor bad, for use anon. + +Blighted rose and perfect shall commingle +In one excellence of garden mould. +Soul transfusing comeliness or blemish +Can alone lend beauty to the old. + +While the streams go down among the mountains, +Gathering rills and leaving sand behind, +Till at last the ocean sea receives them, +And they lose themselves among their kind, + +Man, the joy-born and the sorrow-nurtured, +(One with nothingness though all things be,-- +Great lord Sirius and the moving planets +Fleet as fire-germs in the torn-up sea,--) + +Linked to all his half-accomplished fellows, +Through unfrontiered provinces to range, +Man is but the morning dream of nature +Roused by some wild cadence weird and strange. + +Slowly therefore, Niccolo, and softly, +With more memories than tongue can tell, +Lower me down the slope of life, and leave me +Knowing the hereafter will be well. + +Close with, "Love is but the perfect knowledge, +The one thing no failure can befall; +Lovingkindness betters loving credence; +Love and only love is best of all." + +Beauty, beauty, beauty, sense and seeming, +With the soul of truth she calls her lord! +Stars and men the dust upon her garment; +Hope and fear the echoes of her word. + +How escape we then, the rainbow's brothers, +Endless being with each blade and sod? +Dust and shadow between whence and whither, +Part of the tranquillity of God. + + +[Illustration: THE JUGGLER] + +_The Juggler_ + +Look how he throws them up and up, +The beautiful golden balls! +They hang aloft in the purple air, +And there never is one that falls. + +He sends them hot from his steady hand, +He teaches them all their curves; +And whether the reach be little or long, +There never is one that swerves. + +Some, like the tiny red one there, +He never lets go far; +And some he has sent to the roof of the tent +To swim without a jar. + +So white and still they seem to hang, +You wonder if he forgot +To reckon the time of their return +And measure their golden lot. + +Can it be that, hurried or tired out, +The hand of the juggler shook? +O never you fear, his eye is clear, +He knows them all like a book. + +And they will home to his hand at last, +For he pulls them by a cord +Finer than silk and strong as fate, +That is just the bid of his word. + +Was ever there such a sight in the world? +Like a wonderful winding skein,-- +The way he tangles them up together +And ravels them out again! + +He has so many moving now, +You can hardly believe your eyes; +And yet they say he can handle twice +The number when he tries. + +You take your choice and give me mine, +I know the one for me, +It's that great bluish one low down +Like a ship's light out at sea. + +It has not moved for a minute or more. +The marvel that it can keep +As if it had been set there to spin +For a thousand years asleep! + +If I could have him at the inn +All by myself some night,-- +Inquire his country, and where in the world +He came by that cunning sleight! + +Where do you guess he learned the trick +To hold us gaping here, +Till our minds in the spell of his maze almost +Have forgotten the time of year? + +One never could have the least idea. +Yet why be disposed to twit +A fellow who does such wonderful things +With the merest lack of wit? + +Likely enough, when the show is done +And the balls all back in his hand, +He'll tell us why he is smiling so, +And we shall understand. + + + + +_Hack and Hew_ + + +Hack and Hew were the sons of God +In the earlier earth than now; +One at his right hand, one at his left, +To obey as he taught them how. + +And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb, +But both had the wild, wild heart; +And God's calm will was their burning will, +And the gist of their toil was art. + +They made the moon and the belted stars, +They set the sun to ride; +They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, +The wind and the purple tide. + +Both flower and beast beneath their hands +To beauty and speed outgrew,-- +The furious fumbling hand of Hack, +And the glorying hand of Hew. + +Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, +And painted him rosy brown; +And God himself blew hard in his eyes: +"Let them burn till they smoulder down!" + +And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew, +"We'll rest, for our toil is done." +But "Nay," the Master Workman said, +"For your toil is just begun. + +"And ye who served me of old as God +Shall serve me anew as man, +Till I compass the dream that is in my heart, +And perfect the vaster plan." + +And still the craftsman over his craft, +In the vague white light of dawn, +With God's calm will for his burning will, +While the mounting day comes on. + +Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, +Toils with those shadowy two,-- +The faltering restless hand of Hack, +And the tireless hand of Hew. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Night Express_ + + +Out through the hills of midnight, +Hurtling and thundering on, +The night express from the outer world +Speeds for the open of dawn. + +Out of the past and gloom-wrack, +Out of the dim and yore, +Freighted as train or caravan +Was never freighted before; + +Built when the Sphinx's query +Was new on the lips of peace; +Hurled through the aching and hollow years +Till time shall have release; + +Stealing and swift as a shadow, +Sinuous, urging, and blind, +Unpent as a joy or the flight of a bird, +With oblivion behind; + +Down to the morrow country +Into the unknown land! +And the Driver grips the throttle-bar; +Our lives are in his hand. + +The sleeping hills awake; +A tremor, a dread, a roar; +The terror is flying, is come, is past; +The hills can sleep once more. + +A moment the silence throbs, +The dark has a pulse of fire; +And then the wonder of time is gone, +A wraith and a desire. + +Demonish, toiling, grim, +In the ruddy furnace flare, +While the Driver fingers the throttle-bar, +Who stands at his elbow there? + +Can it be, this thing like a shred +Of the firmament torn away, +Is a boarded train that Death and his crew +Consorted to waylay? + +His wreckers, grinning and lean, +Are lurking at every curve; +But the Driver plays with the throttle-bar; +He has the iron nerve. + +We are travelling safe and warm, +With our little baggage of cares; +Why tease the peril that yet would come +Unbidden and unawares? + +The lonely are lonely still; +And the friend has another friend; +Only the idle heart inquires +The distance and the end. + +We pant up the climbing grade, +And coast on the tangent mile, +While the Driver toys with the throttle-bar, +And gathers the track in his smile. + +The dreamer weary of dreams, +The lover by love released, +Stricken and whole, and eager and sad, +Beauty and waif and priest, + +All these adventure forth, +Strangers though side by side, +With the tramp of time in the roaring wheels, +And haste in their shadowy stride. + +The star that races the hills +Shows yet the night is deep; +But the Driver humors the throttle-bar; +So, you and I may sleep. + +For He of the sleepless hand +Will drive till the night is done-- +Will watch till morning springs from the sea, +And the rails stand gold in the sun; + +Then he will slow to a stop +The tread of the driving-rod, +When the night express rolls into the dawn; +For the Driver's name is God. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_The Dustman_ + + +"Dustman, dustman!" +Through the deserted square he cries, +And babies put their rosy fists +Into their eyes. + +There's nothing out of No-man's-land +So drowsy since the world began, +As "Dustman, dustman, +Dustman." + +He goes his village round at dusk +From door to door, from day to day; +And when the children hear his step +They stop their play. + +"Dustman, dustman!" +Far up the street he is descried, +And soberly the twilight games +Are laid aside. + +"Dustman, dustman!" +There, Drowsyhead, the old refrain, +"Dustman, dustman!" +It goes again. + +Dustman, dustman, +Hurry by and let me sleep. +When most I wish for you to come, +You always creep. + +Dustman, dustman, +And when I want to play some more, +You never then are further off +Than the next door. + +"Dustman, dustman!" +He heckles down the echoing curb, +A step that neither hopes nor hates +Ever disturb. + +"Dustman, dustman!" +He never varies from one pace, +And the monotony of time +Is in his face. + +And some day, with more potent dust, +Brought from his home beyond the deep, +And gently scattered on our eyes, +We, too, shall sleep,-- + +Hearing the call we know so well +Fade softly out as it began, +"Dustman, dustman, +Dustman!" + + + + +_The Sleepers_ + + +The tall carnations down the garden walks +Bowed on their stalks. + +Said Jock-a-dreams to John-a-nods, +"What are the odds +That we shall wake up here within the sun, +When time is done, +And pick up all the treasures one by one +Our hands let fall in sleep?" "You have begun +To mutter in your dreams," +Said John-a-nods to Jock-a-dreams, +And they both slept again. + +The tall carnations in the sunset glow +Burned row on row. + +Said John-a-nods to Jock-a-dreams, +"To me it seems +A thousand years since last you stirred and spoke, +And I awoke. +Was that the wind then trying to provoke +His brothers in their blessed sleep?" "They choke, +Who mutter in their nods," +Said Jock-a-dreams to John-a-nods. +And they both slept again. + +The tall carnations only heard a sigh +Of dusk go by. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_At the Granite Gate_ + + +There paused to shut the door +A fellow called the Wind. +With mystery before, +And reticence behind, + +A portal waits me too +In the glad house of spring, +One day I shall pass through +And leave you wondering. + +It lies beyond the marge +Of evening or of prime, +Silent and dim and large, +The gateway of all time. + +There troop by night and day +My brothers of the field; +And I shall know the way +Their woodsongs have revealed. + +The dusk will hold some trace +Of all my radiant crew +Who vanished to that place, +Ephemeral as dew. + +Into the twilight dun, +Blue moth and dragon-fly +Adventuring alone,-- +Shall be more brave than I? + +There innocents shall bloom +And the white cherry tree, +With birch and willow plume +To strew the road for me. + +The wilding orioles then +Shall make the golden air +Heavy with joy again, +And the dark heart shall dare + +Resume the old desire, +The exigence of spring +To be the orange fire +That tips the world's gray wing. + +And the lone wood-bird--Hark, +The whippoorwill night long +Threshing the summer dark +With his dim flail of song!-- + +Shall be the lyric lift, +When all my senses creep, +To bear me through the rift +In the blue range of sleep. + +And so I pass beyond +The solace of your hand. +But ah, so brave and fond! +Within that morrow land, + +Where deed and daring fail, +But joy forevermore +Shall tremble and prevail +Against the narrow door, + +Where sorrow knocks too late, +And grief is overdue, +Beyond the granite gate +There will be thoughts of you. + + + + +[Illustration] + +_Exit Anima_ + + "Hospes comesque corporis, + Quae nunc abitis in loca?" + +Cease, Wind, to blow +And drive the peopled snow, +And move the haunted arras to and fro, +And moan of things I fear to know +Yet would rend from thee, Wind, before I go +On the blind pilgrimage. +Cease, Wind, to blow. + +Thy brother too, +I leave no print of shoe +In all these vasty rooms I rummage through, +No word at threshold, and no clue +Of whence I come and whither I pursue +The search of treasures lost +When time was new. + +Thou janitor +Of the dim curtained door, +Stir thy old bones along the dusty floor +Of this unlighted corridor. +Open! I have been this dark way before; +Thy hollow face shall peer +In mine no more. . . . . + +Sky, the dear sky! +Ah, ghostly house, good-by! +I leave thee as the gauzy dragon-fly +Leaves the green pool to try +His vast ambition on the vaster sky,-- +Such valor against death +Is deity. + +What, thou too here, +Thou haunting whisperer? +Spirit of beauty immanent and sheer, +Art thou that crooked servitor, +Done with disguise, from whose malignant leer +Out of the ghostly house +I fled in fear? + +O Beauty, how +I do repent me now, +Of all the doubt I ever could allow +To shake me like the aspen bough; +Nor once imagine that unsullied brow +Could wear the evil mask +And still be thou! + +Bone of thy bone, +Breath of thy breath alone, +I dare resume the silence of a stone, +Or explore still the vast unknown, +Like a bright sea-bird through the morning blown, +With all his heart one joy, +From zone to zone. + + + Scituate, June, 1895. + + * * * * * + * * * * + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Note: + +One block of ten lines from the title poem was printed without break: + + Yet while they last how actual they seem! + Their faces beam; + I give them all their names, + Bertram and Gilbert, Louis, Frank and James, + Each with his aims; + One thinks he is a poet, and writes verse + His friends rehearse; + Another is full of law; + A third sees pictures which his hand can draw + Without a flaw. + +This may be a typographical error. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Behind the Arras, by Bliss Carman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEHIND THE ARRAS *** + +***** This file should be named 18242.txt or 18242.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/4/18242/ + +Produced by Louise Hope, Thierry Alberto and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +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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