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diff --git a/old/36149.txt b/old/36149.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61e546f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/36149.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5262 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs and Satires, by Edgar Lee Masters + +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: Songs and Satires + +Author: Edgar Lee Masters + +Release Date: May 18, 2011 [EBook #36149] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS AND SATIRES *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) + + + + + + + + + +SONGS AND SATIRES + + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS + ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO + + MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED + LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA + MELBOURNE + + THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. + TORONTO + + + + +SONGS AND SATIRES + + + _By_ + EDGAR LEE MASTERS + + AUTHOR OF + "SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY" + + + New York + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + 1916 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1916, + BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. + + Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1916. + Reprinted March, June, 1916. + + Norwood Press + J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. + Norwood, Mass., U.S.A + + + + +For permission to print in book form certain of these poems I wish to +acknowledge an indebtedness to _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_, _The Little +Review_, _The Cosmopolitan Magazine_, and William Marion Reedy, Editor +of _Reedy's Mirror_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + SILENCE 1 + + ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE 4 + + THE COCKED HAT 10 + + THE VISION 18 + + SO WE GREW TOGETHER 21 + + RAIN IN MY HEART 31 + + THE LOOP 32 + + WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES 40 + + IN THE CAR 41 + + SIMON SURNAMED PETER 43 + + ALL LIFE IN A LIFE 47 + + WHAT YOU WILL 56 + + THE CITY 57 + + THE IDIOT 65 + + HELEN OF TROY 68 + + O GLORIOUS FRANCE 71 + + FOR A DANCE 74 + + WHEN LIFE IS REAL 76 + + THE QUESTION 78 + + THE ANSWER 79 + + THE SIGN 80 + + WILLIAM MARION REEDY 82 + + A STUDY 85 + + PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN 88 + + IN THE CAGE 91 + + SAVING A WOMAN: ONE PHASE 95 + + LOVE IS A MADNESS 97 + + ON A BUST 98 + + ARABEL 101 + + JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER 108 + + THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES 116 + + THE CRY 119 + + THE HELPING HAND 120 + + THE DOOR 121 + + SUPPLICATION 122 + + THE CONVERSATION 125 + + TERMINUS 130 + + MADELINE 132 + + MARCIA 134 + + THE ALTAR 135 + + SOUL'S DESIRE 137 + + BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE 140 + + THE DEATH OF LAUNCELOT 149 + + IN MICHIGAN 156 + + THE STAR 166 + + + + +SONGS AND SATIRES + + + + +SILENCE + + + I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, + And the silence of the city when it pauses, + And the silence of a man and a maid, + And the silence for which music alone finds the word, + And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin, + And the silence of the sick + When their eyes roam about the room. + And I ask: For the depths + Of what use is language? + A beast of the field moans a few times + When death takes its young: + And we are voiceless in the presence of realities-- + We cannot speak. + + A curious boy asks an old soldier + Sitting in front of the grocery store, + "How did you lose your leg?" + And the old soldier is struck with silence, + Or his mind flies away, + Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. + It comes back jocosely + And he says, "A bear bit it off." + And the boy wonders, while the old soldier + Dumbly, feebly lives over + The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, + The shrieks of the slain, + And himself lying on the ground, + And the hospital surgeons, the knives, + And the long days in bed. + But if he could describe it all + He would be an artist. + But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds + Which he could not describe. + + There is the silence of a great hatred, + And the silence of a great love, + And the silence of a deep peace of mind, + And the silence of an embittered friendship. + There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, + Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, + Comes with visions not to be uttered + Into a realm of higher life. + And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech. + There is the silence of defeat. + There is the silence of those unjustly punished; + And the silence of the dying whose hand + Suddenly grips yours. + There is the silence between father and son, + When the father cannot explain his life, + Even though he be misunderstood for it. + + There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. + There is the silence of those who have failed; + And the vast silence that covers + Broken nations and vanquished leaders. + There is the silence of Lincoln, + Thinking of the poverty of his youth. + And the silence of Napoleon + After Waterloo. + And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc + Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus"-- + Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope. + And there is the silence of age, + Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it + In words intelligible to those who have not lived + The great range of life. + + And there is the silence of the dead. + If we who are in life cannot speak + Of profound experiences, + Why do you marvel that the dead + Do not tell you of death? + Their silence shall be interpreted + As we approach them. + + + + +ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE + + + Antonio loved the Lady Clare. + He caught her to him on the stair + And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair, + And drew her lips in his, and drew + Her soul out like a torch's flare. + Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round; + Her senses in a vortex swound. + She tore him loose and turned around, + And reached her chamber in a bound + Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue. + + She closed the door and turned the lock, + Her breasts and flesh were turned to rock. + She reeled as drunken from the shock. + Before her eyes the devils skipped, + She thought she heard the devils mock. + For had her soul not been as pure + As sifted snow, could she endure + Antonio's passion and be sure + Against his passion's strength and lure? + Lean fears along her wonder slipped. + + Outside she heard a drunkard call, + She heard a beggar against the wall + Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall + Struck through the riot like a sword, + And gashed the midnight's festival. + She watched the city through the pane, + The old Silenus half insane, + The idiot crowd that drags its chain-- + And then she heard the bells again, + And heard the voices with the word: + + Ecco il santo! Up the street + There was the sound of running feet + From closing door and window seat, + And all the crowd turned on its way + The Saint of Poverty to greet. + He passed. And then a circling thrill, + As water troubled which was still, + Went through her body like a chill, + Who of Antonio thought until + She heard the Saint begin to pray. + + And then she turned into the room + Her soul was cloven through with doom, + Treading the softness and the gloom + Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool, + And China's magical perfume. + She sickened from the vases hued + In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd + Twined dragon shapes and figures nude, + And tapestries that showed a brood + Of leopards by a pool! + + Candles of wax she lit before + A pier glass standing from the floor; + Up to the ceiling, off she tore + With eager hands her jewels, then + The silken vesture which she wore. + Her little breasts so round to see + Were budded like the peony. + Her arms were white as ivory, + And all her sunny hair lay free + As marigold or celandine. + + Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase + Of crackled turquoise, in her face + Was memory of the mad embrace + Antonio gave her on the stair, + And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace. + Like pigeon blood her lips were red. + She clasped her bands above her head. + Under her arms the waxlight shed + Delicate halos where was spread + The downy growth of hair. + + Such sudden sin the virgin knew + She quenched the tapers as she blew + Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw + Herself in tears upon her knees, + And round her couch the curtain drew. + She called upon St. Francis' name, + Feeling Antonio's passion maim + Her body with his passion's flame + To save her, save her from the shame + Of fancies such as these! + + "Go by mad life and old pursuits, + The wine cup and the golden fruits, + The gilded mirrors, rosewood flutes, + I would praise God forevermore + With harps of gold and silver lutes." + She stripped the velvet from her couch + Her broken spirit to avouch. + She saw the devils slink and slouch, + And passion like a leopard crouch + Half mirrored on the polished floor. + + Next day she found the saint and said: + I would be God's bride, I would wed + Poverty and I would eat the bread + That you for anchorites prepare, + For my soul's sake I am in dread. + Go then, said Francis, nothing loth, + Put off this gown of green snake cloth, + Put on one somber as a moth, + Then come to me and make your troth + And I will clip your golden hair. + + She went and came. But still there lay, + A gem she did not put away, + A locket twixt her breasts, all gay + In shimmering pearls and tints of blue, + And inlay work of fruit and spray. + St. Francis felt it as he slipped + His hand across her breast and whipped + Her golden tresses ere he clipped-- + He closed his eyes then as he gripped + The shears, plunged the shears through. + + The waterfall of living gold. + The locks fell to the floor and rolled, + And curled like serpents which unfold. + And there sat Lady Clare despoiled. + Of worldly glory manifold. + She thrilled to feel him take and hide + The locket from her breast, a tide + Of passion caught them side by side. + He was the bridegroom, she the bride-- + Their flesh but not their spirits foiled. + + Thus was the Lady Clare debased + To sack cloth and around her waist + A rope the jeweled belt replaced. + Her feet made free of silken hose + Naked in wooden sandals cased + Went bruised to Bastia's chapel, then + They housed her in St. Damian + And here she prayed for poor women + And here St. Francis sought her when + His faith sank under earthly woes. + + Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhyme + And took to wine and got the lime + Of hatred on his soul, in time + Grew healed though left a little lame, + And laughed about it in his prime; + When he could see with crystal eyes + That love is a winged thing which flies; + Some break the wings, some let them rise + From earth like God's dove to the skies + Diffused in heavenly flame. + + + + +THE COCKED HAT + +Would that someone would knock Mr. Bryan into a cocked hat.--WOODROW +WILSON. + + + It ain't really a hat at all, Ed: + You know that, don't you? + When you bowl over six out of the nine pins, + And the three that are standing + Are the triangular three in front, + You've knocked the nine into a cocked hat. + If it was really a hat, he would be knocked in, too. + Which he hardly is. For a man with money, + And a man who can draw a crowd to listen + To what he says, ain't all-in yet.... + Oh yes, defeated + And killed off a dozen times, but still + He's one of the three nine pins that's standing ... + Eh? Why, the other is Teddy, the other + Wilson, we'll say. We'll see, perhaps. + But six are down to make the cocked hat-- + That's me and thousands of others like me, + And the first-rate men who were cuffed about + After the Civil War, + And most of the more than six million men + Who followed this fellow into the ditch, + While he walked down the ditch and stepped to the level-- + Following an ideal! + + * * * * * + + Do you remember how slim he was, + And trim he was, + With black hair and pale brow, + And the hawk-like nose and flashing eyes, + Not turning slowly like an owl + But with a sudden eagle motion?... + + One time, in '96, he came here + And we had just a dollar and sixty cents + In the treasury of the organization. + So I stuck his lithograph on a pole + And started out for the station. + By the time we got back here to Clark street + Four thousand men were marching in line, + And a band that was playing for an opening + Of a restaurant on Franklin street + Had left the job and was following his carriage. + Why, it took all the money Mark Hanna could raise + To beat me, with nothing but a pole + And a lithograph. + And it wasn't because he was one of the prophets + Come back to earth again. + It shows how human hearts are hungry + How wonderfully true they are-- + And how they will rise and follow a man + Who seems to see the truth! + Well, these fellows who marched are the cocked hat, + And I am the cocked hat and the six millions, + And more are the cocked hat, + Who got themselves despised or suspected + Of ignorance or something for being with him. + But still, he's one of the pins that's standing. + He got the money that he went after, + And he has a place in history, perhaps-- + Because we took the blow and fell down + When the ripping ball went wild on the alley. + + * * * * * + + For we were radicals, + And he wasn't a radical. + Eh? Why, a radical stands for freedom, + And for truth--which he never finds + But always looks for. + A radical is not a moralist. + A radical doesn't say: + "This is true and you must believe it; + This is good and you must accept it, + And if you don't believe it and accept it + We'll get a law and make you, + And if you don't obey the law, we'll kill you--" + Oh no! A radical stands for freedom. + + * * * * * + + Do you remember that banquet at the Tremont + In '97 on Jackson's day? + Bryan and Altgeld walked together + Out to the banquet room. + That's the time he said the bolters must + Bring fruits meet for repentance--ha! ha! Oh, Gawd!-- + They never did it and they didn't have to, + For they had made friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, + Even as he did, a little later, in his own way. + Well, Darrow was there that night. + I thought it was terribly raw in him, + But he said to Bryan, there, in a group: + "You'd better go back to Lincoln and study + Science, history, philosophy, + And read Flaubert's Madam something-or-other, + And quit this village religious stuff. + You're head of the party before you are ready + And a leader should lead with thought." + And Bryan turned to the others and said: + "Darrow's the only man in the world + Who looks down on me for believing in God." + "Your kind of a God," snapped Darrow. + Honest, Ed, I didn't see this religious business + In Bryan in '96 or 1900. + Oh well, I knew he went to Church, + And talked as statesmen do of God-- + But McKinley did it, and I used to laugh: + "We've got a man to match McKinley, + And it's good for us, in a squeeze like this, + We didn't nominate some fellow + Ethical culture or Unitarian." + You see, the newspapers and preachers then + Were raising such a hullabaloo + About irreligion and dishonesty, + And calling old Altgeld an anarchist, + And comparing us to Robespierre + And the guillotine boys in France. + And a little of this religion came in handy. + The same as if you saw a Mason button on me, + You'd know, you see--but Gee! + He was 24-carat religious, + A cover-to-cover man.... + He was a trained collie, + And he looked like a lion, + There in the convention of '96--What do you know about that? + + * * * * * + + But right here, I tell you he ain't a hypocrite, + This ain't a pose. But I'll tell you: + In '96 when they knocked him out, + I know what he said to himself as well + As if I heard him say it ... + I'll tell you in a minute. + But suppose you were giving a lecture on the constitution, + And you got mixed on your dates, + And the audience rotten-egged you, + And some one in the confusion + Stole the door receipts, + And there you were, disgraced and broke! + But suppose you could just change your clothes, + And lecture to the same audience + On the religious nature of Washington, + And be applauded and make money-- + You'd do it, wouldn't you? + Well, this is what Bill said to himself: + "I'm naturally regular and religious. + I'm a moral man and I can prove it + By any one in Marion County, + Or Jacksonville or Lincoln, Nebraska. + I'm a radical, but a radical + Alone can be religious. + I belong to the church, if not to the bank, + Of the people who defeated me. + And I'll prove to religious people + That I'm a man to be trusted-- + And just what a radical is. + And I'll make some money while winning the votes + Of the churches over the country."... + + That's it--it ain't hypocrisy, + It's using what you are for ends, + When you find yourself in trouble. + And this accounts for "The Prince of Peace"-- + Except no one but him could write it-- + And "The Value of an Ideal"-- + (Which is money in bank and several farms) ... + + His place in history? + One time my grandfather, who was nearly blind, + Went out to sow some grass seed. + They had two sacks in the barn, + One with grass seed, one with fertilizer, + And he got the sack with fertilizer, + And scattered it over the ground, + Thinking he was sowing grass. + And as he was finishing up, a grandchild, + Dorothy, eight years old, + Followed him, dropping flower seeds. + Well, after a time + That was the greatest patch of weeds + You ever saw! And the old man sat, + Half blind, on the porch, and said: + "Good land, that grass is growing!" + And there was nothing but weeds except + A few nasturtiums here and there + That Dorothy had sown.... + Well, I forgot. + There was a sunflower in one corner + That looked like a man with a golden beard + And a mass of tangled, curly hair-- + And a pumpkin growing near it.... + + * * * * * + + Say, Ed! lend me eighty dollars + To pay my life insurance. + + + + +THE VISION + + + Of that dear vale where you and I have lain + Scanning the mysteries of life and death + I dreamed, though how impassable the space + Of time between the present and the past! + This was the vision that possessed my mind; + I thought the weird and gusty days of March + Had eased themselves in melody and peace. + Pale lights, swift shadows, lucent stalks, clear streams, + Cool, rosy eves behind the penciled mesh + Of hazel thickets, and the huge feathered boughs + Of walnut trees stretched singing to the blast; + And the first pleasantries of sheep and kine; + The cautioned twitterings of hidden birds; + The flight of geese among the scattered clouds; + Night's weeping stars and all the pageantries + Of awakened life had blossomed into May, + Whilst she with trailing violets in her hair + Blew music from the stops of watery stems, + And swept the grasses with her viewless robes, + Which dreaming men thought voices, dreaming still. + Now as I lay in vision by the stream + That flows amidst our well beloved vale, + I looked throughout the vista stretched between + Two ranging hills; one meadowed rich in grass; + The other wooded, thick and quite obscure + With overgrowth, rank in the luxury + Of all wild places, but ever growing sparse + Of trees or saplings on the sudden slope + That met the grassy level of the vale;-- + But still within the shadow of those woods, + Which sprinkled all beneath with fragrant dew, + There grew all flowers, which tempted little paths + Between them, up and on into the wood. + Here, as the sun had left his midday peak + The incommunicable blue of heaven blent + With his fierce splendor, filling all the air + With softened glory, while the pasturage + Trembled with color of the poppy blooms + Shook by the steps of the swift-sandaled wind. + Nor any sound beside disturbed the dream + Of Silence slumbering on the drowsy flowers. + Then as I looked upon the widest space + Of open meadow where the sunlight fell + In veils of tempered radiance, I saw + The form of one who had escaped the care + And equal dullness of our common day. + For like a bright mist rising from the earth + He made appearance, growing more distinct + Until I saw the stole, likewise the lyre + Grasped by the fingers of the modeled hand. + Yea, I did see the glory of his hair + Against the deep green bay-leaves filleting + The ungathered locks. And so throughout the vale + His figure stood distinct and his own shade + Was the sole shadow. Deeming this approach + Augur of good, as if in hidden ways + Of loveliness the gods do still appear + The counselors of men, and even where + Wonder and meditation wooed us oft, + I cried, "Apollo"--and his form dissolved, + As if the nymphs of echo, who took up + The voice and bore it to the hollow wood, + By that same flight had startled the great god + To vanishment. And thereupon I woke + And disarrayed the figment of my thought. + For of the very air, magic with hues, + Blent with the distant objects, I had formed + The splendid apparition, and so knew + It was, alas! a dream within a dream! + + + + +"SO WE GREW TOGETHER" + + + Reading over your letters I find you wrote me + "My dear boy," or at times "dear boy," and the envelope + Said "master"--all as I had been your very son, + And not the orphan whom you adopted. + Well, you were father to me! And I can recall + The things you did for me or gave me: + One time we rode in a box car to Springfield + To see the greatest show on earth; + And one time you gave me redtop boots, + And one time a watch, and one time a gun. + Well, I grew to gawkiness with a voice + Like a rooster trying to crow in August + Hatched in April, we'll say. + And you went about wrapped up in silence + With eyes aflame, and I heard little rumors + Of what they were doing to you, and how + They wronged you--and we were poor--so poor! + And I could not understand why you failed, + And why if you did good things for the people + The people did not sustain you. + And why you loved another woman than Aunt Susan, + So it was whispered at school, and what could be baser, + Or so little to be forgiven?... + + They crowded you hard in those days. + But you fought like a wounded lion + For yourself I know, but for us, for me. + At last you fell ill, and for months you tottered + Around the streets as thin as death, + Trying to earn our bread, your great eyes glowing + And the silence around you like a shawl! + But something in you kept you up. + You grew well again and rosy with cheeks + Like an Indian peach almost, and eyes + Full of moonlight and sunlight, and a voice + That sang, and a humor that warded + The arrows off. But still between us + There was reticence; you kept me away + With a glittering hardness; perhaps you thought + I kept you away--for I was moving + In spheres you knew not, living through + Beliefs you believed in no more, and ideals + That were just mirrors of unrealities. + As a boy can be I was critical of you. + And reasons for your failures began to arise + In my mind--I saw specific facts here and there + With no philosophy at hand to weld them + And synthesize them into one truth-- + And a rush of the strength of youth + Deluded me into thinking the world + Was something so easily understood and managed + While I knew it not at all in truth. + And an adolescent egotism + Made me feel you did not know me + Or comprehend the all that I was. + All this you divined.... + + So it went. And when I left you and passed + To the world, the city--still I see you + With eyes averted, and feel your hand + Limp with sorrow--you could not speak. + You thought of what I might be, and where + Life would take me, and how it would end-- + There was longer silence. A year or two + Brought me closer to you. I saw the play now + And the game somewhat and understood your fights + And enmities, and hardnesses and silences, + And wild humor that had kept you whole-- + For your soul had made it as an antitoxin + To the world's infections. And you swung to me + Closer than before--and a chumship began + Between us.... + + What vital power was yours! + You never tired, or needed sleep, or had a pain, + Or refused a delight. I loved the things now + You had always loved, a winning horse, + A roulette wheel, a contest of skill + In games or sports ... long talks on the corner + With men who have lived and tell you + Things with a rich flavor of old wisdom or humor; + A woman, a glass of whisky at a table + Where the fatigue of life falls, and our reserves + That wait for happiness come up in smiles, + Laughter, gentle confidences. Here you were + A man with youth, and I a youth was a man, + Exulting in your braveries and delight in life. + How you knocked that scamp over at Harry Varnell's + When he tried to take your chips! And how I, + Who had thought the devil in cards as a boy, + Loved to play with you now and watch you play; + And watch the subtle mathematics of your mind + Prophecy, divine the plays. Who was it + In your ancestry that you harked back to + And reproduced with such various gifts + Of flesh and spirit, Anglo-Saxon, Celt?-- + You with such rapid wit and powerful skill + For catching illogic and whipping Error's + Fanged head from the body?... + + I was really ahead of you + At this stage, with more self-consciousness + Of what man is, and what life is at last, + And how the spirit works, and by what laws, + With what inevitable force. But still I was + Behind you in that strength which in our youth, + If ever we have it, squeezes all the nectar + From the grapes. It seemed you'd never lose + This power and sense of joy, but yet at times + I saw another phase of you.... + + There was the day + We rode together north of the old town, + Past the old farm houses that I knew-- + Past maple groves, and fields of corn in the shock, + And fields of wheat with the fall green. + It was October, but the clouds were summer's, + Lazily floating in a sky of June; + And a few crows flying here and there, + And a quail's call, and around us a great silence + That held at its core old memories + Of pioneers, and dead days, forgotten things! + I'll never forget how you looked that day. Your hair + Was turning silver now, but still your eyes + Burned as of old, and the rich olive glow + In your cheeks shone, with not a line or wrinkle!-- + You seemed to me perfection--a youth, a man! + And now you talked of the world with the old wit, + And now of the soul--how such a man went down + Through folly or wrong done by him, and how + Man's death cannot end all, + There must be life hereafter!... + + As you were that day, as you looked and spoke, + As the earth was, I hear as the soul of it all + Godard's _Dawn_, Dvorak's _Humoresque_, + The Morris Dances, Mendelssohn's _Barcarole_, + And old Scotch songs, _When the Kye Come Hame_, + And _The Moon Had Climbed the Highest Hill_, + The Musseta Waltz and Rudolph's Narrative; + Your great brow seemed Beethoven's + And the lust of life in your face Cellini's, + And your riotous fancy like Dumas. + I was nearer you now than ever before, + And finding each other thus I see to-day + How the human soul seeks the human soul + And finds the one it seeks at last. + For you know you can open a window + That looks upon embowered darkness, + When the flowers sleep and the trees are still + At Midnight, and no light burns in the room; + And you can hide your butterfly + Somewhere in the room, but soon you will see + A host of butterfly mates + Fluttering through the window to join + Your butterfly hid in the room. + It is somehow thus with souls.... + + This day then I understood it all: + Your vital democracy and love of men + And tolerance of life; and how the excess of these + Had wrought your sorrows in the days + When we were so poor, and the small of mind + Spoke of your sins and your connivance + With sinful men. You had lived it down, + Had triumphed over them, and you had grown. + Prosperous in the world and had passed + Into an easy mastery of life and beyond the thought + Of further conquests for things. + As the Brahmins say, no more you worshiped matter, + Or scarcely ghosts, or even the gods + With singleness of heart. + This day you worshiped Eternal Peace + Or Eternal Flame, with scarce a laugh or jest + To hide your worship; and I understood, + Seeing so many facets to you, why it was + Blind Condon always smiled to hear your voice, + And why it was in a greenroom years ago + Booth turned to you, marking your face + From all the rest, and said, "There is a man + Who might play Hamlet--better still Othello"; + And why it was the women loved you; and the priest + Could feed his body and soul together drinking + A glass of beer and visiting with you.... + + Then something happened: + Your face grew smaller, your brow more narrow, + Dull fires burned in your eyes, + Your body shriveled, you walked with a cynical shuffle, + Your hands mixed the keys of life, + You had become a discord. + A monstrous hatred consumed you-- + You had suffered the greatest wrong of all, + I knew and granted the wrong. + You had mounted up to sixty years, now breathing hard, + And just at the time that honor belonged to you + You were dishonored at the hands of a friend. + I wept for you, and still I wondered + If all I had grown to see in you and find in you + And love in you was just a fond illusion-- + If after all I had not seen you aright as a boy: + Barbaric, hard, suspicious, cruel, redeemed + Alone by bubbling animal spirits-- + Even these gone now, all of you smoke + Laden with stinging gas and lethal vapor.... + Then you came forth again like the sun after storm-- + The deadly uric acid driven out at last + Which had poisoned you and dwarfed your soul-- + So much for soul! + + The last time I saw you + Your face was full of golden light, + Something between flame and the richness of flesh. + You were yourself again, wholly yourself. + And oh, to find you again and resume + Our understanding we had worked so long to reach-- + You calm and luminant and rich in thought! + This time it seemed we said but "yes" or "no"-- + That was enough; we smoked together + And drank a glass of wine and watched + The leaves fall sitting on the porch.... + Then life whirled me away like a leaf, + And I went about the crowded ways of New York. + + And one night Alberta and I took dinner + At a place near Fourteenth Street where the music + Was like the sun on a breeze-swept lake + When every wave is a patine of fire, + And I thought of you not at all + Looking at Alberta and watching her white teeth + Bite off bits of Italian bread, + And watching her smile and the wide pupils + Of her eyes, electrified by wine + And music and the touch of our hands + Now and then across the table. + We went to her house at last. + And through a languorous evening. + Where no light was but a single candle, + We circled about and about a pending theme + Till at last we solved it suddenly in rapture + Almost by chance; and when I left + She followed me to the hall and leaned above + The railing about the stair for the farewell kiss-- + And I went into the open air ecstatically, + With the stars in the spaces of sky between + The towering buildings, and the rush + Of wheels and clang of bells, + Still with the fragrance of her lips and cheeks + And glinting hair about me, delicate + And keen in spite of the open air. + And just as I entered the brilliant car + Something said to me you are dead-- + I had not thought of you, was not thinking of you. + But I knew it was true, as it was, + For the telegram waited me at my room.... + I didn't come back. + I could not bear to see the breathless breath + Over your brow--nor look at your face-- + However you fared or where + To what victories soever-- + Vanquished or seemingly vanquished! + + + + +RAIN IN MY HEART + + + There is a quiet in my heart + Like one who rests from days of pain. + Outside, the sparrows on the roof + Are chirping in the dripping rain. + + Rain in my heart; rain on the roof; + And memory sleeps beneath the gray + And windless sky and brings no dreams + Of any well remembered day. + + I would not have the heavens fair, + Nor golden clouds, nor breezes mild, + But days like this, until my heart + To loss of you is reconciled. + + I would not see you. Every hope + To know you as you were has ranged. + I, who am altered, would not find + The face I loved so greatly changed. + + + + +THE LOOP + + + From State street bridge a snow-white glimpse of sea + Beyond the river walled in by red buildings, + O'ertopped by masts that take the sunset's gildings, + Roped to the wharf till spring shall set them free. + Great floes make known how swift the river's current. + Out of the north sky blows a cutting wind. + Smoke from the stacks and engines in a torrent + Whirls downward, by the eddying breezes thinned. + Enskyed are sign boards advertising soap, + Tobacco, coal, transcontinental trains. + A tug is whistling, straining at a rope, + Fixed to a dredge with derricks, scoops and cranes. + Down in the loop the blue-gray air enshrouds, + As with a cyclops' cape, the man-made hills + And towers of granite where the city crowds. + Above the din a copper's whistle shrills. + There is a smell of coffee and of spices. + We near the market place of trade's devices. + Blue smoke from out a roasting room is pouring. + A rooster crows, geese cackle, men are bawling. + Whips crack, trucks creak, it is the place of storing, + And drawing out and loading up and hauling + Fruit, vegetables and fowls and steaks and hams, + Oysters and lobsters, fish and crabs and clams. + And near at hand are restaurants and bars, + Hotels with rooms at fifty cents a day, + Beer tunnels, pool rooms, places where cigars + And cigarettes their window signs display; + Mixed in with letterings of printed tags, + Twine, boxes, cartels, sacks and leather bags, + Wigs, telescopes, eyeglasses, ladies' tresses, + Or those who manicure or fashion dresses, + Or sell us putters, tennis balls or brassies, + Make shoes, pull teeth, or fit the eye with glasses. + + And now the rows of windows showing laces, + Silks, draperies and furs and costly vases, + Watches and mirrors, silver cups and mugs, + Emeralds, diamonds, Indian, Persian rugs, + Hats, velvets, silver buckles, ostrich-plumes, + Drugs, violet water, powder and perfumes. + Here is a monstrous winking eye--beneath + A showcase by an entrance full of teeth. + Here rubber coats, umbrellas, mackintoshes, + Hoods, rubber boots and arctics and galoshes. + Here is half a block of overcoats, + In this bleak time of snow and slender throats. + Then windows of fine linen, snakewood canes, + Scarfs, opera hats, in use where fashion reigns. + As when the hive swarms, so the crowded street + Roars to the shuffling of innumerable feet. + Skyscrapers soar above them; they go by + As bees crawl, little scales upon the skin + Of a great dragon winding out and in. + Above them hangs a tangled tree of signs, + Suspended or uplifted like daedalian + Hieroglyphics when the saturnalian + Night commences, and their racing lines + Run fire of blue and yellow in a puzzle, + Bewildering to the eyes of those who guzzle, + And gourmandize and stroll and seek the bubble + Of happiness to put away their trouble. + + Around the loop the elevated crawls, + And giant shadows sink against the walls + Where ten to twenty stories strive to hold + The pale refraction of the sunset's gold. + Slop underfoot, we pass beneath the loop. + The crowd is uglier, poorer; there are smells + As from the depths of unsuspected hells, + And from a groggery where beer and soup + Are sold for five cents to the thieves and bums. + Here now are huge cartoons in red and blue + Of obese women and of skeleton men, + Egyptian dancers, twined with monstrous snakes, + Before the door a turbaned lithe Hindoo, + A bagpipe shrilling, underneath a den + Of opium, whence a man with hand that shakes, + Rolling a cigarette, so palely comes. + The clang of car bells and the beat of drums. + Draft horses clamping with their steel-shod hoofs. + The buildings have grown small and black and worn; + The sky is more beholden; o'er the roofs + A flock of pigeons soars; with dresses torn + And yellow faces, labor women pass + Some Chinese gabbling; and there, buying fruit, + Stands a fair girl who is a late recruit + To those poor women slain each year by lust. + 'Tis evening now and trade will soon begin. + The family entrance beckons for a glass + Of hopeful mockery, the piano's din + Into the street with sounds of rasping wires + Filters, and near a pawner's window shows + Pistols, accordions; and, luring buyers, + A Jew stands mumbling to the passer-by + Of jewelry and watches and old clothes. + A limousine gleams quickly--with a cry + A legless man fastened upon a board + With casters 'neath it by a sudden shove + Darts out of danger. And upon the corner + A lassie tells a man that God is love, + Holding a tambourine with its copper hoard + To be augmented by the drunken scorner. + A woman with no eyeballs in her sockets + Plays "Rock of Ages" on a wheezy organ. + A newsboy with cold hands thrust in his pockets + Cries, "All about the will of Pierpont Morgan!" + The roofline of the street now sinks and dwindles. + The windows are begrimed with dust and beer. + A child half clothed, with legs as thin as spindles, + Carries a basket with some bits of coal. + Between lace curtains eyes of yellow leer, + The cheeks splotched with white places like the skin + Inside an eggshell--destitute of soul. + One sees a brass lamp oozing kerosene + Upon a stand whereon her elbows lean; + Lighted, it soon will welcome negroes in. + + The railroad tracks are near. We almost choke + From filth whirled from the street and stinging vapors. + Great engines vomit gas and heavy smoke + Upon a north wind driving tattered papers, + Dry dung and dust and refuse down the street. + A circumambient roar as of a wheel + Whirring far off--a monster's heart whose beat + Is full of murmurs, comes as we retreat + Towards Twenty-second. And a man with jaw + Set like a tiger's, with a dirty beard, + Skulks toward the loop, with heavy wrists red-raw + Glowing above his pockets where his hands + Pushed tensely round his hips the coat tails draw, + And show what seems a slender piece of metal + In his hip pocket. On these barren strands + He waits for midnight for old scores to settle + Against his ancient foe society, + Who keeps the soup house and who builds the jails. + Switchmen and firemen with their dinner pails + Go by him homeward, and he wonders if + These fellows know a hundred thousand workers + Walk up and down the city's highways, stiff + From cold and hunger, doomed to poverty, + As wretched as the thieves and crooks and shirkers. + He scurries to the lake front, loiters past + The windows of wax lights with scarlet shades, + Where smiling diners back of ambuscades + Of silk and velvet hear not winter's blast + Blowing across the lake. He has a thought + Of Michigan, where once at picking berries + He spent a summer--then his eye is caught + At Randolph street by written light which tarries, + Then like a film runs into sentences. + He sees it all as from a black abyss. + Taxis with skid chains rattle, limousines + Draw up to awnings; for a space he catches + A scent of musk or violets, sees the patches + On powdered cheeks of furred and jeweled queens. + The color round his cruel mouth grows whiter, + He thrusts his coarse hands in his pockets tighter: + He is a thief, he knows he is a thief, + He is a thief found out, and, as he knows, + The whole loop is a kingdom held in fief + By men who work with laws instead of blows + From sling shots, so he curses under breath + The money and the invisible hand that owns + From year to year, in spite of change and death, + The wires for the lights and telephones, + The railways on the streets, and overhead + The railways, and beneath the winding tunnel + Which crooks stole from the city for a runnel + To drain her nickels; and the pipes of lead + Which carry gas, wrapped round us like a snake, + And round the courts, whose grip no court can break. + He curses bitterly all those who rise, + And rule by just the spirit which he plies + Coarsely against the world's great store of wealth; + Bankers and usurers and cliques whose stealth + Works witchcraft through the market and the press, + And hires editors, or owns the stock + Controlling papers, playing with finesse + The city's thinking, that they may unlock + Treasures and powers like burglars in the dark. + And thinking thus and cursing, through a flurry + Of sudden snow he hastens on to Clark. + In a cheap room there is an eye to mark + His coming and be glad. His footsteps hurry. + She will have money, earned this afternoon + Through men who took her from a near saloon + Wherein she sits at table to dragoon + Roughnecks or simpletons upon a lark. + Within a little hall a fierce-eyed youth + Rants of the burdens on the people's backs-- + He would cure all things with the single tax. + A clergyman demands more gospel truth, + Speaking to Christians at a weekly dinner. + A parlor Marxian, for a beginner + Would take the railways. And amid applause + Where lawyers dine, a judge says all will be + Well if we hand down to posterity + Respect for courts and judges and the laws. + An anarchist would fight. Upon the whole, + Another thinks, to cultivate one's soul + Is most important--let the passing show + Go where it wills, and where it wills to go. + + Outside the stars look down. Stars are content + To be so quiet and indifferent. + + + + +WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES + + + When under the icy eaves + The swallow heralds the sun, + And the dove for its lost mate grieves + And the young lambs play and run; + When the sea is a plane of glass, + And the blustering winds are still, + And the strength of the thin snows pass + In mists o'er the tawny hill-- + The spirit of life awakes + In the fresh flags by the lakes. + + When the sick man seeks the air, + And the graves of the dead grow green, + Where the children play unaware + Of the faces no longer seen; + When all we have felt or can feel, + And all we are or have been, + And all the heart can hide or reveal, + Knocks gently, and enters in:-- + The spirit of life awakes, + In the fresh flags by the lakes. + + + + +IN THE CAR + + + We paused to say good-by, + As we thought for a little while, + Alone in the car, in the corner + Around the turn of the aisle. + + A quiver came in your voice, + Your eyes were sorrowful too; + 'Twas over--I strode to the doorway, + Then turned to wave an adieu. + + But you had not come from the corner, + And though I had gone so far, + I retraced, and faced you coming + Into the aisle of the car. + + You stopped as one who was caught + In an evil mood by surprise.-- + I want to forget, I am trying + To forget the look in your eyes. + + Your face was blank and cold, + Like Lot's wife turned to salt. + I suddenly trapped and discovered + Your soul in a hidden fault. + + Your eyes were tearless and wide, + And your wide eyes looked on me + Like a Maenad musing murder, + Or the mask of Melpomene. + + And there in a flash of lightning + I learned what I never could prove: + That your heart contained no sorrow, + And your heart contained no love. + + And my heart is light and heavy, + And this is the reason why: + I am glad we parted forever, + And sad for the last good-by. + + + + +SIMON SURNAMED PETER + + + Time that has lifted you over them all-- + O'er John and o'er Paul; + Writ you in capitals, made you the chief + Word on the leaf-- + How did you, Peter, when ne'er on His breast + You leaned and were blest-- + And none except Judas and you broke the faith + To the day of His death,-- + You, Peter, the fisherman, worthy of blame, + Arise to this fame? + + 'Twas you in the garden who fell into sleep + And the watch failed to keep, + When Jesus was praying and pressed with the weight + Of the oncoming fate. + 'Twas you in the court of the palace who warmed + Your hands as you stormed + At the damsel, denying Him thrice, when she cried: + "He walked at his side!" + You, Peter, a wave, a star among clouds, a reed in the wind, + A guide of the blind, + Both smiter and flyer, but human alway, I protest, + Beyond all the rest. + + When at night by the boat on the sea He appeared + Did you wait till he neared? + You leaped in the water, not dreading the worst + In your joy to be first + To greet Him and tell Him of all that had passed + Since you saw Him the last. + You had slept while He watched, but fierce were you, fierce and awake + When they sought Him to take, + And cursing, no doubt, as you smote off, as one of the least, + The ear of the priest. + Then Andrew and all of them fled, but you followed Him, + hoping for strength + To save him at length + Till you lied to the damsel, oh penitent Peter, and crept, + Into hiding and wept. + + Oh well! But he asked all the twelve, "Who am I?" + And who made reply? + As you leaped in the sea, so you spoke as you smote with the sword; + "Thou art Christ, even Lord!" + John leaned on His breast, but he asked you, your strength to foresee, + "Nay, lovest thou me?" + Thrice over, as thrice you denied Him, and chose you to lead + His sheep and to feed; + And gave you, He said, the keys of the den and the fold + To have and to hold. + You were a poor jailer, oh Peter, the dreamer, who saw + The death of the law + In the dream of the vessel that held all the four-footed beasts, + Unclean for the priests; + And heard in the vision a trumpet that all men are worth + The peace of the earth + And rapture of heaven hereafter,--oh Peter, what power + Was yours in that hour: + You warder and jailer and sealer of fates and decrees, + To use the big keys + With which to reveal and fling wide all the soul and the scheme + Of the Galilee dream, + When you flashed in a trice, as later you smote with the sword: + "Thou art Christ, even Lord!" + + We men, Simon Peter, we men also give you the crown + O'er Paul and o'er John. + We write you in capitals, make you the chief + Word on the leaf. + We know you as one of our flesh, and 'tis well + You are warder of hell, + And heaven's gatekeeper forever to bind and to loose-- + Keep the keys if you choose. + Not rock of you, fire of you make you sublime + In the annals of time. + You were called by Him, Peter, a rock, but we give you the name + Of Peter the Flame. + For you struck a spark, as the spark from the shock + Of steel upon rock. + The rock has his use but the flame gives the light + In the way in the night:-- + Oh Peter, the dreamer, impetuous, human, divine, + Gnarled branch of the vine! + + + + +ALL LIFE IN A LIFE + + + His father had a large family + Of girls and boys and he was born and bred + In a barn or kind of cattle shed. + But he was a hardy youngster and grew to be + A boy with eyes that sparkled like a rod + Of white hot iron in the blacksmith shop. + His face was ruddy like a rising moon, + And his hair was black as sheep's wool that is black. + And he had rugged arms and legs and a strong back. + And he had a voice half flute and half bassoon. + And from his toes up to his head's top + He was a man, simple but intricate. + And most men differ who try to delineate + His life and fate. + + He never seemed ashamed + Of poverty or of his origin. He was a wayward child, + Nevertheless though wise and mild, + And thoughtful but when angered then he flamed + As fire does in a forge. + When he was ten years old he ran away + To be alone and watch the sea, and the stars + At midnight from a mountain gorge. + + When he returned his parents scolded him + And threatened him with bolts and bars. + Then they grew soft for his return and gay + And with their love would have enfolded him. + But even at ten years old he had a way + Of gazing at you with a look austere + Which gave his kinfolk fear. + He had no childlike love for father or mother, + Sister or brother, + They were the same to him as any other. + He was a little cold, a little queer. + + His father was a laborer and now + They made the boy work for his daily bread. + They say he read + A book or two during these years of work. + But if there was a secret prone to lurk + Between the pages under the light of his brow + It came forth. And if he had a woman + In love or out of love, or a companion or a chum, + History is dumb. + So far as we know he dreamed and worked with hands + And learned to know his genius' commands + Or what is called one's daemon. + + And this became at last the city's call. + He had now reached the age of thirty years, + And found a Dream of Life and a solution + For slavery of soul and even all + Miseries that flow from things material. + To free the world was his soul's resolution. + But his family had great fears + For him, knowing the evil + Which might befall him, seeing that the light + Of his own dream had blinded his mind's eyes. + They could not tell but what he had a devil. + But still in their tears despite, + And warnings he departed with replies + That when a man's genius calls him + He must obey no matter what befalls him. + + What he had in his mind was growth + Of soul by watching, + And the creation of eyes + Over your mind's eyes to supervise + A clear activity and to ward off sloth. + What he had in his mind was scotching + And killing the snake of Hatred and stripping the glove + From the hand of Hypocrisy and quenching the fire + Of Falsehood and Unbrotherly Desire.-- + What he had in his mind was simply Love. + And it was strange he preached the sword and force + To establish Love, but it was not strange, + Since he did this, his life took on a change. + And what he taught seems muddled at its source + With moralizing and with moral strife. + For morals are merely the Truth diluted + And sweetened up and suited + To the business and bread of Life. + + And now this City was just what you'd find + A city anywhere, + A turmoil and a Vanity Fair, + A sort of heaven and a sort of Tophet. + There were so many leaders of his kind + The city didn't care + For one additional prophet. + He said some extravagant things + And planted a few stings + Under the rich man's hide. + And one of the sensational newspapers + Gave him a line or two for cutting capers + In front of the Palace of Justice and the Church. + But all of the first grade people took the other side + Of the street when they saw him coming + With a rag tag crowd singing and humming, + And curious boys and men up in a perch + Of a tree or window taking the spectacle in, + And the Corybantic din + Of a Salvation Army as it were. + And whatever he dreamed when he lived in a little town + The intelligent people ignored him, and this is the stir + And the only stir he made in the city. + + But there was a certain sinister + Fellow who came to him hearing of his renown + And said "You can be Mayor of this city, + We need a man like you for Mayor." + And others said "You'd make a lawyer or a politician, + Look how the people follow you; + Why don't you hire out as a special writer, + You could become a business man, a rhetorician, + You could become a player, + You can grow rich. There's nothing for a fighter, + Fighting as you are, but to end in ruin." + But he turned from them on his way pursuing + The dream he had in view. + + He had a rich man or two + Who took up with him against the powerful frown + Which looked him down. + For you'll always find a rich man or two + To take up with anything. + There are those who can't get into society or bring + Their riches to a social recognition; + Or ill-formed souls who lack the real patrician + Spirit for life. + But as for him he didn't care, he passed + Where the richness of living was rife. + And like wise Goethe talking to the last + With cabmen rather than with lords + He sat about the markets and the fountains, + He walked about the country and the mountains, + Took trips upon the lakes and waded fords + Barefooted, laughing as a young animal + Disports itself amid the festival + Of warm winds, sunshine, summer's carnival-- + With laborers, carpenters, seamen + And some loose women. + And certain notable sinners + Gave him dinners. + And he went to weddings and to places where youth slakes + Its thirst for happiness, and they served him cakes + And wine wherever he went. + And he ate and drank and spent + His time in feasting and in telling stories, + And singing poems of lilies and of trees, + With crowds of people crowded around his knees + That searched with lightning secrets hidden + Of life and of life's glories, + Of death and of the soul's way after death. + + Time makes amends usually for scandal's breath, + Which touched him to his earthly ruination. + But this city had a Civic Federation, + And a certain social order which intrigues + Through churches, courts, with an endless ramification + Of money and morals to save itself. + And this city had a Bar Association, + Also its Public Efficiency Leagues + For laying honest men upon the shelf + While making private pelf + Secure and free to increase. + And this city had illustrious Pharisees + And this city had a legion + Of men who make a business of religion, + With eyes one inch apart, + Dark and narrow of heart, + Who give themselves and give the city no peace, + And who are everywhere the best police + For Life as business. + And when they saw this youth + Was telling the truth, + And that his followers were multiplying, + And were going about rejoicing and defying + The social order and were stirring up + The dregs of discontent in the cup + With the hand of their own happiness, + They saw dynamic mysteries + In the poems of lilies and trees, + Therefore they held him for a felony. + + If you will take a kernel of wheat + And first make free + The outer flake and then pare off the meat + Of edible starch you'll find at the kernel's core + The life germ. And this young man's words were dim + With blasphemy, sedition at the rim, + Which fired the heads of dreamers like new wine. + But this was just the outward force of him. + For this young man's philosophy was more + Than such external ferment, being divine + With secrets so profound no plummet line + Can altogether sound it. It means growth + Of soul by watching, + And the creation of eyes + Over your mind's eyes to supervise + A clear activity and to ward off sloth. + What he had in mind was scotching + And killing the snake of Hatred and stripping the glove + From the hand of Hypocrisy and quenching the fire + Of falsehood and unbrotherly Desire. + What he had in mind was simply Love. + + But he was prosecuted + As a rebel and as a rebel executed + Right in a public place where all could see. + And his mother watched him hang for the felony. + He hated to die being but thirty-three, + And fearing that his poems might be lost. + And certain members of the Bar Association, + And of the Civic Federation, + And of the League of Public Efficiency, + And a legion + Of men devoted to religion, + With policemen, soldiers, roughs, + Loose women, thieves and toughs, + Came out to see him die, + And hooted at him giving up the ghost + In great despair and with a fearful cry! + + And after him there was a man named Paul + Who almost spoiled it all. + + And protozoan things like hypocrites, + And parasitic things who make a food + Of the mysteries of God for earthly power + Must wonder how before this young man's hour + They lived without his blood, + Shed on that day, and which + In red cells is so rich. + + + + +WHAT YOU WILL + + + April rain, delicious weeping, + Washes white bones from the grave, + Long enough have they been sleeping. + They are cleansed, and now they crave + Once more on the earth to gather + Pleasure from the springtime weather. + + The pine trees and the long dark grass + Feed on what is placed below. + Think you not that there doth pass + In them something we did know? + This spell--well, friends, I greet ye once again + With joy--but with a most unuttered pain. + + + + +THE CITY + + + The Sun hung like a red balloon + As if he would not rise; + For listless Helios drowsed and yawned. + He cared not whether the morning dawned, + The brother of Eos and the Moon + Stretched him and rubbed his eyes. + + He would have dreamed the dream again + That found him under sea: + He saw Zeus sit by Hera's side, + He saw Haephestos with his bride; + He traced from Enna's flowery plain + The child Persephone. + + There was a time when heaven's vault + Cracked like a temple's roof. + A new hierarchy burst its shell, + And as the sapphire ceiling fell, + From stern Jehovah's mad assault, + Vast spaces stretched aloof: + + Great blue black depths of frozen air + Engulfed the soul of Zeus. + And then Jehovah reigned instead. + For Judah was living and Greece was dead. + And Hope was born to nurse Despair, + And the Devil was let loose. + + * * * * * + + Far off in the waste empyrean + The world was a golden mote. + And the Sun hung like a red balloon, + Or a bomb afire o'er a barracoon. + And the sea was drab, and the sea was green + Like a many colored coat. + + The sea was pink like cyclamen, + And red as a blushing rose. + It shook anon like the sensitive plant, + Under the golden light aslant. + The little waves patted the shore again + Where the restless river flows. + + And thus it has been for ages gone-- + For a hundred thousand years; + Ere Buddha lived or Jesus came, + Or ever the city had place or name, + The sea thrilled through at the kiss of dawn + Like a soul of smiles and tears. + + When the city's seat was a waste of sand, + And the hydra lived alone, + The sound of the sea was here to be heard, + And the moon rose up like a great white bird, + Sailing aloft from the yellow strand + To her silent midnight throne. + + Now Helios eyes the universe, + And he knows the world is small. + Of old he walked through pagan Tyre, + Babylon, Sodom destroyed by fire, + And sought to unriddle the primal curse + That holds the race in thrall. + + So he stepped from the Sun in robes of flame + As the city woke from sleep. + He walked the markets, walked the squares, + He walked the places of sweets and snares, + Where men buy honor and barter shame, + And the weak are killed as sheep. + + He saw the city is one great mart + Where life is bought and sold. + Men rise to get them meat and bread + To barter for drugs or coffin the dead. + And dawn is but a plucked-up heart + For the dreary game of gold. + + "Ho! ho!" said Helios, "father Zeus + Would never botch it so. + If he had stolen Joseph's bride, + And let his son be crucified + The son's blood had been put to use + To ease the people's woe." + + "He of the pest and the burning bush, + Of locusts, lice, and frogs, + Who made me stand, veiling my light, + While Joshua slaughtered the Amorite, + Who blacked the skin of the sons of Cush, + And builded the synagogues." + + "And Jehovah the great is omnipotent, + While Zeus was bound by Fate. + But Athens fell when Peter took Rome, + And Chicago is made His hecatomb. + And since from the hour His son was sent + The hypocrite holds the state." + + Helios traversed the city streets + And this is what he saw: + Some sold their honor, some their skill, + The soldier hired himself to kill, + The judges bartered the judgment seats + And trafficked in the law. + + The starving artist sold his youth, + The writer sold his pen; + The lawyer sharpened up his wits + Like a burglar filing auger bits, + And Jesus' vicar sold the truth + To the famished sons of men. + + In every heart flamed cruelty + Like a little emerald snake. + And each one knew if he should stand + In another's way the dagger-hand + Would make the stronger the feofee + Of the coveted wapentake. + + There's not a thing men will not do + For honor, gold, or power. + We smile and call the city fair, + We call life lovely and debonair, + But Proserpina never grew + So deadly a passion flower. + + Go live for an hour in a tropic land + Hid near a sinking pool: + The lion and tiger come to drink, + The boa crawls to the water's brink, + The elephant bull kneels down in the sand + And drinks till his throat is cool. + + Jehovah will keep you awhile unseen + As you lie behind the rocks. + But go, if you dare, to slake your thirst, + Though Jesus died for our life accursed + Your bones by the tiger will be licked clean + As he licks the bones of an ox. + + And the sky may be blue as fleur de lis, + And the earth be tulip red; + And God in heaven, and life all good + While you lie hid in the underwood: + And the city may leave you sorrow free + If you ask it not for bread. + + One day Achilles lost a horse + While the pest at Troy was rife, + And a million maggots fought and ate + Like soldiers storming a city's gate, + And Thersites said, as he looked at the corse, + "Achilles, that is life." + + * * * * * + + Day fades and from a million cells + The office people pour. + Like bees that crawl on the honeycomb + The workers scurry to what is home, + And trains and traffic and clanging bells + Make the canon highways roar. + + Helios walked the city's ways + Till the lights began to shine. + Then the janitor women start to scrub + And the Pharisees up and enter the club, + And the harlot wakes, and the music plays + And the glasses glow with wine. + + Now we're good fellows one and all, + And the buffet storms with talk. + "The market's closed and trade's at end + We had our battle, now I'm your friend." + And thanks to the spirit of alcohol + Men go for a ride or walk. + + Oh but traffic is not all done + Nor everything yet sold. + There's woman to win, and plots to weave, + There's a heart to hurt, or one to deceive, + And bargains to bind ere rise of Sun + To garner the morrow's gold. + + The market at night is as full of fraud + As the market kept by day. + The courtesan buys a soul with a look, + A dinner tempers the truth in a book, + And love is sold till love is a bawd, + And falsehood froths in the play. + + And men and women sell their smiles + For friendship's lifeless dregs. + For fear of the morrow we bend and bow + To moneybags with the slanting brow. + For the heart that knows life's little wiles + Seldom or never begs. + + "Poor men," sighed Helios, "how they long + For the ultimate fire of love. + They yearn, through life, like the peacock moth, + And die worn out in search of the troth. + For love in the soul is the siren song + That wrecks the peace thereof." + + * * * * * + + Helios turned from the world and fled + As the convent bell tolled six. + For he caught a glimpse of an aged crone + Who knelt beside a coffin alone; + She had sold her cloak to shrive the dead + And buy a crucifix! + + + + +THE IDIOT + + + Two children in a garden + Shouting for joy + Were playing dolls and houses, + A girl and boy. + I smiled at a neighbor window, + And watched them play + Under a budding oak tree + On a wintry day. + + And then a board half broken + In the high fence + Fell over and there entered, + I know not whence, + A jailbird face of yellow + With a vacant sulk, + His body was a sickly + Thing of bulk. + + His open mouth was slavering, + And a green light + Turned disc-like in his eyeballs, + Like a dog's at night. + His teeth were like a giant's, + And far apart; + I saw him reel on the children + With a stopping heart. + He trampled their dolls and ruined + The house they made; + He struck to earth the children + With a dirty spade. + As a tiger growls with an antelope + After the hunt, + Over the little faces + I heard him grunt. + + I stood at the window frozen, + And short of breath, + And then I saw the idiot + Was Master Death! + + A bird in the lilac bushes + Began to sing. + The garden colored before me + To the kiss of spring. + And the yellow face in a moment + Was a mystic white; + The matted hair was softened + To starry light. + The ragged coat flowed downward + Into a robe; + He carried a sword and a balance + And stood on a globe. + I watched him from the window + Under a spell; + The idiot was the angel + Azrael! + + + + +HELEN OF TROY + +On an ancient vase representing in bas-relief the flight of +Helen. + + + This is the vase of Love + Whose feet would ever rove + O'er land and sea; + Whose hopes forever seek + Bright eyes, the vermeiled cheek, + And ways made free. + + Do we not understand + Why thou didst leave thy land, + Thy spouse, thy hearth? + Helen of Troy, Greek art + Hath made our heart thy heart, + Thy mirth our mirth. + + For Paris did appear,-- + Curled hair and rosy ear + And tapering hands. + He spoke--the blood ran fast, + He touched, and killed the past, + And clove its bands. + + And this, I deem, is why + The restless ages sigh, + Helen, for thee. + Whate'er we do or dream, + Whate'er we say or seem, + We would be free. + + We would forsake old love, + And all the pain thereof, + And all the care; + We would find out new seas, + And lands more strange than these, + And flowers more fair. + + We would behold fresh skies + Where summer never dies + And amaranths spring; + Lands where the halcyon hours + Nest over scented bowers + On folded wing. + + We would be crowned with bays, + And spend the long bright days + On sea or shore; + Or sit by haunted woods, + And watch the deep sea's moods, + And hear its roar. + + Beneath that ancient sky + Who is not fain to fly + As men have fled? + Ah! we would know relief + From marts of wine and beef, + And oil and bread. + + Helen of Troy, Greek art + Hath made our heart thy heart, + Thy love our love. + For poesy, like thee, + Must fly and wander free + As the wild dove. + + + + +O GLORIOUS FRANCE + + + You have become a forge of snow white fire, + A crucible of molten steel, O France! + Your sons are stars who cluster to a dawn + And fade in light for you, O glorious France! + They pass through meteor changes with a song + Which to all islands and all continents + Says life is neither comfort, wealth, nor fame, + Nor quiet hearthstones, friendship, wife nor child + Nor love, nor youth's delight, nor manhood's power, + Nor many days spent in a chosen work, + Nor honored merit, nor the patterned theme + Of daily labor, nor the crowns nor wreaths + Or seventy years. + + These are not all of life, + O France, whose sons amid the rolling thunder + Of cannon stand in trenches where the dead + Clog the ensanguined ice. But life to these + Prophetic and enraptured souls is vision, + And the keen ecstasy of fated strife, + And divination of the loss as gain, + And reading mysteries with brightened eyes + In fiery shock and dazzling pain before + The orient splendor of the face of Death, + As a great light beside a shadowy sea; + And in a high will's strenuous exercise, + Where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength + And is no more afraid. And in the stroke + Of azure lightning when the hidden essence + And shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth + And mystical significance in time + Are instantly distilled to one clear drop + Which mirrors earth and heaven. + + This is life + Flaming to heaven in a minute's span + When the breath of battle blows the smoldering spark. + And across these seas + We who cry Peace and treasure life and cling + To cities, happiness, or daily toil + For daily bread, or trail the long routine + Of seventy years, taste not the terrible wine + Whereof you drink, who drain and toss the cup + Empty and ringing by the finished feast; + Or have it shaken from your hand by sight + Of God against the olive woods. + + As Joan of Arc amid the apple trees + With sacred joy first heard the voices, then + Obeying plunged at Orleans in a field + Of spears and lived her dream and died in fire, + Thou, France, hast heard the voices and hast lived + The dream and known the meaning of the dream, + And read its riddle: How the soul of man + May to one greatest purpose make itself + A lens of clearness, how it loves the cup + Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall + Turns sweet to soul's surrender. + + And you say: + Take days for repetition, stretch your hands + For mocked renewal of familiar things: + The beaten path, the chair beside the window, + The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, + And waking to the task, or many springs + Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields-- + The prison house grows close no less, the feast + A place of memory sick for senses dulled + Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time + Grown weary cries Enough! + + + + +FOR A DANCE + + + There is in the dance + The joy of children on a May day lawn. + The fragments of old dreams and dead romance + Come to us from the dancers who are gone. + + What strains of ancient blood + Move quicker to the music's passionate beat? + I see the gulls fly over a shadowy flood + And Munster fields of barley and of wheat. + + And I see sunny France, + And the vine's tendrils quivering to the light, + And faces, faces, yearning for the dance + With wistful eyes that look on our delight. + + They live through us again + And we through them, who wish for lips and eyes + Wherewith to feel, not fancy, the old pain + Passed with reluctance through the centuries + + To us, who in the maze + Of dancing and hushed music woven afresh + Amid the shifting mirrors of hours and days + Know not our spirit, neither know our flesh; + + Nor what ourselves have been, + Through the long way that brought us to the dance: + I see a little green by Camolin + And odorous orchards blooming in Provence. + + Two listen to the roar + Of waves moon-smitten, where no steps intrude. + Who knows what lips were kissed at Laracor? + Or who it was that walked through Burnham wood? + + + + +WHEN LIFE IS REAL + + + We rode, we rode against the wind. + The countless lights along the town + Made the town blacker for their fire, + And you were always looking down. + + To 'scape the blustering breath of March, + Or was it for your mind's disguise? + Still I could shut my eyes and see + The turquoise color of your eyes. + + Surely your ermine furs were warm, + And warm your flowing cloak of red; + Was it the wild wind kept you thus + Pensive and with averted head? + + I scarcely spoke, my words were swept + Like winged things in the wind's despite. + We rode, and with what shadow speed + Across the darkness of the night! + + Without a word, without a look. + What was the charm and what the spell + That made one hour of life become + A memory ever memorable? + + * * * * * + + All craft, all labor, all desire, + All toil of age, all hope of youth + Are shadows from the fount of fire + And mummers of the truth. + + How bloodless books, how pulseless art, + Vain kingly and imperial zeal, + Vain all memorials of the heart! + When Life itself is real! + + We traced the golden clouds of spring, + We roved the beach, we walked the land. + What was the world? A Phantom thing + That vanished in your hand. + + You were as quiet as the sky. + Your eyes were liquid as the sea. + And in that hour that passed us by + We lived eternally. + + + + +THE QUESTION + + + I + + The sea moans and the stars are bright, + The leaves lisp 'neath a rolling moon. + I shut my eyes against the night + And make believe the time is June-- + The June that left us over-soon. + + This is the path and this the place + We sat and watched the moving sea, + And I the moonlight on your face. + We were not happy--woe is me, + Happiness is but memory! + + It seemeth, now that you are gone, + My heart a measured pain doth keep:-- + Are you now, as I am, alone? + Do you make merry, do you weep? + In whose arms are you now asleep? + + + + +THE ANSWER + + + II + + I made my bed beneath the pines + Where the sea washed the sandy bars; + I heard the music of the winds, + And blest the aureate face of Mars. + All night a lilac splendor throve + Above the heaven's shadowy verge; + And in my heart the voice of love + Kept music with the dreaming surge. + + A little maid was at my side-- + She slept--I scarcely slept at all; + Until toward the morning-tide + A dream possessed me with its thrall. + She sweetly breathed; around my breast + I felt her warmth like drowsy bliss, + Then came the vision of unrest-- + I saw your face and felt your kiss. + + I woke and knew with what dismay + She read my secret and surprise; + She only said, "Again 'tis day! + How red your cheeks, how bright your eyes!" + + + + +THE SIGN + + + There's not a soul on the square, + And the snow blows up like a sail, + Or dizzily drifts like a drunken man + Falling, before the gale. + + And when the wind eddies it rifts + The snow that lies in drifts; + And it skims along the walk and sifts + In stairways, doorways all about + The steps of the church in an angry rout. + And one would think that a hungry hound + Was out in the cold for the sound. + + But I do not seem to mind + The snow that makes one blind, + Nor the crying voice of the wind-- + I hate to hear the creak of the sign + Of Harmon Whitney, attorney at law: + With its rhythmic monotone of awe. + And neither a moan nor yet a whine, + Nor a cry of pain--one can't define + The sound of a creaking sign. + + Especially if the sky be bleak, + And no one stirs however you seek, + And every time you hear it creak + You wonder why they leave it stay + When a man is buried and hidden away + Many a day! + + + + +WILLIAM MARION REEDY + + + He sits before you silent as Buddha, + And then you say + This man is Rabelais. + And while you wonder what his stock is, + English or Irish, you behold his eyes + As big and brown as those desirable crockies + With which as boys we used to play. + And then you see the spherical light that lies + Just under the iris coloring, + Before which everything, + Becomes as plain as day. + + If you have noticed the rolling jowls + And the face that speaks its chief + Delight in beer and roast beef + Before you have seen his eyes, you see + A man of fleshly jollity, + Like the friars of old in gowns and cowls + To make a show of scowls. + And when he speaks from an orotund depth that growls + In a humorous way like Fielding or Smollett + That turns in a trice to Robert La Follette + Or retraces to Thales of Crete, + And touches upon Descartes coming back + Through the intellectual Zodiac + That's something of a feat. + And you see that the eyes are really the man, + For the thought of him proliferates + This way over to Hindostan, + And that way descanting on Yeats. + With a word on Plato's symposium, + And a little glimpse of Theocritus, + Or something of Bruno's martyrdom, + Or what St. Thomas Aquinas meant + By a certain line obscure to us. + And then he'll take up Horace's odes + Or the Roman civilization; + Or a few of the Iliad's episodes, + Or the Greek deterioration. + Or skip to a word on the plasmic jelly, + Which Benjamin Moore and others think + Is the origin of life. Then Shelley + Comes in a for a look of understanding. + Or he'll tell you about the orientation + Of the ancient dream of Zion. + Or what's the matter with Bryan. + And while the porter is bringing a drink + Something into his fancy skips + And he talks about the Apocalypse, + Or a painter or writer now unknown + In France or Germany who will soon + Have fame of him through the whole earth blown. + + It's not so hard a thing to be wise + In the lore of books. + It's a different thing to be all eyes, + Like a lighthouse which revolves and looks + Over the land and out to sea: + And a lighthouse is what he seems to me! + Sitting like Buddha spiritually cool, + Young as the light of the sun is young, + And taking the even with the odd + As a matter of course, and the path he's trod + As a path that was good enough. + With a sort of transcendental sense + Whose hatred is less than indifference, + And a gift of wisdom in love. + And who can say as he classifies + Men and ages with his eyes + With cool detachment: this is dung, + And that poor fellow is just a fool. + And say what you will death is a rod. + But I see a light that shines and shines + And I rather think it's God. + + + + +A STUDY + + + If your thoughts were as clear as your eyes, + And the whole of your heart were true, + You were fitter by far for winning-- + But then that would not be you. + + If your pulse beat time to love + As fast as you think and plan, + You could kindle a lasting passion + In the breast of the strongest man. + + If you felt as much as you thought, + And dreamed what you seem to dream, + A world of elysian beauty + Your ruined heart would redeem. + + If you thought in the light of the sun, + Or the blood in your veins flowed free, + If you gave your kisses but gladly, + We two could better agree. + + If you were strong where I counted, + And weak where yourself were at stake, + You would have my strength for your giving, + You would gain and not lose for my sake. + + If your heart overruled your head, + Or your head were lord of your heart, + Or the two were lovingly balanced, + I think we never should part. + + If you came to me spite of yourself, + And staid not away through design, + These days of loving and living + Were sweet as Olympian wine. + + If you could weep with another, + And tears for yourself controlled, + You could waken and hold to a pity + You waken, but do not hold. + + If your lips were as fain to speak + As your face is fashioned to hide-- + You would know that to lay up treasure + A woman's heart must confide. + + If your bosom were something richer, + Or your hands more fragile and thin, + You would call what the world calls evil, + Or sin and be glad of the sin. + + If your soul were aflame with love, + Or your head were devoted to truth, + You never would toss on your pillow + Bewildered 'twixt rapture and ruth. + + If you were the you of my dreams, + And the you of my dreams were mine, + These days, half sweet and half bitter, + Would taste like Olympian wine. + + Oh, subtle and mystic Egyptians! + Who chiseled the Sphinx in the East, + With head and the breasts of a woman, + And body and claws of a beast. + + And gave her a marvellous riddle + That the eyeless should read as he ran: + What crawls and runs and is baffled + By woman, the sphinx--but a man? + + Many look in her face and are conquered, + Where one all her heart has explored; + A thousand have made her their sovereign, + But one is her sovereign and lord. + + For him she leaps from her standard + And fawns at his feet in the sand, + Who sees that himself is her riddle, + And she but the work of his hand. + + + + +PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN + + + The pathos in your face is like a peace, + It is like resignation or a grace + Which smiles at the surcease + Of hope. But there is in your face + The shadow of pain, and there is a trace + Of memory of pain. + + I look at you again and again, + And hide my looks lest your quick eye perceives + My search for your despair. + I look at your pale hands--I look at your hair; + And I watch you use your hands, I watch the flare + Of thought in your eyes like light that interweaves + A flutter of color running under leaves-- + Such anguished dreams in your eyes! + And I listen to you speak + Words like crystals breaking with a tinkle, + Or a star's twinkle. + Sometimes as we talk you rise + And leave the room, and then I rub a streak + Of a tear from my cheek. + + You tell me such magical things + Of pictures, books, romance + And of your life in France + In the varied music of exquisite words, + And in a voice that sings. + + All things are memory now with you, + For poverty girds + Your hopes, and only your dreams remain. + And sometimes here and there + I see as you turn your head a whitened hair, + Even when you are smiling most. + And a light comes in your eyes like a passing ghost, + And a color runs through your cheeks as fresh + As burns in a girl's flesh. + Then I can shut my eyes and feel the pain + That has become a part of you, though I feign + Laughter myself. One sees another's bruise + And shakes his thought out of it shuddering. + So I turn and clamp my will lest I bring + Your sorrow into my flesh, who cannot choose + But hear your words and laughter, + And watch your hands and eyes. + + Then as I think you over after + I have gone from you, and your face + Comes to me with its grace + Of memory of unfound love: + You seem to me the image of all women + Who dream and keep under smiles the grief thereof, + Or sew, or sit by windows, or read books + To hide their Secret's looks. + And after a time go out of life and leave + No uttered words but in their silence grieve + For Life and for the things no tongue can tell: + Why Life hurts so, and why Love haunts and hurts + Poor men and women in this demi-hell. + + Perhaps your pathos means that it is well + Death in his time the aspiring torch inverts, + And all tired flesh and haunted eyes and hands + Moving in pained whiteness are put under + The soothing earth to brighten April's wonder. + + + + +IN THE CAGE + + + The sounds of mid-night trickle into the roar + Of morning over the water growing blue. + At ten o'clock the August sunbeams pour + A blinding flood on Michigan Avenue. + + But yet the half-drawn shades of bottle green + Leave the recesses of the room + With misty auras drawn around their gloom + Where things lie undistinguished, scarcely seen. + + You, standing between the window and the bed + Are edged with rainbow colors. And I lie + Drowsy with quizzical half-open eye + Musing upon the contour of your head, + Watching you comb your hair, + Clothed in a corset waist and skirt of silk, + Tied with white braid above your slender hips + Which reaches to your knees and makes your bare + And delicate legs by contrast white as milk. + And as you toss your head to comb its tresses + They flash upon me like long strips of sand + Between a moonlit sea, pale as your hand, + And a red sun that on a high dune stresses + Its sanguine heat. + + And then at times your lips, + Protruding half unconscious half in scorn + Engage my eyes while looking through the morn + At the clear oval of your brow brought full + Over the sovereign largeness of your eyes; + Or at your breasts that shake not as you pull + The comb through stubborn tangles, only rise + Scarcely perceptible with breath or signs, + Firm unmaternal like a young Bacchante's, + Or at your nose profoundly dipped like Dante's + Over your chin that softly melts away. + + Now you seem fully under my heart's sway. + I have slipped through the magic of your mesh + Freed once again and strengthened by your flesh, + You seem a weak thing for a strong man's play. + Yet I know now that we shall scarce have parted + When I shall think of you half heavy hearted. + I know our partings. You will faintly smile + And look at me with eyes that have no guile, + Or have too much, and pass into the sphere + Where you keep independent life meanwhile. + How do you live without me, is the fear? + You do not lean upon me, ask my love, or wonder + Of other loves I may have hidden under + These casual renewals of our love. + And if I loved you I should lie in flame, + Ari, go about re-murmuring your name, + And these are things a man should be above. + + And as I lie here on the imminent brink + Of soul's surrender into your soul's power, + And in the white light of the morning hour + I see what life would be if we should link + Our lives together in a marriage pact: + For we would walk along a boundless tract + Of perfect hell; but your disloyalty + Would be of spirit, for I have not won + Mastered and bound your spirit unto me. + And if you had a lover in the way + I have you it would not by half betray + My love as does your vague and chainless thought, + Which wanders, soars or vanishes, returns, + Changes, astonishes, or chills or burns, + Is unresisting, plastic, freely wrought + Under my hands yet to no unison + Of my life and of yours. Upon this brink + I watch you now and think + Of all that has been preached or sung or spoken + Of woman's tragedy in woman's fall; + And all the pictures of a woman broken + By man's superior strength. + + And there you stand + Your heart and life as firmly in command + Of your resolve as mine is, knowing all + Of man, the master, and his power to harm, + His rulership of spheres material, + Bread, customs, rules of fair repute-- + What are they all against your slender arm? + Which long since plucked the fruit + Of good and evil, and of life at last + And now of Life. For dancing you have cast + Veil after veil of ideals or pretense + With which men clothe the being feminine + To satisfy their lordship or their sense + Of ownership and hide the things of sin-- + You have thrown them aside veil after veil; + And there you stand unarmored, weirdly frail, + Yet strong as nature, making comical + The poems and the tales of woman's fall.... + You nod your head, you smile, I feel the air + Made by the closing door. I lie and stare + At the closed door. One, two, your tufted steps + Die on the velvet of the outer hall. + You have escaped. And I would not pursue. + Though we are but caged creatures, I and you-- + A male and female tiger in a zoo. + For I shall wait you. Life himself will track + Your wanderings and bring you back, + And shut you up again with me and cage + Our love and hatred and our silent rage. + + + + +SAVING A WOMAN: ONE PHASE + + + To a lustful thirst she came at first + And gave him her maiden's pride; + And the first man scattered the flower of her love, + Then turned to his chosen bride. + + She waned with grief as a fading star, + And waxed as a shining flame; + And the second man had her woman's love, + But the second was playing the game. + + With passion she stirred the man who was third; + Woe's me! what delicate skill + She plied to the heart that knew her art + And fled from her wanton will. + + Now calm and demure, oh fair, oh pure, + Oh subtle, patient and wise, + She trod the weary round of life, + With a sorrow deep in her eyes. + + Now a hero who knew how false, how true + Was the speech that fell from her lips, + With a Norseman's strength took sail with her, + And landed and burnt his ships. + + He gave her pity, he gave her mirth, + And the hurt in her heart he nursed; + But under the silence of her brows + Was a dream of the man who was first. + + And all the deceit and lust of men + Had sharpened her own deceit; + And down to the gates of hell she led + Her friend with her flying feet. + + For a bitten bud will never bloom, + And a woman lost is lost! + And the first and the third may go unscathed, + But some man pays the cost. + + And the books of life are full of the rune, + And this is the truth of the song: + No man can save a woman's soul, + Nor right a woman's wrong. + + + + +LOVE IS A MADNESS + + + Love is a madness, love is a fevered dream, + A white soul lost in a field of scarlet flowers-- + Love is a search for the lost, the ever vanishing gleam + Of wings, desires and sorrows and haunted hours. + + Will the look return to your eyes, the warmth to your hand? + Love is a doubt, an ache, love is a writhing fear. + Love is a potion drunk when the ship puts out from land, + Rudderless, sails at full, and with none to steer. + + The end is a shattered lamp, a drunken seraph asleep, + The upturned face of the drowned on a barren beach. + The glare of noon is o'er us, we are ashamed to weep-- + The beginning and end of love are devoid of speech. + + + + +ON A BUST + + + Your speeches seemed to answer for the nonce-- + They do not justify your head in bronze! + Your essays! talent's failures were to you + Your philosophic gamut, but things true, + Or beautiful, oh never! What's the pons + For you to cross to fame?--Your head in bronze? + + What has the artist caught? The sensual chin + That melts away in weakness from the skin, + Sagging from your indifference of mind; + The sullen mouth that sneers at human kind + For lack of genius to create or rule; + The superficial scorn that says "you fool!" + The deep-set eyes that have the mud-cat look + Which might belong to Tolstoi or a crook. + The nose half-thickly fleshed and half in point, + And lightly turned awry as out of joint; + The eyebrows pointing upward satyr-wise, + Scarce like Mephisto, for you scarcely rise + To cosmic irony in what you dream-- + More like a tomcat sniffing yellow cream. + The brow! 'Tis worth the bronze it's molded in + Save for the flat-top head and narrow thin + Backhead which shows your spirit has not soared. + You are a Packard engine in a Ford, + Which wrecks itself and turtles with its load, + Too light and powerful to keep the road. + The master strength for twisting words is caught + In the swift turning wheels of iron thought. + With butcher knives your hands can vivisect + Our butterflies, but you can not erect + Temples of beauty, wisdom. You can crawl + Hungry and subtle over Eden's wall, + And shame half grown up truth, or make a lie + Full grown as good. You cannot glorify + Our dreams, or aspirations, or deep thirst. + To you the world's a fig tree which is curst. + You have preached every faith but to betray; + The artist shows us you have had your day. + + A giant as we hoped, in truth a dwarf; + A barrel of slop that shines on Lethe's wharf, + Which seemed at first a vessel with sweet wine + For thirsty lips. So down the swift decline + You went through sloven spirit, craven heart + And cynic indolence. And here the art + Of molding clay has caught you for the nonce + And made your shame our shame--your head in bronze! + Some day this bust will lie amid old metals + Old copper boilers, wires, faucets, kettles. + Some day it will be melted up and molded + In door knobs, inkwells, paper knives, or folded + In leaves and wreaths around the capitals + Of marble columns, or for arsenals + Fashioned in something, or in course of time + Successively made each of these, from grime + Rescued successively, or made a bell + For fire or worship, who on earth can tell? + One thing is sure, you will not long be dust + When this bronze will be broken as a bust + And given to the junkman to re-sell. + You know this and the thought of it is hell! + + + + +ARABEL + + + Twists of smoke rise from the limpness of jewelled fingers, + The softness of Persian rugs hushes the room. + Under a dragon lamp with a shade the color of coral + Sit the readers of poems one by one. + And all the room is in shadow except for the blur + Of mahogany surface, and tapers against the wall. + + And a youth reads a poem of love: forever and ever + Is his soul the soul of the loved one; a woman sings + Of the nine months which go to the birth of a soul. + And after a time under the lamp a man + Begins to read a letter having no poem to read. + And the words of the letter flash and die like a fuse + Dampened by rain--it's a dying mind that writes + What Byron did for the Greeks against the Turks. + And a sickness enters our hearts. The jewelled hands + Clutch at the arms of the chairs--about the room + One hears the parting of lips, and a nervous shifting + Of feet and arms. + + And I look up and over + The reader's shoulder and see the name of the writer. + What is it I see? The name of a man I knew! + You are an ironical trickster, Time, to bring + After so many years and into a place like this + This face before me: hair slicked down and parted + In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness, + Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids + Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes. + Such was your look in a photograph I saw + In a silver frame on a woman's dresser--and such + Your look in life, you thing of flesh alone! + + And then + As a soul looks down on the body it leaves-- + A body by fever slain--I look on myself + As I was a decade ago, while the letter is read: + + I enter a box + Of a theater with Jim, my friend of fifty, + I being twenty-two. Two women are in the box + One of an age for Jim and one of an age for me. + And mine is dressed in a dainty gown of dimity, + And she fans herself with a fan of silver spangles + Till a subtle odor of delicate powder or of herself + Enters my blood and I stare at her snowy neck, + And the glossy brownness of her hair until + She feels my stare, and turns half-view and I see + How like a Greek's is her nose, with just a little + Aquiline touch; and I catch the flash of an eye, + And the glint of a smile on the richness of her lips. + The company now discourses upon the letter + But my dream goes on: + + I re-live a rapture + Which may be madness, and no man understands + Until he feels it no more. The youth that was I + From the theater under the city's lights follows the girl + Desperate lest in the city's curious chances + He never sees her again. And boldly he speaks. + And she and the older woman, her sister + Smile and speak in turn, and Jim who stands + While I break the ice comes up--and so + Arm in arm we go to the restaurant, + I in heaven walking with Arabel, + And Jim with her older sister. + We drive them home under a summer moon, + And while I explain to Arabel my boldness, + And crave her pardon for it, Jim, the devil, + Laughs apart with her sister while I wonder + What Jim, the devil, is laughing at. No matter + To-morrow I walk in the park with Arabel. + + Just now the reader of the letter + Tells of the writer's swift descent + From wealth to want. + + We are in the park next afternoon by the water. + I look at her white throat full as it were of song. + And her rounded virginal bosom, beautiful! + And I study her eyes, I search to the depths her eyes + In the light of the sun. They are full of little rays + Like the edge of a fleur de lys, and she smiles + At first when I fling my soul at her feet. + + But when I repeat I love her, love her only, + A cloud of wonder passes over her face, + She veils her eyes. The color comes to her cheeks. + And when she picks some clover blossoms and tears them + Her hand is trembling. And when I tell her again + I love her, love her only, she blots her eyes + With a handkerchief to hide a tear that starts. + + And she says to me: "You do not know me at all, + How can you love me? You never saw me before + Last night." "Well, tell me about yourself." + And after a time she tells me the story: + About her father who ran away from her mother; + And how she hated her father, and how she grieved + When her mother died; and how a good grandmother + Helped her and helps her now. And how her sister + Divorced her husband. And then she paused a moment: + "I am not strong, you'd have to guard me gently, + And that takes money, dear, as well as love. + Two years ago I was very ill, and since then + I am not strong." + + "Well I can work," I said. + "And what would you think of a little cottage + Not too far out with a yard and hosts of roses, + And a vine on the porch, and a little garden, + And a dining room where the sun comes in, + When a morning breeze blows over your brow, + And you sit across the table and serve me + And neither of us can speak for happiness + Without our voices breaking, or lips trembling." + + She is looking down with little frowns on her brow. + "But if ever I had to work, I could not do it, + I am not really well." + + "But I can work," I said. + I rise and lift her up, holding her hand. + She slips her arm through mine and presses it. + "What a good man you are," she said. "Just like a brother-- + I almost love you, I believe I love you." + + The reader of the letter, being a doctor, + Is talking learnedly of the writer's case + Which has the classical marks of paresis. + + Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodize + About a cottage with roses and a garden, + And a dining room where the sun comes in, + And Arabel across the table. Jim is smoking + And flicking the ashes, but never says a word + Till I have finished. Then in a quiet voice: + "Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight, + But she isn't, my boy--she's just like Arabel's sister. + She knew you had the madness for Arabel. + That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked. + And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night, + I shook you at the corner and went back, + And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy, + Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop + The cottage and the roses." + + They are still discussing the madman's letter. + + And memory permeates me like a subtle drug: + The memory of my love for Arabel, + The torture, the doubt, the fear, the restless longing, + The sleepless nights, the pity for all her sorrows, + The speculation about her and her sister, + And what her illness was; + And whether the man I saw one time was leaving + Her door or the next door to it, and if her door + Whether he saw my Arabel or her sister.... + + The reader of the letter is telling how the writer + Left his wife chasing the lure of women. + + And it all comes back to me as clear as a vision: + The night I sat with Arabel strong but conquered. + Whatever I did, I loved her, whatever she was. + Madness or love the terrible struggle must end. + She took my hand and said, "You must see my room." + We stood in the doorway together and on her dresser + Was a silver frame with the photograph of a man-- + I had seen him in life: hair slicked down and parted + In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness + Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids + Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes. + "There is his picture," she said, "ask me whatever you will. + Take me as mistress or wife, it is yours to decide. + But take me as mistress and grow like the picture before you, + Take me as wife and be the good man you can be. + Choose me as mistress--how can I do less for dearest? + Or make me your wife--fate makes me your mistress or wife." + "I can leave you," I said. "You can leave me," she echoed, + "But how about hate in your heart." + + "You are right," I replied. + + The company is now discussing the subject of love-- + They seem to know little about it. + + But my wife, who is sitting beside me, exclaims: + "Well, what is this jangle of madness and weakness, + What has it to do with poetry, tell me?" + + "Well, it's life," Arabel. + "There's the story of Hamlet, for instance," I added. + Then fell into silence. + + + + +JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER + + + Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking, + When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock. + So we came out and he went home to wife + And children, and I started for the club + Which I call home; and then just like a flash + You came into my mind. I bought a slug + And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard + The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me + To hear your voice at last--it was so drowsy, + Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes + Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing + In nightgown with head leaned against the wall.... + + Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice + Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine-- + It showed your understanding, that you know + How it is with a man, and how it is with me + Who work by day and sometimes drift by night + About this hellish city. Though you know + That I am fifty-one, can you imagine + My feeling with no children growing up? + My feeling as of one who sees a play + And afterwards sits somewhere at a table + And talks with friends about the different parts + Over a sandwich and a glass of beer? + My feeling with this money which I've made + And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working + The money dulls the fancy which could use it + In splendid dreams or in the art of life. + Well, here was I ringing your bell at last + At half-past one, and there you stood before me + With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands + So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed, + But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you + With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you + Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia, + For that kiss which you gave me at the door.... + + Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong, + My heart acts queer of late.... + + I want to say + Lest I forget it, if you ever hear + From Arabel or Francis what I said + To Francis when he told me he intended + To marry Arabel, why just remember + Our talk this morning and forget I said it-- + I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see, + That night we met, I being fifty-one + And old at what men call the game, looked on + With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you + Just as I'd see a woman anywhere; + And I found you as I'd found others before you, + But with this difference so it seemed to me: + What had been false with them was real with you, + What had been shame with them with you was life, + What had been craft with them with you was nature, + What had been sin with them to you was good, + What had been vice with them to you the honest + And uncorrupted innocence of a human + Heart so human looking on our souls. + What had been coarse to them to you was clean + As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow + And move and sing along creation's way. + You came to me like friendship, what you gave + Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self + And least of motive. And it is through you + That I have risen out of the pit where sneers + And laughter, looks and words obscene, + Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia, + As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses + Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds + Upon their infinite sailings and the lake + Washes beneath us, and we lie and think + How this has been forever and will be + When we are dust a thousand, thousand years, + Yet how life is eternal--just as one + Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy + Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme + The Eternal Power (as he might well blaspheme + The gospel hymns and ritual) that I + Cannot blaspheme you, Julia. + For what is our communion, yours and mine, + If it be not a way of laying hold + On that mysterious essence which makes one + Of heaven and earth, makes kindred human hands.... + Tears are not like you, Julia; laugh, that's right! + Pour me a little coffee, if you please. + + I'll take from my herbarium certain species + To make my points: Now here there is the woman + Of life promiscuous, or nearly so. + She fixes her design upon a man, + Who's married and the riotous game begins. + They go along a year or two perhaps. + Then psychic chemistry performs its part: + They are in love, or he's in love with her. + What shall be done with love? Now watch the woman: + That which she gave without love at the first + She now withdraws in spite of love unless + He breaks his life up, cuts all former ties + And weds her. Do you wonder sometimes men + Kill women with a knife or strangle them? + Well, here's another: She has been to Ogontz, + You meet her at a dinner-dance, we'll say. + She has green eyes and hair as light as jonquils; + She wears black velvet and a salmon sash. + And when you dance with her she has a way + Of giving you her flesh beneath thin silk, + Which almost lisps as she caresses you + With legs that scarcely touch you; and she says + Things with a double meaning, and she smiles + To carry out her meaning. Well, you think + The girl is yours, and after weeks of chasing + She lands you up at the appointed place + With mamma, who looks at you with big eyes, + That have a nervous way of opening + And closing slowly like a big wax doll's, + From which great clouds of wrath and wonder come; + Which meeting is a way of saying to you: + The girl is yours if you will marry her, + And let her have your money. + + Julia, be still; + I can't go on while you are laughing so. + I know that men are easy, but to see + Women as women see them is a gift + That comes to men who reach my age in life.... + + Well, here's another, here's the type of woman + Whose power of motherhood conceals the art + By which she thrives, through which she reaches also + An apotheosis in society. + Her dream is children conscious or unconscious. + And her strength is the race's, and she draws + The urgings of posterity and leans + Upon the hopes and ideals of the day. + To her a man must sacrifice his life. + But women, Julia, of whatever type, + Are still but waiting ovules seeking man, + And man's life to develop, even to live. + And like the praying mantis who's devoured + In the embrace, man is devoured by women + In some way, by some sort. Love is a flame + In man's life where he warms him but to suck + The invisible heat and perish. Life is cramped, + Bound down with many ropes, shut in by gates-- + Love is not free which should be wholly free + For Life's sake. + + On Michigan Avenue + At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see + In rain or shine a certain tailor walk + In modish coat and trousers, with a cane. + That fellow is the pitifulest man I know. + He has no woman, cannot find a woman, + Because all women, seeing him, divine + What surges through him, and within their hearts + Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun + Of seeing how denial keeps him walking + All up and down the boulevard. He's found + No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia. + I use him for my point. If we could make + Some fine erotometer one could sit + And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands + Record the waves of longing in the city, + And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows + Of custom and of fear. Love is not free, + Which should be wholly free for Life's sake. + + Julia. + So much for all these things, and now for you + To whom they lead. + + You'll find among the marshes + The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows, + Where the green scum floats languidly you'll find + The water lily with white petals and + A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches + The midges flitting by with rainbow wings, + Impales them on its tiny spines, in time + Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out + Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall + Into the water, treasured there like tears + Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed + Into the verdant vesture of its leaves. + The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily + Well typify the nature of most women + Who must have blood or soul of man to live-- + Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale + Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed. + He read somewhere that primroses will change + Under your eyes sometimes to something else, + Become another flower and not a primrose, + Another species even. So he watched + And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed + Has somewhere in its vital self the power + Of this mutation. What is the origin + Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia, + Who has mutated: You are not a mother; + Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage; + Nor yet the woman thriving by her sex; + Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon + Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down + To death and hell. Nor yet Delilah who + Rejoices in the secret of man's strength + And in subduing it. + + You are a flower + Designed to comfort such poor men as I, + And show the world how love can be a thing + That asks no more than what it freely gives, + And gives all--all some women call the prize + For life or honor, riches, power or place. + You are a blossom in the primrose bed + So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent. + You have mutated, Julia, that is it, + This flower of you is what I call _The Lover_! + + + + +THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES + + + I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death-- + But never a face like Harold's who passed in a throe of pain. + There were maidens and youths in the bud, and men in the lust of life; + And women whom child-birth racked till the crying soul slipped through; + Patriarchs withered with age and nuns ascetical white; + And one who wasted her virgin wealth in a riot of joy. + Brothers and sisters at last in a quiet and purple pall, + Fellow voyagers bound to a port on an ash-blue sea, + Locked in an utterless grief, in a mystery fearful to dream. + All of these I have seen--but the face of Harold the bold + Looked with a penitent pallor and stared with a sad surprise. + + For now at last he was still who never knew rest in life. + And the ardent heat of his blood was cold as the sweat of a stone. + Life came in an evil hour and stabbed with a poisoned word + The heart of a girl who faintly smiled through her tears. + And her little life was tossed as the eddies that whirl in the hollows + From the great world-currents that wreck the battle ships at sea. + And the face of dead Lillian seemed like a rain-ruined flower. + + Or what is writ on the brow of the babe as the mother wails for the day + When it leaped in the light of the sun and babbled its pure delight? + + But the face of William the Great was fashioned by life and thought; + And death made it massive as bronze, and deepened the lines thereof: + Some for the will and some for patience, and some for hope-- + Hope for the weal of the world wherein he mightily strove-- + Yet what did it all bespeak--what but submission and awe, + And a trace of pain as one with a sword in his side? + + I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death + But the sorrow thereof is dumb like the cloth that lies on the brow. + So what should be said of the faun surprised in the woodland dances, + Of Harold the light of heart who fought with fear to the last? + + + + +THE CRY + + + There's a voice in my heart that cries and cries for tears. + It is not a voice, but a pain of many fears. + It is not a pain, but the rune of far-off spheres. + + It may be a daemon of pent and high emprise, + That looks on my soul till my soul hides and cries, + Loath to rebuke my soul and bid it arise. + + It may be myself as I was in another life, + Fashioned to lead where strife gives way to strife, + Pinioned here in failure by knife thrown after knife. + + The child turns o'er in the womb; and perhaps the soul + Nurtures a dream too strong for the soul's control, + When the dream hath eyes, and senses its destined goal. + + Deep in darkness the bulb under mould and clod + Feels the sun in the sky and pushes above the sod; + Perhaps this cry in my heart is nothing but God! + + + + +THE HELPING HAND + + + Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars. + Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars? + + Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief. + How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief? + + Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life. + Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife. + + Mother, your face is but a face among a million more. + You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore. + + I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath. + You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death. + + Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God? + Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod. + + + + +THE DOOR + + + This is the room that thou wast ushered in. + Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win? + Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath? + There is no door but death. + + Do shadows crouch within the mocking light? + Stand thou! but if thy terrored heart takes flight + Facing maimed Hope and wide-eyed Nevermore, + There is no less one door. + + Dost thou bewail love's end and friendship's doom, + The dying fire, drained cup, and gathering gloom? + Explore the walls, if thy soul ventureth-- + There is no door but death. + + There is no window. Heaven hangs aloof + Above the rents within the stairless roof. + Hence, soul, be brave across the ruined floor-- + Who knocks? Unbolt the door! + + + + +SUPPLICATION + +_For He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are dust._--PSALM +CIII. 14. + + + Oh Lord, when all our bones are thrust + Beyond the gaze of all but Thine; + And these blaspheming tongues are dust + Which babbled of Thy name divine, + How helpless then to carp or rail + Against the canons of Thy word; + Wilt Thou, when thus our spirits fail, + Have mercy, Lord? + + Here from this ebon speck that floats + As but a mote within Thine eye, + Vain sneers and curses from our throats + Rise to the vault of Thy fair sky: + Yet when this world of ours is still + Of this all-wondering, tortured horde, + And none is left for Thee to kill-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + Thou knowest that our flesh is grass; + Ah! let our withered souls remain + Like stricken reeds of some morass, + Bleached, in Thy will, by ceaseless rain. + Have we not had enough of fire, + Enough of torment and the sword?-- + If these accrue from Thy desire-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + Dost Thou not see about our feet + The tangles of our erring thought? + Thou knowest that we run to greet + High hopes that vanish into naught. + We bleed, we fall, we rise again; + How can we be of Thee abhorred? + We are Thy breed, we little men-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + Wilt Thou then slay for that we slay, + Wilt Thou deny when we deny? + A thousand years are but a day, + A little day within Thine eye: + We thirst for love, we yearn for life; + We lust, wilt Thou the lust record? + We, beaten, fall upon the knife-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + Thou givest us youth that turns to age; + And strength that leaves us while we seek. + Thou pourest the fire of sacred rage + In costly vessels all too weak. + Great works we planned in hopes that Thou + Fit wisdom therefor wouldst accord; + Thou wrotest failure on our brow-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + Could we but know, as Thou dost know-- + Hold the whole scheme at once in mind! + Yet, dost Thou watch our anxious woe + Who piece with palsied hands and blind + The fragments of our little plan, + To thrive and earn Thy blest reward, + And make and keep the world of man-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + Thou settest the sun within his place + To light the world, the world is Thine, + Put in our hands and through Thy grace + To be subdued and made divine. + Whether we serve Thee ill or well, + Thou knowest our frame, nor canst afford + To leave Thy own for long in hell-- + Have mercy, Lord! + + + + +THE CONVERSATION + + +_The Human Voice_ + + You knew then, starting let us say with ether, + You would become electrons, out of whirling + Would rise to atoms; then as an atom resting + Till through Yourself in other atoms moving + And by the fine affinity of power + Atom with atom massed, You would go on + Over the crest of visible forms transformed, + Would be a molecule, a little system + Wherein the atoms move like suns and planets + With satellites, electrons. So as worlds build + From star-dust, as electron to electron, + The same attraction drawing, molecules + Would wed and pass over the crest again + Of visible forms, lying content as crystals, + Or colloids--ready now to use the gleam + Of life. As 'twere I see You with a match, + As one in darkness lights a candle, and one + Sees not his friend's form in the shadowed room + Until the candle's lighted? Even his form + Is darkened by the new-made light, he stands + So near it! Well, I add to all I've asked + Whether You knew the cell born to the glint + Of that same lighted candle would not rest + Even as electrons rest not--but would surge + Over the crest of visible forms, become + Beneath our feet things hidden from the eye + However aided,--as above our heads + Beyond the Milky Way great systems whirl + Beyond the telescope,--become bacilli, + Amoeba, starfish, swimming things, on land + The serpent, and then birds, and beasts of prey + The tiger (You in the tiger) on and on + Surging above the crest of visible forms until + The ape came--oh what ages they are to us-- + But still creation flies on wings of light-- + Then to the man who roamed the frozen fields + Neither man nor ape,--we found his jaw, You know, + At Heidelberg, in a sand-pit. On and on + Till Babylon was builded, and arose + Jerusalem and Memphis, Athens, Rome, + Venice and Florence, Paris, London, Berlin, + New York, Chicago--did You know, I ask, + All this would come of You in ether moving? + +_A Voice_ + + I knew. + +_The Human Voice_ + + You knew that man was born to be destroyed, + That as an atom perfect, whole, at ease, + Drawn to some other atom, is broken, changed + And rises o'er the crest of visible things + To something else--that man must pass as well + Through equal transformation. And You knew + The unutterable things of man's life: From the first + You saw his wracked Deucalion-soul that looks + Backward on life that rises, where he rose + Out of the stones. You saw him looking forward + Over the purple mists that hide the gulf. + Ere the green cell rose, even in the green cell + You saw the sequences of thought--You saw + That one would say, "All's matter" and another, + "All's mind," and man's mind which reflects the image, + Could not envision it. That even worship + Of what you are would be confused by cries + From India or Palestine. That love + Which sees itself beginning in the seeds, + Which fly and seek each other, maims + The soul at the last in loss of child or friend + Father or mother. And You knew that sex, + Ranging from plants through beasts and up to us + Had ties of filth--And out of them would rise + Diverse philosophies to tear the world. + You knew, when the green cell arose, that even + The You which formed it moving on would bring + Races and breeds, madmen, tyrants, slaves, + The idiot child, the murderer, the insane-- + All springing from the action of one law. + You knew the enmity that lies between + The lives of micro-beings and our own. You knew + How man would rise to vision of himself: + Immortal only in the race's life. + And past the atom and the first glint of life, + Saw him with soul enraptured, yet o'ershadowed + Amid self-consciousness! + +_A Voice_ + + I knew. + But this your fault: You see me as apart, + Over, removed, at enmity with You. + You are in Me, and of Me, even at one + With Me. But there's your soul--your soul may be + The germinal cell of vaster evolution. + Why try to tell you? If I gave a cell + Voice to inquire, and it should ask you this: + "After me what, a stalk, a flower, life + That swims or crawls?" And if I gave to you + Wisdom to say: "You shall become a reed + By the water's edge"--how could the cell foresee + What the reed is, bending beneath the wind + When the lake ripples and the skies are blue + As larkspur? Therefore I, who moved in darkness + Becoming light in suns and light in souls + And mind with thought--for what is thought but light + Sprung from the clash of ether?--I am with you. + And if beyond this stable state that stands + For your life here (as cells are whole and balanced + Till the inner urge bring union, then a breaking + And building up to higher life), there is + No memory of this world nor of your thought, + Nor sense of life on this world lived and borne; + Or whether you remember, know yourself + As one who lived here, suffered here, aspired-- + What does it matter?--you cannot be lost, + As I am lost not. Therefore be at peace. + And from the laws whose orbits cross and run + To seeming tangles, find the law through which + Your soul shall be perfected till it draw,-- + As the green cell the sunlight draws and turns + Its chemical effulgence into life-- + My inner splendor. All the rest is mine + In infinite time. For if I should unroll + The parchment of the future, it were vain-- + You could not read it. + + + + +TERMINUS + + + Terminus shows the ways and says, + "All things must have an end." + Oh, bitter thought we hid away + When first you were my friend. + + We hid it in the darkest place + Our hearts had place to hide, + And took the sweet as from a spring + Whose waters would abide. + + For neither life nor the wide world + Has greater store than this:-- + The thought that runs through hands and eyes + And fills the silences. + + There is a void the aged world + Throws over the spent heart; + When Life has given all she has, + And Terminus says depart. + + When we must sit with folded hands, + And see with inward eye + A void rise like an arctic breath + To hollow the morrow's sky. + + To-morrow is, and trembling leaves, + And 'wildered winds from Thrace + Look for you where your face has bloomed, + And where may bloom your face. + + Beyond the city, over the hill, + Under the anguished moon, + The winds and my dreams seek after you + By meadow, water and dune. + + All things must have an end, we know; + But oh, the dreaded end; + Whether in life, whether in death, + To lose the cherished friend. + + To lose in life the cherished friend, + While the myrtle tree is green; + To live and have the cherished friend + With only the world between. + + With only the wide, wide world between, + Where memory has mortmain. + Life pours more wine in the heart of man + Than the heart of man can contain. + + Oh, heart of man and heart of woman, + Thirsting for blood of the vine, + Life waits till the heart has lived too much + And then pours in new wine! + + + + +MADELINE + + + I almost heard your little heart + Begin to beat, and since that hour + Your life has grown apace and blossomed, + Fed by the same miraculous power, + + That moved the rivulet of your life, + And made your heart begin to beat. + Now all day your steps are a-patter. + Oh, what swift and musical feet! + + You sleep. I wait to see you wake, + With wonder-eyes and hands that reach. + I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather + Too fast on your budding lips for speech. + + Your sunny hair is cut as if + 'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock. + How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning + The flaring skirt of the little frock! + + You build and play and search and pry, + And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys. + Why do you never tire of playing, + Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise? + + You will not sleep? You are tired of the house? + You are just as naughty as you can be. + Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden, + And play with Marcia under the tree! + + + + +MARCIA + + + Madeline's hair is straight and yours + Is just as curly as tendril vines; + And she is fair, but a deeper color + Your cheeks of olive incarnadines. + + A serious wisdom burns and glows + Steadily in your dark-eyed look. + Already a wit and a little stoic-- + Perhaps you are going to write a book, + + Or paint a picture, or sing or act + The part of Katherine or Juliet. + I believe you were born with the gift of knowing + When to remember and when to forget. + + And when to stifle and kill a grief, + And clutch your heart when it beats in vain. + The heart that has most strength for feeling + Must have the strength to conquer the pain. + + You understand? It seems that you do-- + Though you cannot utter a word to me. + Marcia, Marcia, look at Madeline + Building a doll-house under the tree! + + + + +THE ALTAR + + + My heart is an altar whereon + Many sacrificial fires have been kindled + In praise of spring and Aphrodite. + + My heart is an altar of chalcedony, + Crowned with a tablet of bronze, + Blacked with smoke, scarred with fire, + And scented with the aromatic bitterness + Of dead incense. + + Albeit let us murmur a little Doric prayer + Over the ashes which lie scattered around the altar; + For the April rain has wept over them, + And from them the crocus smelts its Roman gold. + + What though there are remnants here + Of faded coronals, + And bits of silver string + Torn from forgotten harps? + Perfect amid the ashes sleeps a cup of amethyst. + Let us take it and pour the sea from it, + And while the savor of dead lips is washed away, + Let us lift our hands to this sky of hyacinth. + Let us light the altar newly, for lo! it is spring. + + Bring from the re-kindled woodland + Flames of columbine, jewel-weed and trumpet-creeper, + There where the woodman burns the fallen tree, + And scented smoke arises + On azure wings between the branches, + Budding with adolescent life. + With these let us light the altar, + That a scarlet flame may lean + Against the silver sea. + + For thou art fire also, + And air, and water, and the resurgent earth, + For thou art woman, thou art love. + Thou art April of the Arcadian moon, + Thou art the swift sun racing through snowy clouds, + Thou art the creative silence of flowering valleys. + Thy face is the apple tree in bloom; + Thine eyes the glimpses of green water + When the tree's blossoms shake + As soft winds fan them. + Thy hair is flame blown against the sea's mist-- + Thou art spring. + + The fire on the altar burns brightly, + And the sea sparkles in the sun. + Let us murmur a Doric prayer + For the gift of love, + For the gift of life, + Oh Life! Oh Love! We lift our hands to thee! + + + + +SOUL'S DESIRE + + + Her soul is like a wolf that stands + Where sunlight falls between the trees + Of a sparse forest's leafless edge, + When Spring's first magic moveth these. + + Her soul is like a little brook, + Thin edged with ice against the leaves, + Where the wolf drinks and is alone, + And where the woodbine interweaves. + + A bank late covered by the snow, + But lighted by the frozen North; + Her soul is like a little plot + That one white blossom bringeth forth. + + Her soul is slim, like silver slips, + And straight, like flags beside a stream. + Her soul is like a shape that moves + And changes in a wonder dream. + + Who would pursue her clasps a cloud, + And taketh sorrow for his zeal. + Memory shall sing him many songs + While bound upon the torture wheel. + + Her soul is like a wolf that glides + By moonlight o'er a phantom ridge; + Her face is like a light that runs + Beneath the shadow of a bridge. + + Her voice is like a woodland cry + Heard in a summer's desolate hour. + Her eyes are dim; her lips are faint, + And tinctured like the cuckoo flower. + + Her little breasts are like the buds + Of tulips in a place forlorn. + Her soul is like a mandrake bloom + Standing against the crimson moon. + + Her dream is like the fenny snake's, + That warms him in the noonday's fire. + She hath no thought, nor any hope, + Save of herself and her desire. + + She is not life; she is not death; + She is not fear, or joy or grief. + Her soul is like a quiet sea + Beneath a ruin-haunted reef. + + She is the shape the sailor sees, + That slips the rock without a sound. + She is the soul that comes and goes + And leaves no mark, yet makes a wound. + + She is the soul that hunts and flies; + She is a world-wide mist of care. + She is the restlessness of life, + Its rapture and despair. + + + + +BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE + + + It was a hermit on Whitsunday + That came to the Table Round. + "King Arthur, wit ye by what Knight + May the Holy Grail be found?" + + "By never a Knight that liveth now; + By none that feasteth here." + King Arthur marvelled when he said, + "He shall be got this year." + + Then uprose brave Sir Launcelot + And there did mount his steed, + And hastened to a pleasant town + That stood in knightly need. + + Where many people him acclaimed, + He passed the Corbin pounte, + And there he saw a fairer tower + Than ever was his wont. + + And in that tower for many years + A dolorous lady lay, + Whom Queen Northgalis had bewitched, + And also Queen le Fay. + + And Launcelot loosed her from those pains, + And there a dragon slew. + Then came King Pelles out and said, + "Your name, brave Knight and true?" + + "My name is Pelles, wit ye well, + And King of the far country; + And I, Sir Knight, am cousin nigh + To Joseph of Armathie." + + "I am Sir Launcelot du Lake." + And then they clung them fast; + And yede into the castle hall + To take the king's repast. + + Anon there cometh in a dove + By the window's open fold, + And in her mouth was a rich censer, + That shone like Ophir gold. + + And therewithal was such savor + As bloweth over sea + From a land of many colored flowers + And trees of spicery. + + And therewithal was meat and drink, + And a damsel passing fair, + Betwixt her hands of tulip-white, + A golden cup did bear. + + "O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, + "What may this marvel mean?" + "That is," said Pelles, "richest thing + That any man hath seen." + + "O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, + "What may this sight avail?" + "Now wit ye well," said King Pelles, + "That was the Holy Grail." + + Then by this sign King Pelles knew + Elaine his fair daughter + Should lie with Launcelot that night, + And Launcelot with her. + + And that this twain should get a child + Before the night should fail, + Who would be named Sir Galahad, + And find the Holy Grail. + + Then cometh one hight Dame Brisen + With Pelles to confer, + "Now, wit ye well, Sir Launcelot + Loveth but Guinevere." + + "But if ye keep him well in hand, + The while I work my charms, + The maid Elaine, ere spring of morn, + Shall lie within his arms." + + Dame Brisen was the subtlest witch + That was that time in life; + She was as if Beelzebub + Had taken her to wife. + + Then did she cause one known of face + To Launcelot to bring, + As if it came from Guinevere, + Her wonted signet ring. + + "By Holy Rood, thou comest true, + For well I know thy face. + Where is my lady?" asked the Knight, + "There in the Castle Case?" + + "'Tis five leagues scarcely from this hall," + Up spoke that man of guile. + "I go this hour," said Launcelot, + "Though it were fifty mile." + + Then sped Dame Brisen to the king + And whispered, "An we thrive, + Elaine must reach the Castle Case + Ere Launcelot arrive." + + Elaine stole forth with twenty knights + And a goodly company. + Sir Launcelot rode fast behind, + Queen Guinevere to see. + + Anon he reached the castle door. + Oh! fond and well deceived. + And there it seemed the queen's own train + Sir Launcelot received. + + "Where is the queen?" quoth Launcelot, + "For I am sore bestead," + "Have not such haste," said Dame Brisen, + "The queen is now in bed." + + "Then lead me thither," saith he, + "And cease this jape of thine." + "Now sit thee down," said Dame Brisen, + "And have a cup of wine." + + "For wit ye not that many eyes + Upon you here have stared; + Now have a cup of wine until + All things may be prepared." + + Elaine lay in a fair chamber, + 'Twixt linen sweet and clene. + Dame Brisen all the windows stopped, + That no day might be seen. + + Dame Brisen fetched a cup of wine + And Launcelot drank thereof. + "No more of flagons," saith he, + "For I am mad for love." + + Dame Brisen took Sir Launcelot + Where lay the maid Elaine. + Sir Launcelot entered the bed chamber + The queen's love for to gain. + + Sir Launcelot kissed the maid Elaine, + And her cheeks and brows did burn; + And then they lay in other's arms + Until the morn's underne. + + Anon Sir Launcelot arose + And toward the window groped, + And then he saw the maid Elaine + When he the window oped. + + "Ah, traitoress," saith Launcelot, + And then he gat his sword, + "That I should live so long and now + Become a knight abhorred." + + "False traitoress," saith Launcelot, + And then he shook the steel. + Elaine skipped naked from the bed + And 'fore the knight did kneel. + + "I am King Pelles own daughter + And thou art Launcelot, + The greatest knight of all the world. + This hour we have begot." + + "Oh, traitoress Brisen," cried the knight, + "Oh, charmed cup of wine; + That I this treasonous thing should do + For treasures such as thine." + + "Have mercy," saith maid Elaine, + "Thy child is in my womb." + Thereat the morning's silvern light + Flooded the bridal room. + + That light it was a benison; + It seemed a holy boon, + As when behind a wrack of cloud + Shineth the summer moon. + + And in the eyes of maid Elaine + Looked forth so sweet a faith, + Sir Launcelot took his glittering sword, + And thrust it in the sheath. + + "So God me help, I spare thy life, + But I am wretch and thrall, + If any let my sword to make + Dame Brisen's head to fall." + + "So have thy will of her," she said, + "But do to me but good; + For thou hast had my fairest flower, + Which is my maidenhood." + + "And we have done the will of God, + And the will of God is best." + Sir Launcelot lifted the maid Elaine + And hid her on his breast. + + Anon there cometh in a dove, + By the window's open fold, + And in her mouth was a rich censer + That shone like beaten gold. + + And therewithal was such savor, + As bloweth over sea, + From a land of many colored flowers, + And trees of spicery. + + And therewithal was meat and drink, + And a damsel passing fair, + Betwixt her hands of silver white + A golden cup did bear. + + "O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, + "What may this marvel mean?" + "That is," she said, "the richest thing + That any man hath seen." + + "O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, + "What may this sight avail?" + "Now wit ye well," said maid Elaine, + "This is the Holy Grail." + + And then a nimbus light hung o'er + Her brow so fair and meek; + And turned to orient pearls the tears + That glistered down her cheek. + + And a sound of music passing sweet + Went in and out again. + Sir Launcelot made the sign of the cross, + And knelt to maid Elaine. + + "Name him whatever name thou wilt, + But be his sword and mail + Thrice tempered 'gainst a wayward world, + That lost the Holy Grail." + + Sir Launcelot sadly took his leave + And rode against the morn. + And when the time was fully come + Sir Galahad was born. + + Also he was from Jesu Christ, + Our Lord, the eighth degree; + Likewise the greatest knight this world + May ever hope to see. + + + + +THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT + + + Sir Launcelot had fled to France + For the peace of Guinevere, + And many a noble knight was slain, + And Arthur lay on his bier. + + Sir Launcelot took ship from France + And sailed across the sea. + He rode seven days through fair England + Till he came to Almesbury. + + Then spake Sir Bors to Launcelot: + The old time is at end; + You have no more in England's realm + In east nor west a friend. + + You have no friend in all England + Sith Mordred's war hath been, + And Queen Guinevere became a nun + To heal her soul of sin. + + Sir Launcelot answered never a word + But rode to the west countree + Until through the forest he saw a light + That shone from a nunnery. + + Sir Launcelot entered the cloister, + And the queen fell down in a swoon. + Oh blessed Jesu, saith the queen, + For thy mother's love, a boon. + + Go hence, Sir Launcelot, saith the queen, + And let me win God's grace. + My heavy heart serves me no more + To look upon thy face. + + Through you was wrought King Arthur's death, + Through you great war and wrake. + Leave me alone, let me bleed, + Pass by for Jesu's sake. + + Then fare you well, saith Launcelot, + Sweet Madam, fare you well. + And sythen you have left the world + No more in the world I dwell. + + Then up rose sad Sir Launcelot + And rode by wold and mere + Until he came to a hermitage + Where bode Sir Bedivere. + + And there he put a habit on + And there did pray and fast. + And when Sir Bedivere told him all + His heart for sorrow brast. + + How that Sir Mordred, traitorous knight + Betrayed his King and sire; + And how King Arthur wounded, died + Broken in heart's desire. + + And so Sir Launcelot penance made, + And worked at servile toil; + And prayed the Bishop of Canterbury + His sins for to assoil. + + His shield went clattering on the wall + To a dolorous wail of wind; + His casque was rust, his mantle dust + With spider webs entwined. + + His listless horses left alone + Went cropping where they would, + To see the noblest knight of the world + Upon his sorrow brood. + + Anon a Vision came in his sleep, + And thrice the Vision saith: + Go thou to Almesbury for thy sin, + Where lieth the queen in death. + + Sir Launcelot cometh to Almesbury + And knelt by the dead queen's bier; + Oh none may know, moaned Launcelot, + What sorrow lieth here. + + What love, what honor, what defeat + What hope of the Holy Grail. + The moon looked through the latticed glass + On the queen's face cold and pale. + + Sir Launcelot kissed the cered cloth, + And none could stay his woe, + Her hair lay back from the oval brow, + And her nose was clear as snow. + + They wrapped her body in cloth of Raines, + They put her in webs of lead. + They coffined her in white marble, + And sang a mass for the dead. + + Sir Launcelot and seven knights + Bore torches around the bier. + They scattered myrrh and frankincense + On the corpse of Guinevere. + + They put her in earth by King Arthur + To the chant of a doleful tune. + They heaped the earth on Guinevere + And Launcelot fell in a swoon. + + Sir Launcelot went to the hermitage + Some Grace of God to find; + But never he ate, and never he drank + And there he sickened and dwined. + + Sir Launcelot lay in a painful bed, + And spake with a dreary steven; + Sir Bishop, I pray you shrive my soul + And make it clean for heaven. + + The Bishop houseled Sir Launcelot, + The Bishop kept watch and ward. + Bury me, saith Sir Launcelot, + In the earth of Joyous Guard. + + Three candles burned the whole night through + Till the red dawn looked in the room. + And the white, white soul of Launcelot + Strove with a black, black doom. + + I see the old witch Dame Brisen, + And Elaine so straight and tall-- + Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, + The shadows dance on the wall. + + I see long hands of dead women, + They clutch for my soul eftsoon; + Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, + 'Tis the drifting light of the moon. + + I see three angels, saith he, + Before a silver urn. + Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, + The candles do but burn. + + I see a cloth of red samite + O'er the holy vessels spread. + Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, + The great dawn groweth red. + + I see all the torches of the world + Shine in the room so clear. + Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, + The white dawn draweth near. + + Sweet lady, I behold the face + Of thy dear son, our Lord, + Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, + The sun shines on your sword. + + Sir Galahad outstretcheth hands + And taketh me ere I fail-- + Sir Launcelot's body lay in death + As his soul found the Holy Grail. + + They laid his body in the quire + Upon a purple pall. + He was the meekest, gentlest knight + That ever ate in hall. + + He was the kingliest, goodliest knight + That ever England roved, + The truest lover of sinful man + That ever woman loved. + + I pray you all, fair gentlemen, + Pray for his soul and mine. + He lived to lose the heart he loved + And drink but bitter wine. + + He wrought a woe he knew not of, + He failed his fondest quest, + Now sing a psalter, read a prayer + May all souls find their rest. + Amen. + + + + +IN MICHIGAN + + + You wrote: + "Come over to Saugatuck + And be with me on the warm sand, + And under cool beeches and aromatic cedars." + And just then no one could do a thing in the city + For the lure of far places, and something that tugged + At one's heart because of a June sky, + And stretches of blue water, + And a warm wind blowing from the south. + What could I do but take a boat + And go to meet you? + + And when to-day is not enough, + But you must live to-morrow also; + And when the present stands in the way + Of something to come, + And there is but one you would see, + All the interval of waiting is a wall. + And so it was I walked the landward deck + With flapping coat and hat pulled down; + And I sat on the leeward deck and looked + At the streaming smoke of the funnels, + And the far waste of rhythmical water, + And at the gulls flying by our side. + + There was music on board and dancing, + But I could not take part. + For above all there was the bluest sky, + And around us the urge of magical distances. + And just because you were in the violins, + And in everything, and were wholly the world + Of sense and sight, + It was too much. One could not live it + And make it all his own-- + It was too much. + And I wondered where the rest could be going, + Or what they thought of water and sky + Without knowing you. + + But at four o'clock there was a rim, + A circled edge of rainbow color + Which suspired, widened and narrowed under your gaze: + It was the phantasy of straining eyes, + Or land--and it was land. + It was distant trees. + And then it was dunes, bluffs of yellow sand. + We began to wonder how far it was-- + Five miles, or ten miles-- + Surely only five miles!-- + But at last whatever it was we swung to the end. + We rounded the lighthouse pier, + Almost before we knew. + We slowed our speed in a dizzy river of black, + We drifted softly to dock. + + I took the ferry, + I crossed the river, + I ran almost through the little batch + Of fishermen's shacks. + I climbed the winding road of the hill, + And dove in a shadowy quiet + Of paths of moss and dancing leaves, + And straight stretched limbs of giant pines + On patches of sky. + I ran to the top of the bluff + Where the lodge-house stood. + And there the sunlit lake burst on me + And wine-like air. + And below me was the beach + Where the serried lines of hurrying water + Came up like rank on rank of men + And fell with a shout on the rocks! + I plunged, I stumbled, I ran + Down the hill, + For I thought I saw you, + And it was you, you were there! + And I shall never forget your cry, + Nor how you raised your arms and cried, + And laughed when you saw me. + And there we were with the lake + And the sun with his ruddy search-light blaze + Stretching back to lost Chicago. + The sun, the lake, the beach, and ourselves + Were all that was left of Time, + All else was lost. + + You were making a camp. + You had bent from the bank a cedar bough + And tied it down. + And over it flung a quilt of many colors, + And under it spread on the voluptuous silt + Gray blankets and canvas pillows. + I saw it all in a glance. + And there in dread of eyes we stood + Scanning the bluff and the beach, + Lest in the briefest touch of lips + We might be seen. + + For there were eyes, or we thought + There were eyes, on the porch of the lodge, + And eyes along the forest's rim on the hill, + And eyes on the shore. + But a minute past there was no sun, + Only a star that shone like a match which lights + To a blue intenseness amid the glow of a hearth. + And we sat on the sand as dusk came down + In a communion of silence and low words. + Till you said at last: "We'll sup at the lodge, + Then say good night to me and leave + As if to stay overnight in the village. + But instead make a long detour through the wood + And come to the shore through that ravine, + Be here at the tent at midnight." + + And so I did. + I stole through echoless ways, + Where no twigs broke and where I heard + My heart beat like a watch under a pillow. + And the whippoorwills were singing. + And the sound of the surf below me + Was the sound of silver-poplar leaves + In a wind that makes no pause.... + I hurried down the steep ravine, + And a bat flew up at my feet from the brush + And crossed the moon. + To my left was the lighthouse, + And black and deep purples far away, + And all was still. + Till I stood breathless by the tent + And heard your whispered welcome, + And felt your kiss. + + Lovers lay at mid-night + On roofs of Memphis and Athens + And looked at tropical stars + As large as golden beetles. + Nothing is new, save this, + And this is always new. + And there in your tent + With the balm of the mid-night breeze + Sweeping over us, + We looked at one great star + Through a flap of your many-colored tent, + And the eternal quality of rapture + And mystery and vision flowed through us. + + Next day we went to Grand Haven, + For my desire was your desire, + Whatever wish one had the other had. + And up the Grand River we rowed, + With rushes and lily pads about us, + And the sand hills back of us, + Till we came to a quiet land, + A lotus place of farms and meadows. + And we tied our boat to Schmitty's dock, + Where we had a dinner of fish. + And where, after resting, to follow your will + We drifted back to Spring Lake-- + And under a larger moon, + Now almost full, + Walked three miles to The Beeches, + By a winding country road, + Where we had supper. + And afterwards a long sleep, + Waking to the song of robins. + + And that day I said: + There are wild places, blue water, pine forests, + There are apple orchards, and wonderful roads + Around Elk Lake--shall we go? + And we went, for your desire was mine. + And there we climbed hills, + And ate apples along the shaded ways, + And rolled great boulders down the steeps + To watch them splash in the water. + And we stood and wondered what was beyond + The farther shore two miles away. + And we came to a place on the shore + Where four great pine trees stood, + And underneath them wild flowers to the edge + Of sand so soft for naked feet. + And here, for not a soul was near, + We stripped and swam far out, laughing, rejoicing, + Rolling and diving in those great depths + Of bracing water under a glittering sun. + + There were farm houses enough + For food and shelter. + But something urged us on. + One knows the end and dreads the end + Yet seeks the end. + And you asked, "Is there a town near? + Let's see a town." + So we walked to Traverse City + Through cut-over land and blasted + Trunks and stumps of pine, + And by the side of desolate hills. + But when we got to Traverse City + You were not content, nor was I. + Something urged us on. + Then you thought of Northport + And of its Norse and German fishermen, + And its quaint piers where they smoke fish. + So we drove for thirty miles + In a speeding automobile + Over hills, around sudden curves, into warm coverts, + Or hollows, sometimes at the edge of the Bay, + Again on the hill, + From where we could see Old Mission + Amid blues and blacks, across a score of miles of the Bay, + Waving like watered silk under the moon! + And by meadows of clover newly cut, + And by peach orchards and vineyards. + But when we came to the little town + Already asleep, though it was but eight o'clock, + And only a few drowsy lamps + With misty eyelids shone from a store or two, + I said, "Do you see those twinkling lights? + That's Northport Point, that's the Cedar Cabin-- + Let's go to the Cedar Cabin." + And so we crossed the Bay + Amid great waves in a plunging launch, + And a roaring breeze and a great moon, + For now the moon was full. + + So here was the Cedar Cabin + On a strip of land as wide as a house and lawn, + And on one side Lake Michigan, + And on one side the Bay. + There were distances of color all around, + And stars and darknesses of land and trees, + And at the point the lighthouse. + And over us the moon, + And over the balcony of our room + All of these, where we lay till I slept, + Listening to the water of the lake, + And the water of the Bay. + And we saw the moon sink like a red bomb, + And we saw the stars change + As the sky wheeled.... + Now this was the end of the earth, + For this strip of land + Ran out to a point no larger than one of the stumps + We saw on the desolate hills. + And moreover it seemed to dive under, + Or waste away in a sudden depth of water. + And around it was a swirl, + To the north the bounding waves of the Lake, + And to the south the Bay which seemed the Lake. + But could we speak of it, even though + I saw your eyes when you thought of it? + A sigh of wind blew through the rustic temple + When we saw this symbol together, + And neither spoke. + But that night, somewhere in the beginning of drowsiness, + You said: "There is no further place to go, + We must retrace." + And I awoke in a torrent of light in the room, + Hearing voices and steps on the walk: + I looked for you, + But you had arisen. + Then I dressed and searched for you, + But you were gone. + Then I stood for long minutes + Looking at a sail far out at sea + And departed too. + + + + +THE STAR + + + I am a certain god + Who slipped down from a remote height + To a place of pools and stars. + And I sat invisible + Amid a clump of trees + To watch the madmen. + + There were cries and groans about me, + And shouts of laughter and curses. + Figures passed by with self-absorbed contempt, + Wrinkling in bitter smiles about their lips. + Others hurried on with set eyes + Pursuing something. + Then I said this is the place for mad Frederick-- + Mad Frederick will be here. + + But everywhere I could see + Figures sitting or standing + By little pools. + Some seemed grown into the soil + And were helpless. + And of these some were asleep. + Others laughed the laughter + That comes from dying men + Trying to face Death. + And others said "I should be content," + And others said "I will fly." + Whereupon sepulchral voices muttered, + As of creatures sitting or hanging head down + From limbs of the trees, + "We will not let you." + And others looked in their pools + And clasped hands and said "Gone, all gone." + By other pools there were dead bodies: + Some of youth, some of age. + They had given up the fight, + They had drunk poisoned water, + They had searched + Until they fell-- + All had gone mad! + + Then I, a certain god, + Curious to know + What it is in pools and stars + That drives men and women + Over the earth in this quest + Waited for mad Frederick. + And then I heard his step. + + I knew that long ago + He sat by one of these pools + Enraptured of a star's image. + And that hands, for his own good, + As they said, + Dumped clay into the pool + And blotted his star. + And I knew that after that + He had said, "They will never spy again + Upon my ecstasy. + They will never see me watching one star. + I will fly by rivers, + And by little brooks, + And by the edge of lakes, + And by little bends of water, + Where no wind blows, + And glance at stars as I pass. + They will never spy again + Upon my ecstasy." + + And I knew that mad Frederick + In this flight + Through years of restless and madness + Was caught by the image of a star + In a mere beyond a meadow + Down from a hill, under a forest, + And had said, + "No one sees; + Here I can find life, + Through vision of eternal things." + But they had followed him. + They stood on the brow of the hill, + And when they saw him gazing in the water + They rolled a great stone down the hill, + And shattered the star's image. + Then mad Frederick fled with laughter. + It echoed through the wood. + And he said, "I will look for moons, + I will punish them who disturb me, + By worshiping moons." + But when he sought moons + They left him alone, + And he did not want the moons. + And he was alone, and sick from the moons, + And covered as with a white blankness, + Which was the worst madness of all. + + And I, a certain god, + Waiting for mad Frederick + To enter this place of pools and stars, + Saw him at last. + With a sigh he looked about upon his fellows + Sitting or standing by their pools. + And some of the pools were covered with scum, + And some were glazed as of filth, + And some were grown with weeds, + And some were congealed as of the north wind, + And a few were yet pure, + And held the star's image. + And by these some sat and were glad, + Others had lost the vision. + The star was there, but its meaning vanished. + And mad Frederick, going here and there, + With no purpose, + Only curious and interested + As I was, a certain god, + Came by a certain pool + And saw a star. + + He shivered, + He clasped his hands, + He sank to his knees, + He touched his lips to the water. + + Then voices from the limbs of the trees muttered: + "There he is again." + "He must be driven away." + "The pool is not his." + "He does not belong here." + So as when bats fly in a cave + They swooped from their hidings in the trees + And dashed themselves in the pool. + Then I saw what these flying things were-- + But no matter. + They were illusions, evil and envious + And dull, + But with power to destroy. + And mad Frederick turned away from the pool + And covered his eyes with his arms. + Then a certain god, + Of less power than mine, + Came and sat beside me and said: + "Why do you allow this to be? + They are all seeking, + Why do you not let them find their heart's delight? + Why do you allow this to be?" + But I did not answer. + The lesser god did not know + That I have no power, + That only the God has the power. + And that this must be + In spite of all lesser gods. + + And I saw mad Frederick + Arise and ascend to the top of a high hill, + And I saw him find the star + Whose image he had seen in the pool. + Then he knelt and prayed: + "Give me to understand, O Star, + Your inner self, your eternal spirit, + That I may have you and not images of you, + So that I may know what has driven me through the world, + And may cure my soul. + For I know you are Eternal Love, + And I can never escape you. + And if I cannot escape you, + Then I must serve you. + And if I must serve you, + It must be to good and not ill-- + You have brought me from the forest of pools + And the images of stars, + Here to the hill's top. + Where now do I go? + And what shall I do?" + + +THE END + +Printed in the United States of America. + + + + +The following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author +or on kindred subjects + + + + + _EDGAR LEE MASTERS' REMARKABLE BOOK_ + + Spoon River Anthology + + _Mr. Masters' book is considered by many to be the most striking and + important contribution to American letters in recent years_:-- + + "An American 'Comedie Humaine' brings more characters into its pages + than any American novel.... Takes its place among the masterpieces + which are not of a time or a locality."--_Boston Transcript._ + + "A work splendid in observation, marvelous in the artistry of + exclusion, yet of democratic inclusiveness, piercingly analytic of + character, of plastic facility of handling, sympathetic underneath + irony, humorous, pathetic, tragic, comic, particular yet + universal--a Comedie Humaine--a creation of a whole community of + personalities."--_William Marion Reedy._ + + "We find a strange impressiveness, akin to greatness, in the 'Spoon + River Anthology' of Edgar Lee Masters.... It is a book which, + whether one likes it or not, one must respect."--_The New Republic._ + + "Mr. Masters speaks with a new and authentic voice. It is an + illuminating piece of work, and an unforgettable one."--_Chicago + Evening Post._ + + "The natural child of Wait Whitman ... the only poet with true + Americanism in his bones."--_New York Times._ + + _Cloth, $1.25; leather, $1.50_ + + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + * * * * * + + Good Friday and Other Poems + + BY JOHN MASEFIELD + + Author of "The Everlasting Mercy" and "The Widow in the Bye Street," + etc. + + _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ + + The title piece in this volume is a dramatic poem of sixty pages, the + action of which takes place in the time of Christ. The characters + introduced include Pontius Pilate, Joseph of Ramah and Herod. The + play, for it is really such, is written in rhyme and is one of Mr. + Masefield's most interesting and important contributions to + literature. In addition to this there are in the book many sonnets and + short poems. + + "Reveals an interesting development in poetic thought and expression + ... a new Masefield ... who has never written with more dignity, nor + with more artistry. Those who go in quest of Beauty will find her + here.... Here is beauty of impression, beauty of expression, beauty + of thought, and beauty of phrase."--_The New York Times._ + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + * * * * * + + The Man Against the Sky + + BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON + + Author of "The Porcupine," "Captain Craig and Other Poems," etc. + + _Cloth, 12mo, $1.00_ + + It has been some years since Mr. Robinson has given us a new + collection of poems. Those who remember "Captain Craig and Other + Poems," a volume which brought to its author the heartiest of + congratulations, placing him at once in the rank of those American + writers whose contributions to literature are of permanent value, will + welcome this new work and will find that their anticipation of it and + hopes for it are to be pleasantly realized. It is a book which well + carries out that early promise and which helps to maintain Mr. + Robinson's position in letters to-day. + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + * * * * * + + Battle and Other Poems + + BY WILFRID WILSON GIBSON + + Author of "Daily Bread," "Fires," etc. + + _Cloth, 12mo_ + + Here with that intensely human note exhibited in his poems of the + working classes, Mr. Gibson sings of the life of the soldier. There + are many moods in the book, for the author has well caught the flow of + spirits from gaiety to despair which makes up the soldier's days. The + chief characteristic of the little pen pictures is their vividness, + the way in which they bring before the reader the thoughts and + feelings of those whose lives may be offered up for their country any + moment. In addition to these poems of battle there are others in the + collection on varying themes. + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + * * * * * + + Six French Poets + + BY AMY LOWELL + + Author of "Sword Blades and Poppy Seed," "A Dome of Many-Coloured + Glass," etc. + + _Cloth, 8vo, $2.50_ + + A brilliant series of biographical and critical essays dealing with + Emile Verhaeren, Albert Samain, Remy de Gourmont, Henri de Regnier, + Francis Jammes, and Paul Fort, by one of the foremost living American + poets. + + The translations make up an important part of the book, and together + with the French originals constitute a representative anthology of the + poetry of the period. + + Professor Barrett Wendell, of Harvard University, says: + + "Seems to me as unusual--in the happiest sense of the word, ... I + find the book a model, in total effect, of what a work with such + purpose ought to be." + + William Lyon Phelps, Professor of English Literature, Yale University, + says: + + "This is, I think, the most valuable work on contemporary French + literature that I have seen for a long time. It is written by one + who has a thorough knowledge of the subject and who is herself an + American poet of distinction. She has the knowledge, the sympathy, + the penetration, and the insight--all necessary to make a notable + book of criticism. It is a work that should be widely read in + America." + + + OTHER BOOKS BY AMY LOWELL + + + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + + _Boards, 12mo, $1.25_ + + "From the standard of pure poetry, Miss Lowell's poem, 'The Book of + the Hours of Sister Clotilde' is one of the loveliest in our poetry, + worthy of companionship to the great romantic lyrics of + Coleridge."--_Boston Transcript._ + + + A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass + + _Boards, 12mo, $1.25_ + + "Such verse as this is delightful, has a sort of personal flavor, a + loyalty to the fundamentals of life and nationality.... The child + poems are particularly graceful."--_Boston Transcript._ + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. + +Punctuation has been corrected without note. + +Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the +original. + +It is not always possible to determine if a new stanza begins at the top +of a printed page, but every effort has been made by the transcriber to +retain stanza breaks where appropriate. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs and Satires, by Edgar Lee Masters + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS AND SATIRES *** + +***** This file should be named 36149.txt or 36149.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/1/4/36149/ + +Produced by David E. 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