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diff --git a/27912.txt b/27912.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d499ec6 --- /dev/null +++ b/27912.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3075 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Gloucester Moors and Other Poems, by William Vaughn Moody + +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: Gloucester Moors and Other Poems + +Author: William Vaughn Moody + +Release Date: January 27, 2009 [EBook #27912] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLOUCESTER MOORS AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, C. St. Charleskindt and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +(This file was produced from images generously made +available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + + + + + +By William Vaughn Moody + + GLOUCESTER MOORS and Other Poems. 12mo, $1.25. + THE FIRE-BRINGER. 12mo, $1.10, _net_. Postage 8 cents. + THE MASQUE OF JUDGMENT. 12mo, $1.50. + + THE GREAT DIVIDE. 12mo, $1.00, _net_. Postage 10 cents. + THE FAITH HEALER. 12mo, $1.00, _net_. Postage 10 cents. + + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + + + + +GLOUCESTER MOORS + +AND OTHER POEMS + + +BY + + +WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY + + + + +[Illustration: TOUT BIEN OU RIEN] + + + + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY +The Riverside Press Cambridge + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + + + +NOTE + + +Several poems of this collection, including "An Ode in Time of +Hesitation," "The Brute," and "On a Soldier Fallen in the +Philippines," have appeared in the _Atlantic Monthly_; "Gloucester +Moors" and "Faded Pictures," in _Scribner's Magazine_; and "The Ride +Back," under a different title in the _Chap-Book_. The author is +indebted to the editors of these periodicals for leave to reprint. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + GLOUCESTER MOORS 1 + + GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT 5 + + ROAD-HYMN FOR THE START 9 + + AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION 12 + + THE QUARRY 22 + + ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES 24 + + UNTIL THE TROUBLING OF THE WATERS 26 + + JETSAM 39 + + THE BRUTE 49 + + THE MENAGERIE 55 + + THE GOLDEN JOURNEY 62 + + HEART'S WILD-FLOWER 65 + + HARMONICS 67 + + ON THE RIVER 68 + + THE BRACELET OF GRASS 70 + + THE DEPARTURE 72 + + FADED PICTURES 74 + + A GREY DAY 75 + + THE RIDE BACK 76 + + SONG-FLOWER AND POPPY 80 + + I. IN NEW YORK + + II. AT ASSISI + + HOW THE MEAD-SLAVE WAS SET FREE 86 + + A DIALOGUE IN PURGATORY 89 + + THE DAGUERREOTYPE 98 + + + + +POEMS + + + + +GLOUCESTER MOORS + + + A mile behind is Gloucester town + Where the fishing fleets put in, + A mile ahead the land dips down + And the woods and farms begin. + Here, where the moors stretch free + In the high blue afternoon, + Are the marching sun and talking sea, + And the racing winds that wheel and flee + On the flying heels of June. + + Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, + Blue is the quaker-maid, + The wild geranium holds its dew + Long in the boulder's shade. + Wax-red hangs the cup + From the huckleberry boughs, + In barberry bells the grey moths sup, + Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up + Sweet bowls for their carouse. + + Over the shelf of the sandy cove + Beach-peas blossom late. + By copse and cliff the swallows rove + Each calling to his mate. + Seaward the sea-gulls go, + And the land-birds all are here; + That green-gold flash was a vireo, + And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow + Was a scarlet tanager. + + This earth is not the steadfast place + We landsmen build upon; + From deep to deep she varies pace, + And while she comes is gone. + Beneath my feet I feel + Her smooth bulk heave and dip; + With velvet plunge and soft upreel + She swings and steadies to her keel + Like a gallant, gallant ship. + + These summer clouds she sets for sail, + The sun is her masthead light, + She tows the moon like a pinnace frail + Where her phosphor wake churns bright. + Now hid, now looming clear, + On the face of the dangerous blue + The star fleets tack and wheel and veer, + But on, but on does the old earth steer + As if her port she knew. + + God, dear God! Does she know her port, + Though she goes so far about? + Or blind astray, does she make her sport + To brazen and chance it out? + I watched when her captains passed: + She were better captainless. + Men in the cabin, before the mast, + But some were reckless and some aghast, + And some sat gorged at mess. + + By her battened hatch I leaned and caught + Sounds from the noisome hold,-- + Cursing and sighing of souls distraught + And cries too sad to be told. + Then I strove to go down and see; + But they said, "Thou art not of us!" + I turned to those on the deck with me + And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be: + Our ship sails faster thus." + + Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, + Blue is the quaker-maid, + The alder-clump where the brook comes through + Breeds cresses in its shade. + To be out of the moiling street + With its swelter and its sin! + Who has given to me this sweet, + And given my brother dust to eat? + And when will his wage come in? + + Scattering wide or blown in ranks, + Yellow and white and brown, + Boats and boats from the fishing banks + Come home to Gloucester town. + There is cash to purse and spend, + There are wives to be embraced, + Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, + And hearts to take and keep to the end,-- + O little sails, make haste! + + But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, + What harbor town for thee? + What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, + Shall crowd the banks to see? + Shall all the happy shipmates then + Stand singing brotherly? + Or shall a haggard ruthless few + Warp her over and bring her to, + While the many broken souls of men + Fester down in the slaver's pen, + And nothing to say or do? + + + + +GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT + + + At last the bird that sang so long + In twilight circles, hushed his song: + Above the ancient square + The stars came here and there. + + Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed, + But some amid the waiting crowd + Because of too much youth + Felt not that mystic ruth; + + And of these hearts my heart was one: + Nor when beneath the arch of stone + With dirge and candle flame + The cross of passion came, + + Did my glad spirit feel reproof, + Though on the awful tree aloof, + Unspiritual, dead, + Drooped the ensanguined Head. + + To one who stood where myrtles made + A little space of deeper shade + (As I could half descry, + A stranger, even as I), + + I said, "These youths who bear along + The symbols of their Saviour's wrong, + The spear, the garment torn, + The flaggel, and the thorn,-- + + "Why do they make this mummery? + Would not a brave man gladly die + For a much smaller thing + Than to be Christ and king?" + + He answered nothing, and I turned. + Throned in its hundred candles burned + The jeweled eidolon + Of her who bore the Son. + + The crowd was prostrate; still, I felt + No shame until the stranger knelt; + Then not to kneel, almost + Seemed like a vulgar boast. + + I knelt. The doll-face, waxen white, + Flowered out a living dimness; bright + Dawned the dear mortal grace + Of my own mother's face. + + When we were risen up, the street + Was vacant; all the air hung sweet + With lemon-flowers; and soon + The sky would hold the moon. + + More silently than new-found friends + To whom much silence makes amends + For the much babble vain + While yet their lives were twain, + + We walked along the odorous hill. + The light was little yet; his will + I could not see to trace + Upon his form or face. + + So when aloft the gold moon broke, + I cried, heart-stung. As one who woke + He turned unto my cries + The anguish of his eyes. + + "Friend! Master!" I cried falteringly, + "Thou seest the thing they make of thee. + Oh, by the light divine + My mother shares with thine, + + "I beg that I may lay my head + Upon thy shoulder and be fed + With thoughts of brotherhood!" + So through the odorous wood, + + More silently than friends new-found + We walked. At the first meadow bound + His figure ashen-stoled + Sank in the moon's broad gold. + + + + +ROAD-HYMN FOR THE START + + + Leave the early bells at chime, + Leave the kindled hearth to blaze, + Leave the trellised panes where children linger out the waking-time, + Leave the forms of sons and fathers trudging through the misty ways, + Leave the sounds of mothers taking up their sweet laborious days. + + Pass them by! even while our soul + Yearns to them with keen distress. + Unto them a part is given; we will strive to see the whole. + Dear shall be the banquet table where their singing spirits press; + Dearer be our sacred hunger, and our pilgrim loneliness. + + We have felt the ancient swaying + Of the earth before the sun, + On the darkened marge of midnight heard sidereal rivers playing; + Rash it was to bathe our souls there, but we plunged and all was done. + That is lives and lives behind us--lo, our journey is begun! + + Careless where our face is set, + Let us take the open way. + What we are no tongue has told us: Errand-goers who forget? + Soldiers heedless of their harry? Pilgrim people gone astray? + We have heard a voice cry "Wander!" That was all we heard it say. + + Ask no more: 't is much, 't is much! + Down the road the day-star calls; + Touched with change in the wide heavens, like a leaf the frost winds + touch, + Flames the failing moon a moment, ere it shrivels white and falls; + Hid aloft, a wild throat holdeth sweet and sweeter intervals. + + Leave him still to ease in song + Half his little heart's unrest: + Speech is his, but we may journey toward the life for which we long. + God, who gives the bird its anguish, maketh nothing manifest, + But upon our lifted foreheads pours the boon of endless quest. + + + + +AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION + + +(After seeing at Boston the statue of Robert Gould Shaw, killed while +storming Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863, at the head of the first enlisted +negro regiment, the 54th Massachusetts.) + + + I + + Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made + To thrill the heedless passer's heart with awe, + And set here in the city's talk and trade + To the good memory of Robert Shaw, + This bright March morn I stand, + And hear the distant spring come up the land; + Knowing that what I hear is not unheard + Of this boy soldier and his negro band, + For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead, + For all the fatal rhythm of their tread. + The land they died to save from death and shame + Trembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name, + And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred. + + + II + + Through street and mall the tides of people go + Heedless; the trees upon the Common show + No hint of green; but to my listening heart + The still earth doth impart + Assurance of her jubilant emprise, + And it is clear to my long-searching eyes + That love at last has might upon the skies. + The ice is runneled on the little pond; + A telltale patter drips from off the trees; + The air is touched with southland spiceries, + As if but yesterday it tossed the frond + Of pendent mosses where the live-oaks grow + Beyond Virginia and the Carolines, + Or had its will among the fruits and vines + Of aromatic isles asleep beyond + Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. + + + III + + Soon shall the Cape Ann children shout in glee, + Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse; + Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild goose + Go honking northward over Tennessee; + West from Oswego to Sault Sainte-Marie, + And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung, + And yonder where, gigantic, willful, young, + Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates, + With restless violent hands and casual tongue + Moulding her mighty fates, + The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen; + And like a larger sea, the vital green + Of springing wheat shall vastly be outflung + Over Dakota and the prairie states. + By desert people immemorial + On Arizonan mesas shall be done + Dim rites unto the thunder and the sun; + Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice + More splendid, when the white Sierras call + Unto the Rockies straightway to arise + And dance before the unveiled ark of the year, + Sounding their windy cedars as for shawms, + Unrolling rivers clear + For flutter of broad phylacteries; + While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas + That watch old sluggish glaciers downward creep + To fling their icebergs thundering from the steep, + And Mariposa through the purple calms + Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms + Where East and West are met,-- + A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set + To say that East and West are twain, + With different loss and gain: + The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet. + + + IV + + Alas! what sounds are these that come + Sullenly over the Pacific seas,-- + Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumb + The season's half-awakened ecstasies? + Must I be humble, then, + Now when my heart hath need of pride? + Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men; + By loving much the land for which they died + I would be justified. + My spirit was away on pinions wide + To soothe in praise of her its passionate mood + And ease it of its ache of gratitude. + Too sorely heavy is the debt they lay + On me and the companions of my day. + I would remember now + My country's goodliness, make sweet her name. + Alas! what shade art thou + Of sorrow or of blame + Liftest the lyric leafage from her brow, + And pointest a slow finger at her shame? + + + V + + Lies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wage + Are noble, and our battles still are won + By justice for us, ere we lift the gage, + We have not sold our loftiest heritage. + The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat + And scramble in the market-place of war; + Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. + Here is her witness: this, her perfect son, + This delicate and proud New England soul + Who leads despised men, with just-unshackled feet, + Up the large ways where death and glory meet, + To show all peoples that our shame is done, + That once more we are clean and spirit-whole. + + + VI + + Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand + All night he lay, speaking some simple word + From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard, + Holding each poor life gently in his hand + And breathing on the base rejected clay + Till each dark face shone mystical and grand + Against the breaking day; + And lo, the shard the potter cast away + Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine + Fulfilled of the divine + Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred. + Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed + Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light, + Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed, + Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed,-- + They swept, and died like freemen on the height, + Like freemen, and like men of noble breed; + And when the battle fell away at night + By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust + Obscurely in a common grave with him + The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust. + Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb + In nature's busy old democracy + To flush the mountain laurel when she blows + Sweet by the southern sea, + And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose:-- + The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew + This mountain fortress for no earthly hold + Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old + Of spiritual wrong, + Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, + Expugnable but by a nation's rue + And bowing down before that equal shrine + By all men held divine, + Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign. + + + VII + + O bitter, bitter shade! + Wilt thou not put the scorn + And instant tragic question from thine eyes? + Do thy dark brows yet crave + That swift and angry stave-- + Unmeet for this desirous morn-- + That I have striven, striven to evade? + Gazing on him, must I not deem they err + Whose careless lips in street and shop aver + As common tidings, deeds to make his cheek + Flush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak? + Surely some elder singer would arise, + Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mourn + Above this people when they go astray. + Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn? + Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away? + I will not and I dare not yet believe! + Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve, + And the spring-laden breeze + Out of the gladdening west is sinister + With sounds of nameless battle overseas; + Though when we turn and question in suspense + If these things be indeed after these ways, + And what things are to follow after these, + Our fluent men of place and consequence + Fumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase, + Or for the end-all of deep arguments + Intone their dull commercial liturgies-- + I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut! + I will not hear the thin satiric praise + And muffled laughter of our enemies, + Bidding us never sheathe our valiant sword + Till we have changed our birthright for a gourd + Of wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut; + Showing how wise it is to cast away + The symbols of our spiritual sway, + That so our hands with better ease + May wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys. + + + VIII + + Was it for this our fathers kept the law? + This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth? + Are we the eagle nation Milton saw + Mewing its mighty youth, + Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth, + And be a swift familiar of the sun + Where aye before God's face his trumpets run? + Or have we but the talons and the maw, + And for the abject likeness of our heart + Shall some less lordly bird be set apart?-- + Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat? + Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat? + + + IX + + Ah no! + We have not fallen so. + We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know! + 'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry + Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!" + Then Alabama heard, + And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho + Shouted a burning word. + Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred, + And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, + East, west, and south, and north, + Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young + Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, + By the unforgotten names of eager boys + Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung + With the old mystic joys + And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on, + But that the heart of youth is generous,-- + We charge you, ye who lead us, + Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain! + Turn not their new-world victories to gain! + One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays + Of their dear praise, + One jot of their pure conquest put to hire, + The implacable republic will require; + With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon, + Or subtly, coming as a thief at night, + But surely, very surely, slow or soon + That insult deep we deeply will requite. + Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity! + For save we let the island men go free, + Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts + Will curse us from the lamentable coasts + Where walk the frustrate dead. + The cup of trembling shall be drained quite, + Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, + With ashes of the hearth shall be made white + Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent; + Then on your guiltier head + Shall our intolerable self-disdain + Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; + For manifest in that disastrous light + We shall discern the right + And do it, tardily.--O ye who lead, + Take heed! + Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite. + + 1900. + + + + +THE QUARRY + + + Between the rice swamps and the fields of tea + I met a sacred elephant, snow-white. + Upon his back a huge pagoda towered + Full of brass gods and food of sacrifice. + Upon his forehead sat a golden throne, + The massy metal twisted into shapes + Grotesque, antediluvian, such as move + In myth or have their broken images + Sealed in the stony middle of the hills. + A peacock spread his thousand dyes to screen + The yellow sunlight from the head of one + Who sat upon the throne, clad stiff with gems, + Heirlooms of dynasties of buried kings,-- + Himself the likeness of a buried king, + With frozen gesture and unfocused eyes. + The trappings of the beast were over-scrawled + With broideries--sea-shapes and flying things, + Fan-trees and dwarfed nodosities of pine, + Mixed with old alphabets, and faded lore + Fallen from ecstatic mouths before the Flood, + Or gathered by the daughters when they walked + Eastward in Eden with the Sons of God + Whom love and the deep moon made garrulous. + Between the carven tusks his trunk hung dead; + Blind as the eyes of pearl in Buddha's brow + His beaded eyes stared thwart upon the road; + And feebler than the doting knees of eld, + His joints, of size to swing the builder's crane + Across the war-walls of the Anakim, + Made vain and shaken haste. Good need was his + To hasten: panting, foaming, on the slot + Came many brutes of prey, their several hates + Laid by until the sharing of the spoil. + Just as they gathered stomach for the leap, + The sun was darkened, and wide-balanced wings + Beat downward on the trade-wind from the sea. + A wheel of shadow sped along the fields + And o'er the dreaming cities. Suddenly + My heart misgave me, and I cried aloud, + "Alas! What dost thou here? What dost _thou_ here?" + The great beasts and the little halted sharp, + Eyed the grand circler, doubting his intent. + Straightway the wind flawed and he came about, + Stooping to take the vanward of the pack; + Then turned, between the chasers and the chased, + Crying a word I could not understand,-- + But stiller-tongued, with eyes somewhat askance, + They settled to the slot and disappeared. + + 1900. + + + + +ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES + + + Streets of the roaring town, + Hush for him, hush, be still! + He comes, who was stricken down + Doing the word of our will. + Hush! Let him have his state, + Give him his soldier's crown. + The grists of trade can wait + Their grinding at the mill, + But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown. + Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of + stone. + + Toll! Let the great bells toll + Till the clashing air is dim. + Did we wrong this parted soul? + We will make it up to him. + Toll! Let him never guess + What work we set him to. + Laurel, laurel, yes; + He did what we bade him do. + Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; + Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own + heart's-blood. + + A flag for the soldier's bier + Who dies that his land may live; + O, banners, banners here, + That he doubt not nor misgive! + That he heed not from the tomb + The evil days draw near + When the nation, robed in gloom, + With its faithless past shall strive. + Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island + mark, + Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned + in the dark. + + + + +UNTIL THE TROUBLING OF THE WATERS + + + Two hours, two hours: God give me strength for it! + He who has given so much strength to me + And nothing to my child, must give to-day + What more I need to try and save my child + And get for him the life I owe to him. + To think that I may get it for him now, + Before he knows how much he might have missed + That other boys have got! The bitterest thought + Of all that plagued me when he came was this, + How some day he would see the difference, + And drag himself to me with puzzled eyes + To ask me why it was. He would have been + Cruel enough to do it, knowing not + That was the question my rebellious heart + Cried over and over one whole year to God, + And got no answer and no help at all. + If he had asked me, what could I have said? + What single word could I have found to say + To hide me from his searching, puzzled gaze? + Some coward thing at best, never the truth; + The truth I never could have told him. No, + I never could have said, "God gave you me + To fashion you a body, right and strong, + With sturdy little limbs and chest and neck + For fun and fighting with your little mates, + Great feats and voyages in the breathless world + Of out-of-doors,--He gave you me for this, + And I was such a bungler, that is all!" + O, the old lie--that thought was not the worst. + I never have been truthful with myself. + For by the door where lurked one ghostly thought + I stood with crazy hands to thrust it back + If it should dare to peep and whisper out + Unbearable things about me, hearing which + The women passing in the streets would turn + To pity me and scold me with their eyes, + Who was so bad a mother and so slow + To learn to help God do his wonder in her + That she--O my sweet baby! It was not + The fear that you would see the difference + Between you and the other boys and girls; + No, no, it was the dimmer, wilder fear, + That you might never see it, never look + Out of your tiny baby-house of mind, + But sit your life through, quiet in the dark, + Smiling and nodding at what was not there! + A foolish fear: God could not punish so. + Yet until yesterday I thought He would. + My soul was always cowering at the blow + I saw suspended, ready to be dealt + The moment that I showed my fear too much. + Therefore I hid it from Him all I could, + And only stole a shaking glance at it + Sometimes in the dead minutes before dawn + When He forgets to watch. Till yesterday. + For yesterday was wonderful and strange + From the beginning. When I wakened first + And looked out at the window, the last snow + Was gone from earth; about the apple-trees + Hung a faint mist of bloom; small sudden green + Had run and spread and rippled everywhere + Over the fields; and in the level sun + Walked something like a presence and a power, + Uttering hopes and loving-kindnesses + To all the world, but chiefly unto me. + It walked before me when I went to work, + And all day long the noises of the mill + Were spun upon a core of golden sound, + Half-spoken words and interrupted songs + Of blessed promise, meant for all the world, + But most for me, because I suffered most. + The shooting spindles, the smooth-humming wheels, + The rocking webs, seemed toiling to some end + Beneficent and human known to them, + And duly brought to pass in power and love. + The faces of the girls and men at work + Met mine with intense greeting, veiled at once, + As if they knew a secret they must keep + For fear the joy would harm me if they told + Before some inkling filtered to my mind + In roundabout ways. When the day's work was done + There lay a special silence on the fields; + And, as I passed, the bushes and the trees, + The very ruts and puddles of the road + Spoke to each other, saying it was she, + The happy woman, the elected one, + The vessel of strange mercy and the sign + Of many loving wonders done in Heaven + To help the piteous earth. + + At last I stopped + And looked about me in sheer wonderment. + What did it mean? What did they want with me? + What was the matter with the evening now + That it was just as bound to make me glad + As morning and the live-long day had been? + Me, who had quite forgot what gladness was, + Who had no right to anything but toil, + And food and sleep for strength to toil again, + And that fierce frightened anguish of my love + For the poor little spirit I had wronged + With life that was no life. What had befallen + Since yesterday? No need to stop and ask! + Back there in the dark places of my mind + Where I had thrust it, fearing to believe + An unbelievable mercy, shone the news + Told by the village neighbors coming home + Last night from the great city, of a man + Arisen, like the first evangelists, + With power to heal the bodies of the sick, + In testimony of his master Christ, + Who heals the soul when it is sick with sin. + Could such a thing be true in these hard days? + Was help still sent in such a way as that? + No, no! I did not dare to think of it, + Feeling what weakness and despair would come + After the crazy hope broke under me. + I turned and started homeward, faster now, + But never fast enough to leave behind + The voices and the troubled happiness + That still kept mounting, mounting like a sea, + And singing far-off like a rush of wings. + Far down the road a yellow spot of light + Shone from my cottage window, rayless yet, + Where the last sunset crimson caught the panes. + Alice had lit the lamp before she went; + Her day of pity and unmirthful play + Was over, and her young heart free to live + Until to-morrow brought her nursing-task + Again, and made her feel how dark and still + That life could be to others which to her + Was full of dreams that beckoned, reaching hands, + And thrilling invitations young girls hear. + My boy was sleeping, little mind and frame + More tired just lying there awake two hours + Than with a whole day's romp he should have been. + He would not know his mother had come home; + But after supper I would sit awhile + Beside his bed, and let my heart have time + For that worst love that stabs and breaks and kills. + This I thought over to myself by rote + And habit, but I could not feel my thoughts; + For still that dim unmeaning happiness + Kept mounting, mounting round me like a sea, + And singing inward like a wind of wings. + + Before I lifted up the latch, I knew. + I felt no fear; the One who waited there + In the low lamplight by the bed, had come + Because I was his sister and in need. + My word had got to Him somehow at last, + And He had come to help me or to tell + Where help was to be found. It was not strange. + Strange only He had stayed away so long; + But that should be forgotten--He was here. + I pushed the door wide open and looked in. + He had been kneeling by the bed, and now, + Half-risen, kissed my boy upon the lips, + Then turned and smiled and pointed with his hand. + I must have fallen on the threshold stone, + For I remember that I felt, not saw, + The resurrection glory and the peace + Shed from his face and raiment as He went + Out by the door into the evening street. + But when I looked, the place about the bed + Was yet all bathed in light, and in the midst + My boy lay changed,--no longer clothed upon + With scraps and shreds of life, but like the child + Of some most fortunate mother. In a breath + The image faded. There he lay again + The same as always; and the light was gone. + I sank with moans and cries beside the bed. + The cruelty, O Christ, the cruelty! + To come at last and then to go like that, + Leaving the darkness deeper than before! + Then, though I heard no sound, I grew aware + Of some one standing by the open door + Among the dry vines rustling in the porch. + My heart laughed suddenly. He had come back! + He had come back to make the vision true. + He had not meant to mock me: God was God, + And Christ was Christ; there was no falsehood there. + I heard a quiet footstep cross the room + And felt a hand laid gently on my hair,-- + A human hand, worn hard by daily toil, + Heavy with life-long struggle after bread. + Alice's father. The kind homely voice + Had in it such strange music that I dreamed + Perhaps it was the Other speaking in him, + Because His own bright form had made me swoon + With its too much of glory. What he brought + Was news as good as ever heavenly lips + Had the dear right to utter. He had been + All day among the crowds of curious folk + From the great city and the country-side + Gathered to watch the Healer do his work + Of mercy on the sick and halt and blind, + And with his very eyes had seen such things + As awestruck men had witnessed long ago + In Galilee, and writ of in the Book. + To-morrow morning he would take me there + If I had strength and courage to believe. + It might be there was hope; he could not say, + But knew what he had seen. When he was gone + I lay for hours, letting the solemn waves + Thundering joy go over and over me. + + Just before midnight baby fretted, woke; + He never yet has slept a whole night through + Without his food and petting. As I sat + Feeding and petting him and singing soft, + I felt a jealousy begin to ache + And worry at my heartstrings, hushing down + The gladness. Jealousy of what or whom? + I hardly knew, or could not put in words; + At least it seemed too foolish and too wrong + When said, and so I shut the thought away. + Only, next minute, it came stealing back. + After the change, would my boy be the same + As this one? Would he be my boy at all, + And not another's--his who gave the life + I could not give, or did not anyhow? + How could I look in his new eyes to claim + The whole of him, the body and the breath, + When some one not his mother, a strange man, + Had clothed him in that beauty of the flesh-- + Perhaps (for who could know?), perhaps, by some + Hateful disfiguring miracle, had even + Transformed his spirit to a better one, + Better, but not the same I prayed for him + Down out of Heaven through the sleepless nights,-- + The best that God would send to such as me. + I tried to strangle back the wicked pain; + Fancied him changed and tried to love him so. + No use; it was another, not my child, + Not my frail, broken, priceless little one, + My cup of anguish, and my trembling star + Hung small and sad and sweet above the earth, + So sure to fall but for my cherishing! + + When he had dropped asleep again, I rose + And wrestled with the sinful selfishness, + The dark injustice, the unnatural pain. + Fevered at last with pacing to and fro, + I raised the bedroom window and leaned out. + The white moon, low behind the sycamores, + Silvered the silent country; not a voice + Of all the myriads summer moves to sing + Had yet awakened; in the level moon + Walked that same presence I had heard at dawn + Uttering hopes and loving-kindnesses, + But now, dispirited and reticent, + It walked the moonlight like a homeless thing. + O, how to cleanse me of the cowardice! + How to be just! Was I a mother, then, + A mother, and not love her child as well + As her own covetous and morbid love? + Was it for this the Comforter had come, + Smiling at me and pointing with His hand? + --What had He meant to have me think or do, + Smiling and pointing? + + All at once I saw + A way to save my darling from myself + And make atonement for my grudging love! + Under the sycamores and up the hill + And down across the river, the wet road + Went stretching cityward, silvered in the moon. + I who had shrunk from sacrifice, even I, + Who had refused God's blessing for my boy, + Would take him in my arms and carry him + Up to the altar of the miracle. + I would not wait for daylight, nor the help + Of any human friendship; I alone, + Through the still miles of country, I alone, + Only my arms to shield him and my feet + To bear him: he should have no one to thank + But me for that. I knew the way was long, + But knew strength would be given. So I came. + Soon the stars failed; the late moon faded too: + I think my heart had sucked their beams from them + To build more blue amid the murky night + Its own miraculous day. From creeks and fields + The fog climbed slowly, blotted out the road; + And hid the signposts telling of the town; + After a while rain fell, with sleet and snow. + What did I care? Baby was snug and dry. + Some day, when I was telling him of this, + He would but hug me closer, hearing how + The night conspired against us. Better hard + Than easy, then: I almost felt regret + My body was so capable and strong + To do its errand. Honeyed drop by drop, + The ghostly jealousy, loosening at my breast, + Distilled into a dew of quiet tears + And fell with splash of music in the wells + And on the hidden rivers of my soul. + + The hardest part was coming through the town. + The country, even when it hindered most, + Seemed conscious of the thing I went to find. + The rocks and bushes looming through the mist + Questioned and acquiesced and understood; + The trees and streams believed; the wind and rain, + Even they, for all their temper, had some words + Of faith and comfort. But the glaring streets, + The dizzy traffic, the piled merchandise, + The giant buildings swarming with fierce life-- + Cared nothing for me. They had never heard + Of me nor of my business. When I asked + My way, a shade of pity or contempt + Showed through men's kindness--for they all were kind. + Daunted and chilled and very sick at heart, + I walked the endless pavements. But at last + The streets grew quieter; the houses seemed + As if they might be homes where people lived; + Then came the factories and cottages, + And all was well again. Much more than well, + For many sick and broken went my way, + Alone or helped along by loving hands; + And from a thousand eyes the famished hope + Looked out at mine--wild, patient, querulous, + But always hope and hope, a thousand tongues + Speaking one word in many languages. + + In two hours He will come, they say, will stand + There on the steps, above the waiting crowd, + And touch with healing hands whoever asks + Believingly, in spirit and in truth. + Can such a mercy be, in these hard days? + Is help still sent in such a way as that? + Christ, I believe; pity my unbelief! + + + + +JETSAM + + + I wonder can this be the world it was + At sunset? I remember the sky fell + Green as pale meadows, at the long street-ends, + But overhead the smoke-wrack hugged the roofs + As if to shut the city from God's eyes + Till dawn should quench the laughter and the lights. + Beneath the gas flare stolid faces passed, + Too dull for sin; old loosened lips set hard + To drain the stale lees from the cup of sense; + Or if a young face yearned from out the mist + Made by its own bright hair, the eyes were wan + With desolate fore-knowledge of the end. + My life lay waste about me: as I walked, + From the gross dark of unfrequented streets + The face of my own youth peered forth at me, + Struck white with pity at the thing I was; + And globed in ghostly fire, thrice-virginal, + With lifted face star-strong, went one who sang + Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle. + Out of the void dark came my face and hers + One vivid moment--then the street was there; + Bloat shapes and mean eyes blotted the sear dusk; + And in the curtained window of a house + Whence sin reeked on the night, a shameful head + Was silhouetted black as Satan's face + Against eternal fires. I stumbled on + Down the dark slope that reaches riverward, + Stretching blind hands to find the throat of God + And crush Him in his lies. The river lay + Coiled in its factory filth and few lean trees. + All was too hateful--I could not die there! + I whom the Spring had strained unto her breast, + Whose lips had felt the wet vague lips of dawn. + So under the thin willows' leprous shade + And through the tangled ranks of riverweed + I pushed--till lo, God heard me! I came forth + Where, 'neath the shoreless hush of region light, + Through a new world, undreamed of, undesired, + Beyond imagining of man's weary heart, + Far to the white marge of the wondering sea + This still plain widens, and this moon rains down + Insufferable ecstasy of peace. + + My heart is man's heart, strong to bear this night's + Unspeakable affliction of mute love + That crazes lesser things. The rocks and clods + Dissemble, feign a busy intercourse; + The bushes deal in shadowy subterfuge, + Lurk dull, dart spiteful out, make heartless signs, + Utter awestricken purpose of no sense,-- + But I walk quiet, crush aside the hands + Stretched furtively to drag me madmen's ways. + I know the thing they suffer, and the tricks + They must be at to help themselves endure. + I would not be too boastful; I am weak, + Too weak to put aside the utter ache + Of this lone splendor long enough to see + Whether the moon is still her white strange self + Or something whiter, stranger, even the face + Which by the changed face of my risen youth + Sang, globed in fire, her golden canticle. + I dare not look again; another gaze + Might drive me to the wavering coppice there, + Where bat-winged madness brushed me, the wild laugh + Of naked nature crashed across my blood. + So rank it was with earthy presences, + Faun-shapes in goatish dance, young witches' eyes + Slanting deep invitation, whinnying calls + Ambiguous, shocks and whirlwinds of wild mirth,-- + They had undone me in the darkness there, + But that within me, smiting through my lids + Lowered to shut in the thick whirl of sense, + The dumb light ached and rummaged, and with out, + The soaring splendor summoned me aloud + To leave the low dank thickets of the flesh + Where man meets beast and makes his lair with him, + For spirit reaches of the strenuous vast, + Where stalwart stars reap grain to make the bread + God breaketh at his tables and is glad. + I came out in the moonlight cleansed and strong, + And gazed up at the lyric face to see + All sweetness tasted of in earthen cups + Ere it be dashed and spilled, all radiance flung + Beyond experience, every benison dream, + Treasured and mystically crescent there. + + O, who will shield me from her? Who will place + A veil between me and the fierce in-throng + Of her inexorable benedicite? + See, I have loved her well and been with her! + Through tragic twilights when the stricken sea + Groveled with fear, or when she made her throne + In imminent cities built of gorgeous winds + And paved with lightnings; or when the sobering stars + Would lead her home 'mid wealth of plundered May + Along the violet slopes of evensong. + Of all the sights that starred the dreamy year, + For me one sight stood peerless and apart: + Bright rivers tacit; low hills prone and dumb; + Forests that hushed their tiniest voice to hear; + Skies for the unutterable advent robed + In purple like the opening iris buds; + And by some lone expectant pool, one tree + Whose gray boughs shivered with excess of awe,-- + As with preluding gush of amber light, + And herald trumpets softly lifted through, + Across the palpitant horizon marge + Crocus-filleted came the singing moon. + Out of her changing lights I wove my youth + A place to dwell in, sweet and spiritual, + And all the bitter years of my exile + My heart has called afar off unto her. + Lo, after many days love finds its own! + The futile adorations, the waste tears, + The hymns that fluttered low in the false dawn, + She has uptreasured as a lover's gifts; + They are the mystic garment that she wears + Against the bridal, and the crocus flowers + She twined her brow with at the going forth; + They are the burden of the song she made + In coming through the quiet fields of space, + And breathe between her passion-parted lips + Calling me out along the flowering road + Which summers through the dimness of the sea. + + Hark, where the deep feels round its thousand shores + To find remembered respite, and far drawn + Through weed-strewn shelves and crannies of the coast + The myriad silence yearns to myriad speech. + O sea that yearns a day, shall thy tongues be + So eloquent, and heart, shall all thy tongues + Be dumb to speak thy longing? Say I hold + Life as a broken jewel in my hand, + And fain would buy a little love with it + For comfort, say I fain would make it shine + Once in remembering eyes ere it be dust,-- + Were life not worthy spent? Then what of this, + When all my spirit hungers to repay + The beauty that has drenched my soul with peace? + Once at a simple turning of the way + I met God walking; and although the dawn + Was large behind Him, and the morning stars + Circled and sang about his face as birds + About the fieldward morning cottager, + My coward heart said faintly, "Let us haste! + Day grows and it is far to market-town." + Once where I lay in darkness after fight, + Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of song + Searching and searching at my muffled sense + Until it shook sweet pangs through all my blood, + And I beheld one globed in ghostly fire + Singing, star-strong, her golden canticle; + And her mouth sang, "The hosts of Hate roll past, + A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun; + Love's battle comes on the wide wings of storm, + From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?" + Then, since the splendor of her sword-bright gaze + Was heavy on me with yearning and with scorn + My sick heart muttered, "Yea, the little strife, + Yet see, the grievous wounds! I fain would sleep." + O heart, shalt thou not once be strong to go + Where all sweet throats are calling, once be brave + To slake with deed thy dumbness? Let us go + The path her singing face looms low to point, + Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame + Of silver on the brown grope of the flood; + For all my spirit's soilure is put by + And all my body's soilure, lacking now + But the last lustral sacrament of death + To make me clean for those near-searching eyes + That question yonder whether all be well, + And pause a little ere they dare rejoice. + + Question and be thou answered, passionate face! + For I am worthy, worthy now at last + After so long unworth; strong now at last + To give myself to beauty and be saved; + Now, being man, to give myself to thee, + As once the tumult of my boyish heart + Companioned thee with rapture through the world, + Forth from a land whereof no poet's lip + Made mention how the leas were lily-sprent, + Into a land God's eyes had looked not on + To love the tender bloom upon the hills. + To-morrow, when the fishers come at dawn + Upon that shell of me the sea has tossed + To land, as fit for earth to use again, + Men, meeting at the shops and corner streets, + Will speak a word of pity, glossing o'er + With altered accent, dubious sweep of hand, + Their virile, just contempt for one who failed. + But they can never cast my earnings up, + Who know so well my losses. Even you + Who in the mild light of the spirit walk + And hold yourselves acquainted with the truth, + Be not too swift to judge and cast me out! + You shall find other, nobler ways than mine + To work your soul's redemption,--glorious noons + Of battle 'neath the heaven-suspended sign, + And nightly refuge 'neath God's aegis-rim; + Increase of wisdom, and acquaintance held + With the heart's austerities; still governance, + And ripening of the blood in the weekday sun + To make the full-orbed consecrated fruit + At life's end for the Sabbath supper meet. + I shall not sit beside you at that feast, + For ere a seedling of my golden tree + Pushed off its petals to get room to grow, + I stripped the boughs to make an April gaud + And wreathe a spendthrift garland for my hair. + But mine is not the failure God deplores; + For I of old am beauty's votarist, + Long recreant, often foiled and led astray, + But resolute at last to seek her there + Where most she does abide, and crave with tears + That she assoil me of my blemishment. + Low looms her singing face to point the way, + Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame + Of silver on the brown grope of the flood. + The stars are for me; the horizon wakes + Its pilgrim chanting; and the little sand + Grows musical of hope beneath my feet. + The waves that leap to meet my swimming breast + Gossip sweet secrets of the light-drenched way, + And when the deep throbs of the rising surge + Pulse upward with me, and a rain of wings + Blurs round the moon's pale place, she stoops to reach + Still welcome of bright hands across the wave, + And sings low, low, globed all in ghostly fire, + Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle. + + + + +THE BRUTE + + + Through his might men work their wills. + They have boweled out the hills + For food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought; + And they fling him, hour by hour, + Limbs of men to give him power; + Brains of men to give him cunning; and for dainties to devour + Children's souls, the little worth; hearts of women, cheaply bought: + He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought. + + For about the noisy land, + Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand, + His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in lust of pride + O'er the stubborn things that he, + Breaks to dust and brings to be. + Some he mightily establishes, some flings down utterly. + There is thunder in his stride, nothing ancient can abide, + When he hales the hills together and bridles up the tide. + + Quietude and loveliness, + Holy sights that heal and bless, + They are scattered and abolished where his iron hoof is set; + When he splashes through the brae + Silver streams are choked with clay, + When he snorts the bright cliffs crumble and the woods go down like + hay; + He lairs in pleasant cities, and the haggard people fret + Squalid 'mid their new-got riches, soot-begrimed and desolate. + + They who caught and bound him tight + Laughed exultant at his might, + Saying, "Now behold, the good time comes for the weariest and the + least! + We will use this lusty knave: + No more need for men to slave; + We may rise and look about us and have knowledge ere the grave." + But the Brute said in his breast, "Till the mills I grind have ceased, + The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast! + + "On the strong and cunning few + Cynic favors I will strew; + I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies; + From the patient and the low + I will take the joys they know; + They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go. + Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise; + Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies. + + "I will burn and dig and hack + Till the heavens suffer lack; + God shall feel a pleasure fail him, crying to his cherubim, + 'Who hath flung yon mud-ball there + Where my world went green and fair?' + I shall laugh and hug me, hearing how his sentinels declare, + ''T is the Brute they chained to labor! He has made the bright earth + dim. + Store of wares and pelf a plenty, but they got no good of him.'" + + So he plotted in his rage: + So he deals it, age by age. + But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell; + Lo, a still and pleasant voice bade them none the less rejoice, + For the Brute must bring the good time on; he has no other choice. + He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding well + He must work them out salvation ere they send him back to hell. + + All the desert that he made + He must treble bless with shade, + In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain; + All the strongholds that he built + For the powers of greed and guilt-- + He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with + silt; + He must make the temples clean for the gods to come again, + And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain. + + In a very cunning tether + He must lead the tyrant weather; + He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race; + He must cast out hate and fear, + Dry away each fruitless tear, + And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear. + He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place; + He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face, + On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace. + + Then, perhaps, at the last day, + They will whistle him away, + Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of God, and say, + "Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed! + Let him not be scourged or blamed. + Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world + reclaimed! + Honor Thou thy servants' servant; let thy justice now be shown." + Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own, + 'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the armpost of the Throne. + + + + +THE MENAGERIE + + + Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut + Such capers every day! I 'm just about + Mellow, but then--There goes the tent-flap shut. + Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snout + Was twitching when the keeper turned me out. + + That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold. + Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephant + Squeals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold, + And jabber that it 's rain water they want. + (It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.) + + I 'll foot it home, to try and make believe + I 'm sober. After this I stick to beer, + And drop the circus when the sane folks leave. + A man 's a fool to look at things too near: + They look back, and begin to cut up queer. + + Beasts do, at any rate; especially + Wild devils caged. They have the coolest way + Of being something else than what you see: + You pass a sleek young zebra nosing hay, + A nylghau looking bored and distingue,-- + + And think you 've seen a donkey and a bird. + Not on your life! Just glance back, if you dare. + The zebra chews, the nylghau has n't stirred; + But something 's happened, Heaven knows what or where, + To freeze your scalp and pompadour your hair. + + I 'm not precisely an aeolian lute + Hung in the wandering winds of sentiment, + But drown me if the ugliest, meanest brute + Grunting and fretting in that sultry tent + Did n't just floor me with embarrassment! + + 'T was like a thunder-clap from out the clear, + One minute they were circus beasts, some grand, + Some ugly, some amusing, and some queer: + Rival attractions to the hobo band, + The flying jenny, and the peanut stand. + + Next minute they were old hearth-mates of mine! + Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare! + Patient, satiric, devilish, divine; + A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care, + Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim despair. + + Within my blood my ancient kindred spoke,-- + Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard afar + Down ocean caves when behemoth awoke, + Or through fern forests roared the plesiosaur + Locked with the giant-bat in ghastly war. + + And suddenly, as in a flash of light, + I saw great Nature working out her plan; + Through all her shapes from mastodon to mite + Forever groping, testing, passing on + To find at last the shape and soul of Man. + + Till in the fullness of accomplished time, + Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business bent, + Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime, + And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent, + The stages of her huge experiment; + + Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours; + Dragging to light her blinking, slothful moods; + Publishing fretful seasons when her powers + Worked wild and sullen in her solitudes, + Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods. + + Here, round about me, were her vagrant births; + Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed; + Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy mirths; + The troublings of her spirit as she strayed, + Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid, + + On that long road she went to seek mankind; + Here were the darkling coverts that she beat + To find the Hider she was sent to find; + Here the distracted footprints of her feet + Whereby her soul's Desire she came to greet. + + But why should they, her botch-work, turn about + And stare disdain at me, her finished job? + Why was the place one vast suspended shout + Of laughter? Why did all the daylight throb + With soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob? + + Helpless I stood among those awful cages; + The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged! + I, I, last product of the toiling ages, + Goal of heroic feet that never lagged,-- + A little man in trousers, slightly jagged. + + Deliver me from such another jury! + The Judgment-day will be a picnic to 't. + Their satire was more dreadful than their fury, + And worst of all was just a kind of brute + Disgust, and giving up, and sinking mute. + + Survival of the fittest, adaptation, + And all their other evolution terms, + Seem to omit one small consideration, + To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms + Have souls: there 's soul in everything that squirms. + + And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things, + All dream and unaccountable desire; + Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings; + Spreading through every inch of earth's old mire + Mystical hanker after something higher. + + Wishes _are_ horses, as I understand. + I guess a wistful polyp that has strokes + Of feeling faint to gallivant on land + Will come to be a scandal to his folks; + Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes. + + And at the core of every life that crawls + Or runs or flies or swims or vegetates-- + Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in the galls + Of shark and tiger planting gorgeous hates, + Lighting the love of eagles for their mates; + + Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fish + That is and is not living--moved and stirred + From the beginning a mysterious wish, + A vision, a command, a fatal Word: + The name of Man was uttered, and they heard. + + Upward along the aeons of old war + They sought him: wing and shank-bone, claw and bill + Were fashioned and rejected; wide and far + They roamed the twilight jungles of their will; + But still they sought him, and desired him still. + + Man they desired, but mind you, Perfect Man, + The radiant and the loving, yet to be! + I hardly wonder, when they came to scan + The upshot of their strenuosity, + They gazed with mixed emotions upon _me_. + + Well, my advice to you is, Face the creatures, + Or spot them sideways with your weather eye, + Just to keep tab on their expansive features; + It is n't pleasant when you 're stepping high + To catch a giraffe smiling on the sly. + + If nature made you graceful, don't get gay + Back-to before the hippopotamus; + If meek and godly, find some place to play + Besides right where three mad hyenas fuss: + You may hear language that we won't discuss. + + If you 're a sweet thing in a flower-bed hat, + Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in, + Don't squander love's bright springtime girding at + An old chimpanzee with an Irish chin: + _There may be hidden meaning in his grin._ + + + + +THE GOLDEN JOURNEY + + + All day he drowses by the sail + With dreams of her, and all night long + The broken waters are at song + Of how she lingers, wild and pale, + When all the temple lights are dumb, + And weaves her spells to make him come. + + The wide sea traversed, he will stand + With straining eyes, until the shoal + Green water from the prow shall roll + Upon the yellow strip of sand-- + Searching some fern-hid tangled way + Into the forest old and grey. + + Then he will leap upon the shore, + And cast one look up at the sun, + Over his loosened locks will run + The dawn breeze, and a bird will pour + Its rapture out to make life seem + Too sweet to leave for such a dream. + + But all the swifter will he go + Through the pale, scattered asphodels, + Down mote-hung dusk of olive dells, + To where the ancient basins throw + Fleet threads of blue and trembling zones + Of gold upon the temple stones. + + There noon keeps just a twilight trace; + Twixt love and hate, and death and birth, + No man may choose; nor sobs nor mirth + May enter in that haunted place. + All day the fountain sphynx lets drip + Slow drops of silence from her lip. + + To hold the porch-roof slender girls + Of milk-white marble stand arow; + Doubt never blurs a single brow, + And never the noon's faintness curls + From their expectant hush of pride + The lips the god has glorified. + + But these things he will barely view, + Or if he stay to heed them, still + But as the lark the lights that spill + From out the sun it soars unto, + Where, past the splendors and the heats, + The sun's heart's self forever beats. + + For wide the brazen doors will swing + Soon as his sandals touch the pave; + The anxious light inside will wave + And tremble to a lunar ring + About the form that lieth prone + Before the dreadful altar-stone. + + She will not look or speak or stir, + But with drowned lips and cheeks death-white + Will lie amid the pool of light, + Until, grown faint with thirst of her, + He shall bow down his face and sink + Breathless beneath the eddying brink. + + Then a swift music will begin, + And as the brazen doors shut slow, + There will be hurrying to and fro, + And lights and calls and silver din, + While through the star-freaked swirl of air + The god's sweet cruel eyes will stare. + + + + +HEART'S WILD-FLOWER + + + To-night her lids shall lift again, slow, soft, with vague desire, + And lay about my breast and brain their hush of spirit fire, + And I shall take the sweet of pain as the laborer his hire. + + And though no word shall e'er be said to ease the ghostly sting, + And though our hearts, unhoused, unfed, must still go wandering, + My sign is set upon her head while stars do meet and sing. + + Not such a sign as women wear who make their foreheads tame + With life's long tolerance, and bear love's sweetest, humblest name, + Nor such as passion eateth bare with its crown of tears and flame. + + Nor such a sign as happy friend sets on his friend's dear brow + When meadow-pipings break and blend to a key of autumn woe, + And the woodland says playtime 's at end, best unclasp hands and go. + + But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower + she wears, + A little gift God gave my youth,--whose petals dim were fears, + Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears. + + O heart of mine, with all thy powers of white beatitude, + What are the dearest of God's dowers to the children of his blood? + How blow the shy, shy wilding flowers in the hollows of his wood? + + + + +HARMONICS + + + This string upon my harp was best beloved: + I thought I knew its secrets through and through; + Till an old man, whose young eyes lightened blue + 'Neath his white hair, bent over me and moved + His fingers up and down, and broke the wire + To such a laddered music, rung on rung, + As from the patriarch's pillow skyward sprung + Crowded with wide-flung wings and feet of fire. + + O vibrant heart! so metely tuned and strung + That any untaught hand can draw from thee + One clear gold note that makes the tired years young-- + What of the time when Love had whispered me + Where slept thy nodes, and my hand pausefully + Gave to the dim harmonics voice and tongue? + + + + +ON THE RIVER + + + The faint stars wake and wonder, + Fade and find heart anew; + Above us and far under + Sphereth the watchful blue. + + Silent she sits, outbending, + A wild pathetic grace, + A beauty strange, heart-rending, + Upon her hair and face. + + O spirit cries that sever + The cricket's level drone! + O to give o'er endeavor + And let love have its own! + + Within the mirrored bushes + There wakes a little stir; + The white-throat moves, and hushes + Her nestlings under her. + + Beneath, the lustrous river, + The watchful sky o'erhead. + God, God, that Thou should'st ever + Poison thy children's bread! + + + + +THE BRACELET OF GRASS + + + The opal heart of afternoon + Was clouding on to throbs of storm, + Ashen within the ardent west + The lips of thunder muttered harm, + And as a bubble like to break + Hung heaven's trembling amethyst, + When with the sedge-grass by the lake + I braceleted her wrist. + + And when the ribbon grass was tied, + Sad with the happiness we planned, + Palm linked in palm we stood awhile + And watched the raindrops dot the sand; + Until the anger of the breeze + Chid all the lake's bright breathing down, + And ravished all the radiancies + From her deep eyes of brown. + + We gazed from shelter on the storm, + And through our hearts swept ghostly pain + To see the shards of day sweep past, + Broken, and none might mend again. + Broken, that none shall ever mend; + Loosened, that none shall ever tie. + O the wind and the wind, will it never end? + O the sweeping past of the ruined sky! + + + + +THE DEPARTURE + + + I + + I sat beside the glassy evening sea, + One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre, + And all its strings of laughter and desire + Crushed in the rank wet grasses heedlessly; + Nor did my dull eyes care to question how + The boat close by had spread its saffron sails, + Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales, + And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow. + Neither was wonder in me when I saw + Fair women step therein, though they were fair + Even to adoration and to awe, + And in the gracious fillets of their hair + Were blossoms from a garden I had known, + Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown. + + + II + + One gazed steadfast into the dying west + With lips apart to greet the evening star; + And one with eyes that caught the strife and jar + Of the sea's heart, followed the sunward breast + Of a lone gull; from a slow harp one drew + Blind music like a laugh or like a wail; + And in the uncertain shadow of the sail + One wove a crown of berries and of yew. + Yet even as I said with dull desire, + "All these were mine, and one was mine indeed," + The smoky music burst into a fire, + And I was left alone in my great need, + One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre + And all its strings crushed in the dripping weed. + + + + +FADED PICTURES + + + Only two patient eyes to stare + Out of the canvas. All the rest-- + The warm green gown, the small hands pressed + Light in the lap, the braided hair + + That must have made the sweet low brow + So earnest, centuries ago, + When some one saw it change and glow-- + All faded! Just the eyes burn now. + + I dare say people pass and pass + Before the blistered little frame, + And dingy work without a name + Stuck in behind its square of glass. + + But I, well, I left Raphael + Just to come drink these eyes of hers, + To think away the stains and blurs + And make all new again and well. + + Only, for tears my head will bow, + Because there on my heart's last wall, + Scarce one tint left to tell it all, + A picture keeps its eyes, somehow. + + + + +A GREY DAY + + + Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape, + Rain whitens the dead sea, + From headland dim to sullen cape + Grey sails creep wearily. + I know not how that merchantman + Has found the heart; but 't is her plan + Seaward her endless course to shape. + + Unreal as insects that appall + A drunkard's peevish brain, + O'er the grey deep the dories crawl, + Four-legged, with rowers twain: + Midgets and minims of the earth, + Across old ocean's vasty girth + Toiling--heroic, comical! + + I wonder how that merchant's crew + Have ever found the will! + I wonder what the fishers do + To keep them toiling still! + I wonder how the heart of man + Has patience to live out its span, + Or wait until its dreams come true. + + + + +THE RIDE BACK + + + _Before the coming of the dark, he dreamed + An old-world faded story: of a knight, + Much like in need to him, who was no knight! + And of a road, much like the road his soul + Groped over, desperate to meet Her soul. + Beside the bed Death waited. And he dreamed._ + + + His limbs were heavy from the fight, + His mail was dark with dust and blood; + On his good horse they bound him tight, + And on his breast they bound the rood + To help him in the ride that night. + + When he crashed through the wood's wet rim, + About the dabbled reeds a breeze + Went moaning broken words and dim; + The haggard shapes of twilight trees + Caught with their scrawny hands at him. + + Between the doubtful aisles of day + Strange folk and lamentable stood + To maze and beckon him astray, + But through the grey wrath of the wood + He held right on his bitter way. + + When he came where the trees were thin, + The moon sat waiting there to see; + On her worn palm she laid her chin, + And laughed awhile in sober glee + To think how strong this knight had been. + + When he rode past the pallid lake, + The withered yellow stems of flags + Stood breast-high for his horse to break; + Lewd as the palsied lips of hags + The petals in the moon did shake. + + When he came by the mountain wall, + The snow upon the heights looked down + And said, "The sight is pitiful. + The nostrils of his steed are brown + With frozen blood; and he will fall." + + The iron passes of the hills + With question were importunate; + And, but the sharp-tongued icy rills + Had grown for once compassionate, + The spiteful shades had had their wills. + + Just when the ache in breast and brain + And the frost smiting at his face + Had sealed his spirit up with pain, + He came out in a better place, + And morning lay across the plain. + + He saw the wet snails crawl and cling + On fern-stalks where the rime had run, + The careless birds went wing and wing, + And in the low smile of the sun + Life seemed almost a pleasant thing. + + Right on the panting charger swung + Through the bright depths of quiet grass; + The knight's lips moved as if they sung, + And through the peace there came to pass + The flattery of lute and tongue. + + From the mid-flowering of the mead + There swelled a sob of minstrelsy, + Faint sackbuts and the dreamy reed, + And plaintive lips of maids thereby, + And songs blown out like thistle seed. + + Forth from her maidens came the bride, + And as his loosened rein fell slack + He muttered, "In their throats they lied + Who said that I should ne'er win back + To kiss her lips before I died!" + + + + +SONG-FLOWER AND POPPY + + + I + + IN NEW YORK + + He plays the deuce with my writing time, + For the penny my sixth-floor neighbor throws; + He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme, + And he leaves me--well, God knows + It takes the shine from a tunester's line + When a little mate of the deathless Nine + Pipes up under your nose! + + For listen, there is his voice again, + Wistful and clear and piercing sweet. + Where did the boy find such a strain + To make a dead heart beat? + And how in the name of care can he bear + To jet such a fountain into the air + In this gray gulch of a street? + + Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese? + Umbria under the Apennine? + South, where the terraced lemon-trees + Round rich Sorrento shine? + Venice moon on the smooth lagoon?-- + Where have I heard that aching tune, + That boyish throat divine? + + Beyond my roofs and chimney pots + A rag of sunset crumbles gray; + Below, fierce radiance hangs in clots + O'er the streams that never stay. + Shrill and high, newsboys cry + The worst of the city's infamy + For one more sordid day. + + But my desire has taken sail + For lands beyond, soft-horizoned: + Down languorous leagues I hold the trail, + From Marmalada, steeply throned + Above high pastures washed with light, + Where dolomite by dolomite + Looms sheer and spectral-coned, + + To purple vineyards looking south + On reaches of the still Tyrrhene; + Virgilian headlands, and the mouth + Of Tiber, where that ship put in + To take the dead men home to God, + Whereof Casella told the mode + To the great Florentine. + + Up stairways blue with flowering weed + I climb to hill-hung Bergamo; + All day I watch the thunder breed + Golden above the springs of Po, + Till the voice makes sure its wavering lure, + And by Assisi's portals pure + I stand, with heart bent low. + + O hear, how it blooms in the blear dayfall, + That flower of passionate wistful song! + How it blows like a rose by the iron wall + Of the city loud and strong. + How it cries "Nay, nay" to the worldling's way, + To the heart's clear dream how it whispers, "Yea; + Time comes, though the time is long." + + Beyond my roofs and chimney piles + Sunset crumbles, ragged, dire; + The roaring street is hung for miles + With fierce electric fire. + Shrill and high, newsboys cry + The gross of the planet's destiny + Through one more sullen gyre. + + Stolidly the town flings down + Its lust by day for its nightly lust; + Who does his given stint, 't is known, + Shall have his mug and crust.-- + Too base of mood, too harsh of blood, + Too stout to seize the grosser good, + Too hungry after dust! + + O hark! how it blooms in the falling dark, + That flower of mystical yearning song: + Sad as a hermit thrush, as a lark + Uplifted, glad, and strong. + Heart, we have chosen the better part! + Save sacred love and sacred art + Nothing is good for long. + + + II + + AT ASSISI + + Before St. Francis' burg I wait, + Frozen in spirit, faint with dread; + His presence stands within the gate, + Mild splendor rings his head. + Gently he seems to welcome me: + Knows he not I am quick, and he + Is dead, and priest of the dead? + + I turn away from the gray church pile; + I dare not enter, thus undone: + Here in the roadside grass awhile + I will lie and watch for the sun. + Too purged of earth's good glee and strife, + Too drained of the honied lusts of life, + Was the peace these old saints won! + + And lo! how the laughing earth says no + To the fear that mastered me; + To the blood that aches and clamors so + How it whispers "Verily." + Here by my side, marvelous-dyed, + Bold stray-away from the courts of pride, + A poppy-bell flaunts free. + + St. Francis sleeps upon his hill, + And a poppy flower laughs down his creed; + Triumphant light her petals spill, + His shrines are dim indeed. + Men build and plan, but the soul of man, + Coming with haughty eyes to scan, + Feels richer, wilder need. + + How long, old builder Time, wilt bide + Till at thy thrilling word + Life's crimson pride shall have to bride + The spirit's white accord, + Within that gate of good estate + Which thou must build us soon or late, + Hoar workman of the Lord? + + + + +HOW THE MEAD-SLAVE WAS SET FREE + + + Nay, move not! Sit just as you are, + Under the carved wings of the chair. + The hearth-glow sifting through your hair + Turns every dim pearl to a star + Dawn-drowned in floods of brightening air. + + I have been thinking of that night + When all the wide hall burst to blaze + With spears caught up, thrust fifty ways + To find my throat, while I lay white + And sick with joy, to think the days + + I dragged out in your hateful North-- + A slave, constrained at banquet's need + To fill the black bull's horns with mead + For drunken sea-thieves--were henceforth + Cast from me as a poison weed, + + While Death thrust roses in my hands! + But you, who knew the flowers he had + Were no such roses ripe and glad + As nod in my far southern lands, + But pallid things to make men sad, + + Put back the spears with one calm hand, + Raised on your knee my wondering head, + Wiped off the trickling drops of red + From my torn forehead with a strand + Of your bright loosened hair, and said: + + "Sea-rovers! would you kill a skald? + This boy has hearkened Odin sing + Unto the clang and winnowing + Of raven's wings. His heart is thralled + To music, as to some strong king; + + "And this great thraldom works disdain + Of lesser serving. Once release + These bonds he bears, and he may please + To give you guerdon sweet as rain + To sailors calmed in thirsty seas." + + Then, having soothed their rage to rest, + You led me to old Skagi's throne, + Where yellow gold rims in the stone; + And in my arms, against my breast, + Thrust his great harp of walrus bone. + + How they came crowding, tunes on tunes! + How good it was to touch the strings + And feel them thrill like happy things + That flutter from the gray cocoons + On hedge rows, in your gradual springs! + + All grew a blur before my sight, + As when the stealthy white fog slips + At noonday on the staggering ships; + I saw one single spot of light, + Your white face, with its eager lips-- + + And so I sang to that. O thou + Who liftedst me from out my shame! + Wert thou content when Skagi came, + Put his own chaplet on my brow, + And bent and kissed his own harp-frame? + + + + +A DIALOGUE IN PURGATORY + + + _Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte: + Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura; + Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."_ + + _Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo, + "Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia; + Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma. + Salsi colui che inannellata pria + Disposata m' avea colla sua gemma."_ + + PURGATORIO, CANTO V. + + + I + + BUONCONTE + + Sister, the sun has ceased to shine; + By companies of twain and trine + Stars gather; from the sea + The moon comes momently. + + On all the roads that ring our hill + The sighing and the hymns are still: + It is our time to gain + Strength for to-morrow's pain. + + Yet still your eyes are wholly bent + Upon the way that Virgil went, + Following Sordello's sign, + With the dark Florentine. + + Night now has barred their upward track: + There where the mountain-side folds back + And in the Vale of Flowers + The Princes count their hours + + Those three friends sit in the clear starlight + With the green-clad angels left and right,-- + Soul made by wakeful soul + More earnest for the goal. + + So let us, sister, though our place + Is barren of that Valley's grace, + Sit hand in hand, till we + Seem rich as those friends be. + + + II + + LA PIA + + Brother, 't were sweet your hand to feel + In mine; it would a little heal + The shame that makes me poor, + And dumb at the heart's core. + + But where our spirits felt Love's dearth, + Down on the green and pleasant earth, + Remains the fleshly shell, + Love's garment tangible. + + So now our hands have naught to say: + Heart unto heart some other way + Must utter forth its pain, + Must glee or comfort gain. + + Ah, no! For souls like you and me + Some comfort waits, but never glee: + Not yours the young men's singing + In Heaven, at the bride-bringing; + + Not mine, beside God's living waters, + Dance of the marriageable daughters, + The laughter and the ease + Beneath His summer trees. + + + III + + BUONCONTE + + In fair Arezzo's halls and bowers + My Giovanna speeds her hours + Delicately, nor cares + To shorten by her prayers + + My days upon this mount of ruth: + If those who come from earth speak sooth, + Though still I call and call, + She does not heed at all. + + And if aright your words I read + At Dante's passing, he you wed + Dipped from the drains of Hell + The marriage hydromel. + + O therefore, while the moon intense + Holds yonder dreaming sea suspense, + And round the shadowy coasts + Gather the wistful ghosts, + + Let us sit quiet all the night, + And wonder, wonder on the light + Worn by those spirits fair + Whom Love has not left bare. + + + IV + + LA PIA + + Even as theirs, the chance was mine + To meet and mate beneath Love's sign, + To feel in soul and sense + The solemn influence + + Which, breathed upon a man or maid, + Maketh forever unafraid, + Though life with death unite + That spirit to affright,-- + + Which lifts the changed heart high up, + As the priest lifts the changed cup, + Boldens the feet to pace + Before God's proving face. + + O just a thought beyond the blue + The wings of the dove yearned down and through! + Even now I hear and hear + How near they were, how near! + + I murmur not. Rightly disgraced, + The weak hand stretched abroad in haste + For gifts barely allowed + The tacit, strong, and proud. + + But therefore was I so intent + To watch where Dante onward went + With the Roman spirit pure + And the grave troubadour, + + Because my mind was busy then + With the loves that wait those gentle men: + Cunizza one; and one + Bice, above the sun; + + And for the other, more and less + Than woman's near-felt tenderness, + A million voices dim + Praising him, praising him. + + + V + + BUONCONTE + + The waves that wash this mountain's base + Were crimson in the sun's low rays, + When, singing high and fast, + An angel downward passed, + + To bid some patient soul arise + And make it fair for Paradise; + And upward, so attended, + That soul its journey wended; + + Yet you, who in these lower rings + Wait for the coming of such wings, + Turned not your eyes to view + Whether they came for you, + + But watched, but watched great Virgil stayed + Greeting Sordello's couchant shade, + Which to salute him rose + Like lion from its pose; + + While humbly by those lords of song + Stood he whose living limbs are strong + To mount where Mary's bliss + Is shed on Beatrice. + + On him your gaze was fastened, more + Than on those great names Mantua bore; + Your eyes hold the distress + Still, of that wistfulness. + + Yea, fit he seemed much love to rouse! + His pilgrim lips and iron brows + Grew like a woman's, dim, + While you held speech with him; + + And troubled came his mortal breath + The while I told him of my death; + His looks were changed and wan + When Virgil led him on. + + + VI + + LA PIA + + E'er since Casella came this morn, + Newly o'er yonder ocean borne, + Bound upward for the choir + Who purge themselves in fire, + + And from that meinie he was of + Stayed backward at my cry of love, + To speak awhile with me + Of life and Tuscany, + + And, parting, told us how e'er day + Was done, Dante would come this way, + With mortal feet, to find + His sweetheart, sky-enshrined,-- + + E'er since Casella spoke such news + My heart has lain in a golden muse, + Picturing him and her, + What starry ones they were. + + And now the moon sheds its compassion + O'er the hushed mount, I try to fashion + The manner of their meeting, + Their few first words of greeting. + + O well for them, with clasped hands, + Unshamed amid the heavenly bands! + They hear no pitying pair + Of old-time lovers there + + Look down and say in an undertone, + "This latest-come, who comes alone, + Was still alone on earth, + And lonely from his birth." + + Nor feel a sudden whisper mar + God's weather, "Dost thou see the scar + That spirit hideth so? + Who dealt her such a blow + + "That God can hardly wipe it out?" + And answer, "She gave love, no doubt, + To one who saw not fit + To set much store by it." + + + + +THE DAGUERREOTYPE + + + This, then, is she, + My mother as she looked at seventeen, + When she first met my father. Young incredibly, + Younger than spring, without the faintest trace + Of disappointment, weariness, or tean + Upon the childlike earnestness and grace + Of the waiting face. + These close-wound ropes of pearl + (Or common beads made precious by their use) + Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; + But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare + And half the glad swell of the breast, for news + That now the woman stirs within the girl. + And yet, + Even so, the loops and globes + Of beaten gold + And jet + Hung, in the stately way of old, + From the ears' drooping lobes + On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, + Show all too matron-sober for the cheek,-- + Which, now I look again, is perfect child, + Or no--or no--'t is girlhood's very self, + Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf + So meek, so maiden mild, + But startling the close gazer with the sense + Of passions forest-shy and forest-wild, + And delicate delirious merriments. + + As a moth beats sidewise + And up and over, and tries + To skirt the irresistible lure + Of the flame that has him sure, + My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, + Flutters and makes delay,-- + Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, + Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair + And each hid radiance there, + But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, + The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light + Where soon--ah, now, with cries + Of grief and giving-up unto its gain + It shrinks no longer nor denies, + But dips + Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain,-- + And all is well, for I have seen them plain, + The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! + Across the blinding gush of these good tears + They shine as in the sweet and heavy years + When by her bed and chair + We children gathered jealously to share + The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, + Where the sore-stricken body made a clime + Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, + Holier and more mystical than prayer. + + God, how thy ways are strange! + That this should be, even this, + The patient head + Which suffered years ago the dreary change! + That these so dewy lips should be the same + As those I stooped to kiss + And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, + A little ere the one who bowed above her, + Our father and her very constant lover, + Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead. + Then I, who could not understand or share + His antique nobleness, + Being unapt to bear + The insults which time flings us for our proof, + Fled from the horrible roof + Into the alien sunshine merciless, + The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day, + Raging to front God in his pride of sway + And hurl across the lifted swords of fate + That ringed Him where He sat + My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate + Which somehow should undo Him, after all! + That this girl face, expectant, virginal, + Which gazes out at me + Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth + (Save for the eyes, with other presage stored) + To pledge me troth, + And in the kingdom where the heart is lord + Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep + Whose winds the gray Norns keep,-- + That this should be indeed + The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed, + Out of the to and fro + Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage, + Stooping from star to star and age to age + Sings as he sows! + That underneath this breast + Nine moons I fed + Deep of divine unrest, + While over and over in the dark she said, + "Blessed! but not as happier children blessed"-- + That this should be + Even she.... + God, how with time and change + Thou makest thy footsteps strange! + Ah, now I know + They play upon me, and it is not so. + Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, + A little thing to flatter and make weep, + To tease until her heart is sore, + Then kiss and clear the score; + A gypsy run-the-fields, + A little liberal daughter of the earth, + Good for what hour of truancy and mirth + The careless season yields + Hither-side the flood o' the year and yonder of the neap; + Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.-- + O shrined above the skies, + Frown not, clear brow, + Darken not, holy eyes! + Thou knowest well I know that it is thou! + Only to save me from such memories + As would unman me quite, + Here in this web of strangeness caught + And prey to troubled thought + Do I devise + These foolish shifts and slight; + Only to shield me from the afflicting sense + Of some waste influence + Which from this morning face and lustrous hair + Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair. + In any other guise, + With any but this girlish depth of gaze, + Your coming had not so unsealed and poured + The dusty amphoras where I had stored + The drippings of the winepress of my days. + I think these eyes foresee, + Now in their unawakened virgin time, + Their mother's pride in me, + And dream even now, unconsciously, + Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea + You pictured I should climb. + Broken premonitions come, + Shapes, gestures visionary, + Not as once to maiden Mary + The manifest angel with fresh lilies came + Intelligibly calling her by name; + But vanishingly, dumb, + Thwarted and bright and wild, + As heralding a sin-defiled, + Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child, + Who yet should be a trump of mighty call + Blown in the gates of evil kings + To make them fall; + Who yet should be a sword of flame before + The soul's inviolate door + To beat away the clang of hellish wings; + Who yet should be a lyre + Of high unquenchable desire + In the day of little things.-- + Look, where the amphoras, + The yield of many days, + Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self + And set upon the shelf + In sullen pride + The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide-- + O mother mine! + Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine, + Of him you used to praise? + Emptied and overthrown + The jars lie strown. + These, for their flavor duly nursed, + Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; + These, I thought honied to the very seal, + Dry, dry,--a little acid meal, + A pinch of mouldy dust, + Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; + These, rude to look upon, + But flasking up the liquor dearest won, + Through sacred hours and hard, + With watching and with wrestlings and with grief, + Even of these, of these in chief, + The stale breath sickens, reeking from the shard. + Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than naught! + What shall be said or thought + Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, + The cynic rending of the wings, + Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart + Whereof this brewage was the precious part, + Treasured and set away with furtive boast? + O dear and cruel ghost, + Be merciful, be just! + See, I was yours and I am in the dust. + Then look not so, as if all things were well! + Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, + Or else, if gaze they must, + Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; + But by the ways of light ineffable + You bade me go and I have faltered from, + By the low waters moaning out of hell + Whereto my feet have come, + Lay not on me these intolerable + Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust! + + Nothing dismayed? + By all I say and all I hint not made + Afraid? + O then, stay by me! Let + These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet. + Brave eyes and true! + See how the shriveled heart, that long has lain + Dead to delight and pain, + Stirs, and begins again + To utter pleasant life, as if it knew + The wintry days were through; + As if in its awakening boughs it heard + The quick, sweet-spoken bird. + Strong eyes and brave, + Inexorable to save! + + + + + +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ + | | + | Transcriber's Note: | + | | + | | + | Spacing for contractions has been retained to match the original | + | 1901 text. | + | | + | Both "gray" and "grey" are used in this text, as per the original. | + | | + +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Gloucester Moors and Other Poems, by +William Vaughn Moody + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLOUCESTER MOORS AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 27912.txt or 27912.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/9/1/27912/ + +Produced by David Garcia, C. 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