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diff --git a/38856-0.txt b/38856-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9640c26 --- /dev/null +++ b/38856-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3044 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 38856 *** + +GOBLINS AND PAGODAS + +BY + +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + +The Riverside Press Cambridge + +1916 + + + + + +TO + +DAISY + + + +Thanks are due to the editor of The Egoist, London, for permission to +reprint The Ghosts of an Old House and the Orange Symphony; to the +editor of Poetry, Chicago, for permission to reprint the Blue Symphony; +and to the editor of The Little Review for permission to reprint the +Green Symphony. + + + + +PREFACE + + +I + +The second half of the nineteenth and the first fifteen years of the +twentieth century have been a period of research, of experiment, of +unrest and questioning. In science and philosophy we have witnessed an +attempt to destroy the mechanistic theory of the universe as developed +by Darwin, Huxley, and Spencer. The unknowable has been questioned: +hypotheses have been shaken: vitalism and idealism have been proclaimed. +In the arts, the tendency has been to strip each art of its inessentials +and to disclose the underlying basis of pure form. In life, the +principles of nationality, of racial culture, of individualism, of +social development, of Christian ethics, have been discussed, debated, +and examined from top to bottom, until at last, in the early years of +the twentieth century we find all Europe, from the leaders of thought +down to the lowest peasantry, engaged in a mutually destructive war of +which few can trace the beginnings and none can foresee the end. The +fundamental tenets of thought, art, life itself, have been shaken: and +either civilization is destined to some new birth, or mankind will +revert to the conditions of life, thought, and social intercourse that +prevailed in the Stone Age. + +Like all men of my generation, I have not been able to resist this +irresistible upheaval of ideas and of forces: and, to the best of my +ability, I have tried to arrive at a clear understanding of the +fundamentals of æsthetic form as they affect the art to which I have +felt myself instinctively akin, the art of poetry. That I have +completely attained such an understanding, it would be idle for me to +pretend: but I believe, and have induced some others to believe, that I +have made a few steps towards it. Some explanation of my own peculiar +theories and beliefs is necessary, however, to those who have not +specifically concerned themselves with poetry, or who suffer in the +presence of any new work of art from the normal human reaction that all +art principles are so essentially fixed that any departure from accepted +ideas is madness. + + +II + +The fundamental basis of all the arts is the same. In every case art +aims at the evocation of some human emotion in the spectator or +listener. Where science proceeds from effects to causes, and seeks to +analyze the underlying causes of emotion and sensation, art reverses the +process, and constructs something that will awaken emotions, according +to the amount of receptiveness with which other people approach it. Thus +architecture gives us feelings of density, proportion, harmony: +sculpture, of masses in movement; painting, of colour-harmony and the +ordered composition of lines and volumes from which arise sensations of +space: music, of the development of sounds into melodic line, harmonic +progression, tonal opposition, and symphonic structure. + +The object of literature is not dissimilar from these. Literature aims +at releasing the emotions that arise from the formed words of a certain +language. But literature is probably a less pure--and hence more +universal--art than any I have yet examined. For it must be apparent to +all minds that not only is a word a definite symbol of some fact, but +also it is a thing capable of being spoken or sounded. The art of +literature, then, in so far as it deals with definite statements, is +akin to painting or photography: in so far as it deals with sounded +words, it is akin to music. + + +III + +Literature, therefore, does not depend on the peculiar twists and quirks +which represent, to those who can read, the words, but rather on the +essential words themselves. In fact, literature existed before writing; +and writing in itself is of no value from the purely literary sense, +except in so far as it preserves and transmits from generation to +generation the literary emotion. Style, whether in prose or poetry, is +an attempt to develop this essentially musical quality of literature, to +evoke the magic that exists in the sound-quality of words, as well as +to combine these sound-qualities in definite statements or sentences. +The difference between prose and poetry is, therefore, not a difference +of means, but of psychological effect and reaction. The means employed, +the formed language, is the same: but the resultant impression is quite +different. + +In prose, the emotions expressed are those that are capable of +development in a straight line. In so far as prose is pure, it confines +itself to the direct orderly progression of a thought or conception or +situation from point to point of a flat surface. The sentences, as they +develop this conception from its beginning to conclusion, move on, and +do not return upon themselves. The grouping of these sentences into +paragraphs gives the breadth of the thought. The paragraphs, sections, +and chapters are each a square, in that they represent a division of the +main thought into parallel units, or blocks of subsidiary ideas. The +sensation of depth is finally obtained by arranging these blocks in a +rising climacteric progression, or in parallel lines, or in a sort of +zigzag figure. + +The psychological reaction that arises from the intelligent appreciation +of poetry is quite different. In poetry, we have a succession of curves. +The direction of the thought is not in straight lines, but wavy and +spiral. It rises and falls on gusts of strong emotion. Most often it +creates strongly marked loops and circles. The structure of the stanza +or strophe always tends to the spherical. Depth is obtained by making +one sphere contain a number of concentric, or overlapping spheres. + +Hence, when we speak of poetry we usually mean regular rhyme and metre, +which have for so long been considered essential to all poetry, not as a +device for heightening musical effect, as so many people suppose, but +merely to make these loops and circles more accentuated, and to make the +line of the poem turn upon itself more recognizably. But it must be +recognized that just as Giotto's circle was none the less a circle, +although not drawn with compasses, so poetic circles can be constructed +out of subtler and more musical curves than that which painstakingly +follows the selfsame progression of beats, and catches itself up on the +same point of rhyme for line after line. The key pattern on the lip of a +Greek vase may be beautiful, but it is less beautiful, less satisfying, +and less conclusive a test of artistic ability than the composition of +satyrs and of mænads struggling about the centre. Therefore I maintain, +and will continue to do so, that the mere craftsman-ability to write in +regular lines and metres no more makes a man a poet than the ability to +stencil wall-papers makes him a painter. + +Rather is it more important to observe that almost any prose work of +imaginative literature, if examined closely, will be found to contain a +plentiful sprinkling of excellent verses; while many poems which the +world hails as master-pieces, contain whole pages of prose. The fact is, +that prose and poetry are to literature as composition and colour are +to painting, or as light and shadow to the day, or male and female to +mankind. There are no absolutely perfect poets and no absolutely perfect +prose-writers. Each partakes of some of the characteristics of the +other. The difference between poetry and prose is, therefore, a +difference between a general roundness and a general squareness of +outline. A great French critic, recently dead, who devoted perhaps the +major part of his life to the study of the æsthetics of the French +tongue, declared that Flaubert and Chateaubriand wrote only poetry. If +there are those who cannot see that in the only true and lasting sense +of the word poetry, this remark was perfectly just, then all I have +written above will be in vain. + + +IV + +Along with the prevailing preoccupation with technique which so marks +the early twentieth century, there has gone also a great change in the +subject-matter of art. Having tried to explain the aesthetic form-basis +of poetry, I shall now attempt to explain my personal way of viewing its +content. + +It is a significant fact that every change in technical procedure in the +arts is accompanied by, and grows out of, a change in subject-matter. To +take only one out of innumerable examples, the new subject-matter of +Wagner's music-dramas, of an immeasurably higher order than the usual +libretto, created a new form of music, based on motifs, not melodies. +Other examples can easily be discovered. The reason for this is not +difficult to find. + +No sincere artist cares to handle subject-matter that has already been +handled and exhausted. It is not a question of a desire to avoid +plagiarism, or of self-conscious searching for novelty, but of a +perfectly spontaneous and normal appeal which any new subject-matter +always makes. Hence, when a new subject appears to any artist, he always +realizes it more vividly than an old one, and if he is a good artist, he +realizes it so vividly that he recreates it in what is practically a +novel form. + +This novel form never is altogether novel, nor is the subject altogether +a new subject. For, as I pointed out at the beginning of this preface, +that all arts sprang practically out of the same primary sensations, so +the subject-matter of all art must forever be the same: namely, nature +and human life. Hence, any new type of art will always be found, in +subject-matter as well as in technique, to have its roots in the old. +Art is like a kaleidoscope, capable of many changes, while the material +which builds up those changes remains the same. + +Nevertheless, although the subject-matter in this book is not altogether +new, yet I have realized it in a way which has not often been tried, and +out of that fresh and quite personal realization have sprung my +innovations in subject as well as technique. Let me illustrate by a +concrete example. + + +V + +A book lies on my desk. It has a red binding and is badly printed on +cheap paper. I have had this book with me for several years. Now, +suppose I were to write a poem on this book, how would I treat the +subject? + +If I were a poet following in the main the Victorian tradition, I should +write my poem altogether about the contents of this book and its author. +My poem would be essentially a criticism of the subject-matter of the +book. I should state at length how that subject-matter had affected me. +In short, what the reader would obtain from this sort of poem would be +my sentimental reaction towards certain ideas and tendencies in the work +of another. + +If I were a realist poet, I should write about the book's external +appearance. I should expatiate on the red binding, the bad type, the +ink-stain on page sixteen. I should complain, perhaps, of my poverty at +not being able to buy a better edition, and conclude with a gibe at the +author for not having realized the sufferings of the poor. + +Neither of these ways, however, of writing about this book possesses any +novelty, and neither is essentially my own way. My own way of writing +about it would be as follows:-- + +I should select out of my life the important events connected with my +ownership of this book, and strive to write of them in terms of the +volume itself, both as regards subject-matter and appearance. In other +words, I should link up my personality and the personality of the book, +and make each a part of the other. In this way I should strive to evoke +a soul out of this piece of inanimate matter, a something characteristic +and structural inherent in this in-organic form which is friendly to me +and responds to my mood. + +This method is not new, although it has not often been used in +Occidental countries. Professor Fenollosa, in his book on Chinese and +Japanese art, states that it was universally employed by the Chinese +artists and poets of the Sung period in the eleventh century A.D. He +calls this doctrine of the interdependence of man and inanimate nature, +the cardinal doctrine of Zen Buddhism. The Zen Buddhists evolved it from +the still earlier Taoist philosophy, which undoubtedly inspired Li Po +and the other great Chinese poets of the seventh and eighth centuries +A.D. + + +VI + +In the first poems of this volume, the "Ghosts of an Old House," I have +followed the method already described. I have tried to evoke, out of the +furniture and surroundings of a certain old house, definite emotions +which I have had concerning them. I have tried to relate my childish +terror concerning this house--a terror not uncommon among children, as I +can testify--to the aspects that called it forth. + +In the "Symphonies," which form the second part of this volume, I have +gone a step further. My aim in writing these was, from the beginning, to +narrate certain important phases of the emotional and intellectual +development--in short, the life--of an artist, not necessarily myself, +but of that sort of artist with which I might find myself most in +sympathy. And here, not being restrained by any definite material +phenomena, as in the Old House, I have tried to state each phase in the +terms of a certain colour, or combination of colours, which is +emotionally akin to that phase. This colour, and the imaginative +phantasmagoria of landscape which it evokes, thereby creates, in a +definite and tangible form, the dominant mood of each poem. + +The emotional relations that exist between form, colour, and sound have +been little investigated. It is perfectly true that certain colours +affect certain temperaments differently. But it is also true that there +is a science of colour, and that certain of its laws are already +universally known, if not explained. Naturally enough, it is to the +painters we must first turn if we want to find out what is known about +colour. We discover that painters continually are speaking of hot and +cold colour: red, yellow, orange being generally hot, and green, blue, +and violet cold--mixed colours being classed hot and cold according to +the proportions they contain of the hot and cold colours. We also +discover that certain colours will not fit certain forms, but rebel at +the combination. This is so far true that scarcely any landscape painter +finishes his pictures from nature, but in the studio: and almost any art +student, painting a landscape, will disregard the colour before him and +employ the colour-scheme of his master or of some painter he admires. As +Delacroix noted in his journal: "A conception having become a +composition must move in the milieu of a colour peculiar to it. There +seems to be a particular tone belonging to some part of every picture +which is a key that governs all the other tones." + +Therefore, we must admit that there is an intimate relation between +colour and form. It is the same with colour and sounds. Many musicians +have observed the phenomenon, that when certain notes, or combinations +of them, are sounded, certain colours are also suggested to the eye. A +Russian composer, Scriabine, went so far as to construct colour-scales, +and an English scientist, Professor Wallace Rimington, has built an +organ which plays in colours, instead of notes. Unfortunately, the +musicians have given this subject less attention than the painters, and +therefore our knowledge concerning the relations of colour and sound is +more fragmentary and incomplete. Nevertheless, these relations exist, +and it is for the future to develop them more fully. + +Literature, and especially poetry, as I have already pointed out, +partakes of the character of both painting and music. The impressionist +method is quite as applicable to writing as it is to landscape. Poems +can be written in major or minor keys, can be as full of dominant motif +as a Wagner music-drama, and even susceptible of fugal treatment. +Literature is the common ground of many arts, and in its highest +development, such as the drama as practised in fifth-century Athens, is +found allied to music, dancing, and colour. Hence, I have called my +works "Symphonies," when they are really dramas of the soul, and hence, +in them I have used colour for verity, for ornament, for drama, for its +inherent beauty, and for intensifying the form of the emotion that each +of these poems is intended to evoke. + + +VII + +Let us take an artist, a young man at the outset of his career. His +years of searching, of fumbling, of other men's influence, are coming to +an end. Sure of himself, he yet sees that he will spend all his life +pursuing a vision of beauty which will elude him at the very last. This +is the first symphony, which I have called the "Blue," because blue +suggests to me depth, mystery, and distance. + +He finds himself alone in a great city, surrounded by noise and +clamour. It is as if millions of lives were tugging at him, drawing him +away from his art, tempting him to go out and whelm his personality in +this black whirlpool of struggle and failure, on which float golden +specks--the illusory bliss of life. But he sees that all this is only +another illusion, like his own. Here we have the "Symphony in Black and +Gold." + +He emerges from the city, and in the country is re-intoxicated with +desire for life by spring. He vows himself to a self-sufficing pagan +worship of nature. This is the "Green Symphony." + +Quickened by spring, he dreams of a marvellous golden city of art, fall +of fellow-workers. This city appears to him at times like some Italian +town of the Renaissance, at others like some strange Oriental +golden-roofed monastery-temple. He sees himself dead in the desert far +away from it. Yet its blossoming is ever about him. Something divine has +been born of him after death. + +So he passes to the "White Symphony," the central poem of this series, +in which I have sought to describe the artist's struggle to attain +unutterable and superhuman perfection. This struggle goes on from the +midsummer of his life to midwinter. The end of it is stated in the poem. + +There follows a brief interlude, which I have called a "Symphony in +White and Blue." These colours were chosen perhaps more +idiosyncratically in this case than in the others. I have tried to +depict the sort of temptation that besets most artists at this stage of +their career: the temptation to abandon the struggle for the sake of a +purely sensual existence. In this case, however, the appeal of +sensuality is conveyed under the guise of a dream. It is resisted, and +the struggle begins anew. + +War breaks out, not alone in the external world, but in the artist's +soul. He finds he must follow his personality wherever it leads him, +despite all obstacles. This is the "Orange Symphony." + +Now follow long years of struggle and neglect. He is shipwrecked, and +still afar he sees his city of art, but this time it is red, a phantom +mocking his impotent rage. + +Old age follows. All is violet, the colour of regret and remembrance. He +is living only in the past, his life a succession of dreams. + +Lastly, all things fade out into absolute grey, and it is now midwinter. +Looking forth on the world again he still sees war, like a monstrous red +flower, dominating mankind. He hears the souls of the dead declaring +that they, too, have died for an adventure, even as he is about to die. + +Such, in the briefest possible analysis, is the meaning of the poems +contained in this book. + +_January_, 1916. + + + + + CONTENTS + + SECTION I. THE GHOSTS OF AN OLD HOUSE + + PROLOGUE + + PART I. THE HOUSE + + Bedroom + Library + Indian Skull + Old Nursery + The Back Stairs + The Wall Cabinet + The Cellar + The Front Door + + PART II. THE ATTIC + + In the Attic + The Calendar in the Attic + The Hoopskirt + The Little Chair + In the Dark Corner + The Toy Cabinet + The Yardstick + + PART III. THE LAWN + + The Three Oaks + An Oak + Another Oak + The Old Barn + The Well + The Trees + Vision + Epilogue + + SECTION II. SYMPHONIES + + BLUE SYMPHONY + + SOLITUDE IN THE CITY (SYMPHONY IN BLACK AND GOLD) + + I. Words at Midnight + II. The Evening Rain + III. Street of Sorrows + IV. Song in the Darkness + + GREEN SYMPHONY + + GOLDEN SYMPHONY + + WHITE SYMPHONY + + MIDSUMMER DREAMS (SYMPHONY IN WHITE AND BLUE) + + ORANGE SYMPHONY + + RED SYMPHONY + + VIOLET SYMPHONY + + GREY SYMPHONY + + POPPIES OF THE RED YEAR (A SYMPHONY IN SCARLET) + + + + + SECTION I + + THE GHOSTS OF AN OLD HOUSE + + + + PROLOGUE + + + The house that I write of, faces the north: + No sun ever seeks + Its six white columns, + The nine great windows of its face. + + It fronts foursquare the winds. + + Under the penthouse of the veranda roof, + The upper northern rooms + Gloom outwards mournfully. + + Staring Ionic capitals + Peer in them: + Owl-like faces. + + On winter nights + The wind, sidling round the corner, + Shoots upwards + With laughter. + + The windows rattle as if some one were in them wishing to get out + And ride upon the wind. + + Doors lead to nowhere: + Squirrels burrow between the walls. + Closets in every room hang open, + Windows are stared into by uncivil ancient trees. + + In the middle of the upper hallway + There is a great circular hole + Going up to the attic. + A wooden lid covers it. + + All over the house there is a sense of futility; + Of minutes dragging slowly + And repeating + Some worn-out story of broken effort and desire. + + + + + PART I. THE HOUSE + + + + BEDROOM + + + The clump of jessamine + Softly beneath the rain + Rocks its golden flowers. + + In this room my father died: + His bed is in the corner. + No one has slept in it + Since the morning when he wakened + To meet death's hands at his heart. + I cannot go to this room, + Without feeling something big and angry + Waiting for me + To throw me on the bed, + And press its thumbs in my throat. + + The clump of jessamine + Without, beneath the rain, + Rocks its golden flowers. + + + + LIBRARY + + + Stuffy smell of mouldering leather, + Tattered arm-chairs, creaking doors, + Books that slovenly elbow each other, + Sown with children's scrawls and long + Worn out by contact with generations: + Tattered tramps displaying yourselves-- + "We, though you broke our backs, did not complain." + If I had my way, + I would take you out and bury you quickly, + Or give you to the clean fire. + + + + INDIAN SKULL + + + Some one dug this up and brought it + To our house. + In the dark upper hall, I see it dimly, + Looking at me through the glass. + + Where dancers have danced, and weary people + Have crept to their bedrooms in the morning, + Where sick people have tossed all night, + Where children have been born, + Where feet have gone up and down, + Where anger has blazed forth, and strange looks have passed, + It has rested, watching meanwhile + The opening and shutting of doors, + The coming and going of people, + The carrying out of coffins. + + Earth still clings to its eye-sockets, + It will wait, till its vengeance is accomplished. + + + + OLD NURSERY + + + In the tired face of the mirror + There is a blue curtain reflected. + If I could lift the reflection, + Peer a little beyond, I would see + A boy crying + Because his sister is ill in another room + And he has no one to play with: + A boy listlessly scattering building blocks, + And crying, + Because no one will build for him the palace of Fairy Morgana. + I cannot lift the curtain: + It is stiff and frozen. + + + + THE BACK STAIRS + + + In the afternoon + When no one is in the house, + I suddenly hear dull dragging feet + Go fumbling down those dark back stairs, + That climb up twisting, + As if they wanted no one to see them. + Beating a dirge upon the bare planks + I hear those feet and the creak of a long-locked door. + + My mother often went + Up and down those selfsame stairs, + From the room where by the window + She would sit all day and listlessly + Look on the world that had destroyed her, + She would go down in the evening + To the room where she would sleep, + Or rather, not sleep, but all night + Lie staring fiercely at the ceiling. + + In the afternoon + When no one is in the house: + I suddenly hear dull dragging feet + Beating out their futile tune, + Up and down those dark back stairs, + But there is no one in the shadows. + + + + THE WALL CABINET + + + Above the steep back stairs + So high that only a ladder can come to it, + There is a wall cabinet hidden away. + + No one ever unlocks it; + The key is lost, the door is barred, + It is shut and still. + + Some say, a previous tenant + Filled its shelves with rows of bottles, + Bottles of spirit, filled with spiders. + + I do not know. + Above the sleepy still back stairs, + It watches, shut and still. + + + + THE CELLAR + + + Faintly lit by a high-barred grating, + The low-hung cellar, + Flattens itself under the house. + + In one corner + There is a little door, + So low, it can scarcely be seen. + + Beyond, + There is a narrow room, + One must feel for the walls in the dark. + + One shrinks to go + To the end of it, + Feeling the smooth cold wall. + + Why did the builders who made this house, + Stow one room away like this? + + + + THE FRONT DOOR + + + It was always the place where our farewells were taken, + When we travelled to the north. + + I remember there was one who made some journey, + But did not come back. + Many years they waited for him, + At last the one who wished the most to see him, + Was carried out of this selfsame door in death. + + Since then all our family partings + Have been at another door. + + + + + PART II. THE ATTIC + + + + IN THE ATTIC + + + Dust hangs clogged so thick + The air has a dusty taste: + Spider threads cling to my face, + From the broad pine-beams. + There is nothing living here, + The house below might be quite empty, + No sound comes from it. + The old broken trunks and boxes, + Cracked and dusty pictures, + Legless chairs and shattered tables, + Seem to be crying + Softly in the stillness + Because no one has brushed them. + No one has any use for them, now, + Yet I often wonder + If these things are really dead: + If the old trunks never open + Letting out grey flapping things at twilight? + If it is all as safe and dull + As it seems? + + Why then is the stair so steep, + Why is the doorway always locked, + Why does nobody ever come? + + + + THE CALENDAR IN THE ATTIC + + + I wonder how long it has been + Since this old calendar hung here, + With my birthday date upon it, + Nothing else--not a word of writing-- + Not a mark of any hand. + + Perhaps it was my father + Who left it thus + For me to see. + + Perhaps my mother + Smiled as she saw it; + But in later years did not smile. + If I could tear it down, + From the wall + Somehow + I would be content. + But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it. + + + + THE HOOPSKIRT + + + In the night when all are sleeping, + Up here a tiny old dame comes tripping, + Looking for her lost hoopskirt. + + My great-grandaunt--I never saw her-- + Her ghost doesn't know me from another, + She stalks up the attic stairs angrily. + + The dust sets her sneezing and coughing, + By the trunk she is limping and hopping, + But alas--the trunk is locked. + + What's an old dame to do, anyway! + Must stay in a mouldy grave day on day, + Or go to heaven out of style. + + In the night when all are snoring, + The old lady makes a dreadful clatter, + Going down the attic stairs. + + What was that? A ghost or a burglar? + Oh, it was only the wind in the chimney, + Yes, and the attic door that slammed. + + + + THE LITTLE CHAIR + + + I know not why, when I saw the little chair, + I suddenly desired to sit in it. + + I know not why, when I sat in the little chair, + Everything changed, and life came back to me. + + I am convinced no one at all has grown up in the house, + The break that I dreamed, itself was a dream and is broken. + + I will sit in the little chair and wait, + Till the others come looking after me. + + And if it is after nightfall they will come, + So much the better. + + For the little chair holds me as tightly as death; + And rocking in it, I can hear it whisper strange things. + + + + IN THE DARK CORNER + + + I brush the dust from this old portrait: + Yes, it is the same face, exactly, + Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate? + + I brush the dust from a heap of magazines: + Here there is all what you have written, + All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for. + + O God, to think what I am writing + Will be ever as this! + + O God, to think that my own face + May some day glare from this dust! + + + + THE TOY CABINET + + + By the old toy cabinet, + I stand and turn over dusty things: + Chessmen--card games--hoops and balls-- + Toy rifles, helmets, swords, + In the far corner + A doll's tea-set in a box. + + Where are you, golden child, + Who gave tea to your dolls and me? + The golden child is growing old, + Further than Rome or Babylon + From you have passed those foolish years. + She lives--she suffers--she forgets. + + By the old toy cabinet, + I idly stand and awkwardly + Finger the lock of the tea-set box. + What matter--why should I look inside, + Perhaps it is empty after all! + Leave old things to the ghosts of old; + + My stupid brain refuses thought, + I am maddened with a desire to weep. + + + + THE YARDSTICK + + + Yardstick that measured out so many miles of cloth, + Yardstick that covered me, + I wonder do you hop of nights + Out to the still hill-cemetery, + And up and down go measuring + A clayey grave for me? + + + + + PART III. THE LAWN + + + + THE THREE OAKS + + + There are three ancient oaks, + That grow near to each other. + + They lift their branches + High as beckoning + With outstretched arms, + For some one to come and stand + Under the canopy of their leaves. + + Once long ago I remember + As I lay in the very centre, + Between them: + A rotten branch suddenly fell + Near to me. + + I will not go back to those oaks: + Their branches are too black for my liking. + + + + AN OAK + + + Hoar mistletoe + Hangs in clumps + To the twisted boughs + Of this lonely tree. + + Beneath its roots I often thought treasure was buried: + For the roots had enclosed a circle. + + But when I dug beneath them, + I could only find great black ants + That attacked my hands. + + When at night I have the nightmare, + I always see the eyes of ants + Swarming from a mouldering box of gold. + + + + ANOTHER OAK + + + Poison ivy crawls at its root, + I dare not approach it, + It has an air of hate. + + One would say a man had been hanged to its branches, + It holds them in such a way. + + The moon gets tangled in it, + A distant steeple seems to bark + From its belfry to the sky. + + Something that no one ever loved, + Is buried here: + Some grey shape of deadly hate, + Crawls on the back fence just beyond. + + Now I remember--once I went + Out by night too near this oak, + And a red cat suddenly leapt + From the dark and clawed my face. + + + THE OLD BARN + + + Owls flap in this ancient barn + With rotted doors. + + Rats squeak in this ancient barn + Over the floors. + + Owls flap warily every night, + Rats' eyes gleam in the cold moonlight. + + There is something hidden in this barn, + With barred doors. + + Something the owls have torn, + And the rats scurry with over the floors. + + + + THE WELL + + + The well is not used now, + Its waters are tainted. + + I remember there was once a man went down + To clean it. + He found it very cold and deep, + With a queer niche in one of its sides, + From which he hauled forth buckets of bricks and dirt. + + + + THE TREES + + + When the moonlight strikes the tree-tops, + The trees are not the same. + + I know they are not the same, + Because there is one tree that is missing, + And it stood so long by another, + That the other, feeling lonely, + Now is slowly dying too. + + When the moonlight strikes the tree-tops + That dead tree comes back; + Like a great blue sphere of smoke + Half buoyed, half ravelling on the grass, + Rustling through frayed Branches, + Something eerily cheeping through it, + Something creeping through its shade. + + + + VISION + + + You who flutter and quiver + An instant + Just beyond my apprehension; + Lady, + I will find the white orchid for you, + If you will but give me + One smile between those wayward drifts of hair. + + I will break the wild berries that loop themselves over the marsh-pool, + For your sake, + And the long green canes that swish against each other, + I will break, to set in your hands. + For there is no wonder like to you, + You who flutter and quiver + An instant + Just beyond my apprehension. + + + + EPILOGUE + + + Why it was I do not know, + But last night I vividly dreamed + Though a thousand miles away, + That I had come back to you. + + The windows were the same: + The bed, the furniture the same, + Only there was a door where empty wall had always been, + And someone was trying to enter it. + + I heard the grate of a key, + An unknown voice apologetically + Excused its intrusion just as I awoke. + + But I wonder after all + If there was some secret entranceway, + Some ghost I overlooked, when I was there. + + + + + + SECTION II + + SYMPHONIES + + + + + BLUE SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + The darkness rolls upward. + The thick darkness carries with it + Rain and a ravel of cloud. + The sun comes forth upon earth. + + Palely the dawn + Leaves me facing timidly + Old gardens sunken: + And in the gardens is water. + + Sombre wreck--autumnal leaves; + Shadowy roofs + In the blue mist, + And a willow-branch that is broken. + + Oh, old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees! + + Blue and cool: + Blue, tremulously, + Blow faint puffs of smoke + Across sombre pools. + The damp green smell of rotted wood; + And a heron that cries from out the water. + + + + II + + + Through the upland meadows + I go alone. + For I dreamed of someone last night + Who is waiting for me. + + Flower and blossom, tell me, do you know of her? + + Have the rocks hidden her voice? + They are very blue and still. + + Long upward road that is leading me, + Light hearted I quit you, + For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass + Invite me to dance upon them. + + Quivering grass + Daintily poised + For her foot's tripping. + + Oh, blown clouds, could I only race up like you, + Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep! + + Look, the sky! + Across black valleys + Rise blue-white aloft + Jagged unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death. + + Solitude. Silence. + + + + III + + + One chuckles by the brook for me: + One rages under the stone. + One makes a spout of his mouth + One whispers--one is gone. + + One over there on the water + Spreads cold ripples + For me + Enticingly. + + The vast dark trees + Flow like blue veils + Of tears + Into the water. + + Sour sprites, + Moaning and chuckling, + What have you hidden from me? + + "In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever + Bound hand and foot." + + Was it the wind + That rattled the reeds together? + + Dry reeds, + A faint shiver in the grasses. + + + + IV + + + On the left hand there is a temple: + And a palace on the right-hand side. + Foot passengers in scarlet + Pass over the glittering tide. + + Under the bridge + The old river flows + Low and monotonous + Day after day. + + I have heard and have seen + All the news that has been: + Autumn's gold and Spring's green! + + Now in my palace + I see foot passengers + Crossing the river: + Pilgrims of autumn + In the afternoons. + + Lotus pools: + Petals in the water. + These are my dreams. + + For me silks are outspread. + I take my ease, unthinking. + + + + V + + + And now the lowest pine-branch + Is drawn across the disk of the sun. + Old friends who will forget me soon, + I must go on, + Towards those blue death-mountains + I have forgot so long. + + In the marsh grasses + There lies forever + My last treasure, + With the hopes of my heart. + + The ice is glazing over, + Tom lanterns flutter, + On the leaves is snow. + + In the frosty evening. + Toll the old bell for me + Once, in the sleepy temple. + + Perhaps my soul will hear. + + Afterglow: + Before the stars peep + I shall creep out into darkness. + + + + + SOLITUDE IN THE CITY + + (_Symphony in Black and Gold_) + + + + I + + WORDS AT MIDNIGHT + + + Because the night is so still, + Because there is no one about, + Not the tiny squeak of a mouse over the carpet, + Nor the slow beat of a clock at the top of the stairway, + I am afraid of the night that is coming to me. + + I know out there + Some one is thinking of me, some one is wondering about me, + Some one is needing me, some one is dying for my sake, + Yet I remain alone. + + I know that life is calling: I cannot resist it: + Too much of myself I have given ever to turn away, + I know that shame, sickness, death itself shall befall me, + And I am afraid. + + O night, hide me in your long cold arms: + Let me sleep, but let me not live this life! + There are too many people with haggard eyes standing + before me + Saying, "To live you must suffer even as we." + + Yet life bitterly bids me: "Go on to the last, + No matter the mud and the cold rain and the darkness: + No matter the drear pilgrims in whose eyes you shall look for long, + And see all suffering, madness, death and despair." + + Because my heart is cramped in, + Because I have suffered much, + Because my hope is like a candle-flame quenched at midnight, + Because I dare dream yet of joy, + I can take my night and the life that is coming to me. + + + + II + + THE EVENING RAIN + + + O the rain of the evening is an infinite thing, + As it slowly slips on the motionless pavement; + Greasy and grey is the rain of the evening, + As it dribbles into the dirty gutters + And slides down the drains with a roar! + + Ragged men cower + Under the doorways: + Umbrellas nod like drowsy birds. + Bat-umbrellas, + Teetering, balancing, + Where will you spread your wings to-night? + + Tangled between the factory-chimneys, + I have seen the golden lamps wake this evening: + Spinning and whirling, darting and dancing, + Tangled with the glittering rain. + + Omnibuses lurch + Heavily homeward + Elephants tinselled in tawdry gold: + Taxicabs fight + Like wild birds squalling, + Wild birds with roaring, clattering wings. + + O the rain of the evening is an infinite thing, + As it shivers to jewel-heaps spilt on the pavement. + The façades frown gloomily at its beauty, + The façades are dreaming of the day. + + With rippling, curling, + Serpentine convolutions + The pavements drip with drunken light. + Crimson and gold, + Shot with opal, + They glare against the sullen night. + + O the rain of the evening is an infinite thing + As it slowly dries on the dirty pavement. + Red low-browed clouds jut over the sky: + And in the cool sky there are stars. + + + + III + + STREET OF SORROWS + + + You street of sorrows bending + Over your golden lamps in the evening; + Dark street that is very silent, + And everywhere the same: + Elsewhere there is song and riot, + Like golden fireflies flickering, + Elsewhere the crane's gaunt muscles + Tug the city up to the stars. + + But who in the dawn should come near you? + There are dry leaves rattling behind him. + And who should come in the noonday? + There are shadows that squat on the pave. + And who should come in the evening? + There is one: a ship in dark waters. + And who should come at nightfall, + To feel cold hands at his heart? + + You street of solitude waiting + Patient and still in the evening: + Old street that is very weary, + And everywhere the same; + You that have seen joy passing. + Into pain, into tears, into darkness, + Street of the dead and musty, + I have drunk your cold poison to-night. + + + + IV + + SONG IN THE DARKNESS + + + It is the last night that I can be solitary: + Henceforth the keys and wards of me are held in other hands. + + Dark clouds trail over the sky: + Troops of song retreating: + But in the sunset + Once more have I seen aloft + Incredible summits of gold, far on the south horizon. + + One purple veil of rain + Floats downward over the city; + And as it settles slowly + The light goes out of it. + + Chimneys with massive summits + Stand gaunt and black and evil: + Like a river of lead, to seaward + The river steadily rolls. + + It is the last night that I can be solitary: + Life takes me in black coils. + + One green light glitters: + Then a swift taxi + Scatters another + As it speeds on. + + The chimneys rank + Their motionless forces + Against the swift movement + Of tugs in the stream; + Against the flame-chariots + Of the Embankment; + Against the bowing trees, + Against the blowing smoke, + Against the busy rain. + + With dying might + The light invades + The city's hall: + Curtained by dripping fringes + Of buoyant tattered cloud, + Tossed by the wind. + + It is the last night that I can be solitary; + And all my city of dreams is burning up to-night. + + But yet there waits for me something lost back in the darkness: + Something I have never seized: a shape, a voice, a gesture, + Something behind my shoulder: grey robes that stir and rustle. + Something that moves away from me when I would touch it with my hand. + + Cities of the beyond, what great black-walled horizons + Dare you climb up, and down what steep incredible valleys? + I suddenly perceive that I have been mocked in you, + And therefore will I sow the earth with rain of stars to-night. + It is the last night that I can be solitary; + The rain invites to drunkenness: the wind blows + through my brain. + + Shiplike the sliding golden trams + Procession by and intercross: + With tulips, daffodils, crocuses + The whole street blossoms at my feet: + Now kindle, flames, and let blow out + The crimson rose against the grey, + Let night itself be blotted out + In life's monotonous drone of day. + + It is the last night that I can be solitary: + It is the last time that no feet + But mine can beat upon the floor; + It is the last time that no hands + But mine can pound upon my heart; + It is the last time that no voice + But mine can cry and yet be lost; + It is the last time I shall see + The pavements like a mirror stare at me. + + + + + GREEN SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + The glittering leaves of the rhododendrons + Balance and vibrate in the cool air; + While in the sky above them + White clouds chase each other. + + Like scampering rabbits, + Flashes of sunlight sweep the lawn; + They fling in passing + Patterns of shadow, + Golden and green. + + With long cascades of laughter, + The mating birds dart and swoop to the turf: + 'Mid their mad trillings + Glints the gay sun behind the trees. + + Down there are deep blue lakes: + Orange blossom droops in the water. + + In the tower of the winds, + All the bells are set adrift: + Jingling + For the dawn. + + Thin fluttering streamers + Of breeze lash through the swaying boughs, + Palely expectant + The earth receives the slanting rain. + + I am a glittering raindrop + Hugged close by the cool rhododendron. + I am a daisy starring + The exquisite curves of the close-cropped turf. + + The glittering leaves of the rhododendron + Are shaken like blue-green blades of grass, + Flickering, cracking, falling: + Splintering in a million fragments. + + The wind runs laughing up the slope + Stripping off handfuls of wet green leaves, + To fling in peoples' faces. + Wallowing on the daisy-powdered turf, + Clutching at the sunlight, + Cavorting in the shadow. + + Like baroque pearls, + Like cloudy emeralds, + The clouds and the trees clash together; + Whirling and swirling, + In the tumult + Of the spring, + And the wind. + + + + II. + + + The trees splash the sky with their fingers, + A restless green rout of stars. + + With whirling movement + They swing their boughs + About their stems: + Planes on planes of light and shadow + Pass among them, + Opening fanlike to fall. + + The trees are like a sea; + Tossing; + Trembling, + Roaring, + Wallowing, + Darting their long green flickering fronds up at the sky, + Spotted with white blossom-spray. + + The trees are roofs: + Hollow caverns of cool blue shadow, + Solemn arches + In the afternoons. + The whole vast horizon + In terrace beyond terrace, + Pinnacle above pinnacle, + Lifts to the sky + Serrated ranks of green on green. + + They caress the roofs with their fingers, + They sprawl about the river to look into it; + Up the hill they come + Gesticulating challenge: + They cower together + In dark valleys; + They yearn out over the fields. + + Enamelled domes + Tumble upon the grass, + Crashing in ruin + Quiet at last. + + The trees lash the sky with their leaves, + Uneasily shaking their dark green manes. + + + + III + + + Far let the voices of the mad wild birds be calling me, + I will abide in this forest of pines. + + When the wind blows + Battling through the forest, + I hear it distantly, + The crash of a perpetual sea. + + When the rain falls, + I watch silver spears slanting downwards + From pale river-pools of sky, + Enclosed in dark fronds. + + When the sun shines, + I weave together distant branches till they enclose mighty circles, + I sway to the movement of hooded summits, + I swim leisurely in deep blue seas of air. + + I hug the smooth bark of stately red pillars + And with cones carefully scattered + I mark the progression of dark dial-shadows + Flung diagonally downwards through the afternoon. + + This turf is not like turf: + It is a smooth dry carpet of velvet, + Embroidered with brown patterns of needles and cones. + These trees are not like trees: + They are innumerable feathery pagoda-umbrellas, + Stiffly ungracious to the wind, + Teetering on red-lacquered stems. + + In the evening I listen to the winds' lisping, + While the conflagrations of the sunset flicker and clash behind me, + Flamboyant crenellations of glory amid the charred ebony boles. + + In the night the fiery nightingales + Shall clash and trill through the silence: + Like the voices of mermaids crying + From the sea. + + Long ago has the moon whelmed this uncompleted temple. + Stars swim like gold fish far above the black arches. + + Far let the timid feet of dawn fly to catch me: + I will abide in this forest of pines: + For I have unveiled naked beauty, + And the things that she whispered to me in the darkness, + Are buried deep in my heart. + + Now let the black tops of the pine-trees break like a spent wave, + Against the grey sky: + These are tombs and memorials and temples and altars sun-kindled for me. + + + + + GOLDEN SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + Seen from afar, the city + To-day is like a golden cloud: + Strayed from the sky and moulded + Into dim motionless towers. + + Music is passing far off: + Music serenely + Is climbing up and vanishing + On the long grey stairways of the sky, + In fanlike rays of light. + + Now it falls slowly, + Careering, toppling, + Shivering and quivering like burnished glass or laburnum-blossom, + Golden cascades. + + Peace: now let the music + Sound from further away, + Red bells out of memory's + Blue dream of regret. + + Seen from afar, the city + To-day is like a fleet of sails: + Breaking the foam of dark forests, + In which I have strayed so long. + + They march together slowly, + The golden temple terraces, + Against the dark remembrance + Of my pools of despair. + + O golden angelus that sounded prolonging uncertain memories, + I have seen the swallows hovering to you and followed their dark trails + of passage. + + The gates of the city lie open, + And the whole world goes homeward, + Full-pulsing bells in the foreground, + Catching my soul with them + On where the sun soars broadly through the incense-dome of the sky. + + + + II + + + High chimes from the belfry; + The noonday approaches + With its golden apparel + Rustling about its feet. + + High dreams of my city, + Where we, a band of brothers, + Build our proud dream of beauty + Before we fall into dust. + + The golden days have come for us: + With mandolins, sword-thrusts, laughter. + Even the very dust of the street + Grows gold beneath our feet. + + Bronze bell-notes poured from deep blue wells: + Molten gold out of the sky. + Pillars of yellow marble + On the summits of which the gods sleep. + + Now we are swimming; + About us a great golden halo + Vibrates from us downwards, + Ebbing its life away. + + Golden clouds are circling + Like angels and archangels + About the eye of the sun. + + Flaming sunset: + Mad conflagrations + Licking at the earth, + The blue-black walls of space, + Iron mountains vast on the horizon. + + O golden spear that dartled through the darkness! + The evening star sparkled and threw us its message. + + + + III + + In the bosom of the desert + I will lie at the last. + + Not the grey desert of sand + But the golden desert of great wild grasses, + This shall receive my soul. + + In the high plateaus, + The wind will be like a flute-note calling me + Day after day. + + Short bursts of surf, + The wind climbs up and stops in the grass; + And the golden petals + Brush drowsily over my face. + + White butterfly that flutters across my sea of golden blossom; + Tell me, what are you looking for, lone white butterfly? + + I am seeking for a strange lonely white flower; + Its petals are honeyless; and in the wind it is still. + + White butterfly, come, fold your wings over my heart: + I am the white blossom, the white dead blossom for you. + + In the golden bosom of the prairie, + I am lying at the last + Like a pool that is stilled. + + But they who shared with me my life's adventure, + Who tossed their ducats like dandelions into the sunlight, + I know that somewhere they with songs are building, + Golden towers more beautiful than my own. + + + + IV + + + I only know in the midnight, + Something will be born of me. + + The village drowses in the darkness, + But aloft in the temple + There is a thud of gongs and a shuffle of hollow voices + In the dark corridors. + + The golden temple + That kindled like a rose against the sunset, + Now is dark and silent, + One light glimmers from its façade. + + In the inner shrine + One stiff golden curtain + Hangs from floor to roof. + + Black, impassive, helmeted + In felt like stiff black warriors, + The lamas slowly gather, + Kneeling in a row. + + The hollow brazen trumpets + Blare and snore. + The drums, festooned with skulls, + Roar. + + Suddenly with a clash of gongs, + And a squeal from ear-splitting bugles, + The golden veil is rent. + + Cavernous blue darkness! + And within it + Smiling, + Naked, + Rose-empurpled, + Rippling with crimson-violet light, behold the god. + + Hail, great jewel in the lotus blossom! + Rosy flame that kindling + Flashes on the emptiness + Or Nirvana's sea! + + Before the shrine, as before, + Once more the golden curtain, + And the black shapes vanish. + + Aloft in the hollow temple + There is a shuffle of feet and a sound of hollow voices, + Soon lost. + + The village drowses in the darkness: + Like a vast black cube + The temple looms above it, + There is no light on its façade. + + Suddenly, all the golden temple + Kindles like a rose against the dawn. + + I only know in the midnight + Something has been born of me. + + + + + WHITE SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + Forlorn and white, + Whorls of purity about a golden chalice, + Immense the peonies + Flare and shatter their petals over my face. + + They slowly turn paler, + They seem to be melting like blue-grey flakes of ice, + Thin greyish shivers + Fluctuating mid the dark green lance-thrust of the leaves. + + Like snowballs tossed, + Like soft white butterflies, + The peonies poise in the twilight. + And their narcotic insinuating perfume + Draws me into them + Shivering with the coolness, + Aching with the void. + They kiss the blue chalice of my dreams + Like a gesture seen for an instant and then lost forever. + + * * * * * + + Outwards the petals + Thrust to embrace me, + Pale daggers of coldness + Run through my aching breast. + + Outwards, still outwards, + Till on the brink of twilight + They swirl downwards silently, + Flurry of snow in the void. + + Outwards, still outwards, + Till the blue walls are hidden, + And in the blinding white radiance + Of a whirlpool of clouds, I awake. + + * * * * * + + Like spraying rockets + My peonies shower + Their glories on the night. + + Wavering perfumes, + Drift about the garden; + Shadows of the moonlight, + Drift and ripple over the dew-gemmed leaves. + + Soar, crash, and sparkle, + Shoal of stars drifting + Like silver fishes, + Through the black sluggish boughs. + + Towards the impossible, + Towards the inaccessible, + Towards the ultimate, + Towards the silence, + Towards the eternal, + These blossoms go. + + The peonies spring like rockets in the twilight, + And out of them all I rise. + + + + II + + + Downwards through the blue abyss it slides, + The white snow-water of my dreams, + Downwards crashing from slippery rock + Into the boiling chasm: + In which no eye dare look, for it is the chasm of death. + + Upwards from the blue abyss it rises, + The chill water-mist of my dreams; + Upwards to greyish weeping pines, + And to skies of autumn ever about my heart, + It is blue at the beginning, + And blue-white against the grey-greenness; + It wavers in the upper air, + Catching unconscious sparkles, a rainbow-glint of sunlight, + And fading in the sad depths of the sky. + + Outwards rush the strong pale clouds, + Outwards and ever outwards; + The blue-grey clouds indistinguishable one from another: + Nervous, sinewy, tossing their arms and brandishing, + Till on the blue serrations of the horizon + They drench with their black rain a great peak of changeless snow. + + * * * * * + + As evening came on, I climbed the tower, + To gaze upon the city far beneath: + I was not weary of day; but in the evening + A white mist assembled and gathered over the earth + And blotted it from sight. + + But to escape: + To chase with the golden clouds galloping over the horizon: + Arrows of the northwest wind + Singing amid them, + Ruffling up my hair! + + As evening came on the distance altered, + Pale wavering reflections rose from out the city, + Like sighs or the beckoning of half-invisible hands. + Monotonously and sluggishly they crept upwards + A river that had spent itself in some chasm, + And dwindled and foamed at last at my weary feet. + + Autumn! Golden fountains, + And the winds neighing + Amid the monotonous hills: + Desolation of the old gods, + Rain that lifts and rain that moves away; + In the greenback torrent + Scarlet leaves. + + It was now perfectly evening: + And the tower loomed like a gaunt peak in mid-air + Above the city: its base was utterly lost. + It was slowly coming on to rain, + And the immense columns of white mist + Wavered and broke before the faint-hurled spears. + + I will descend the mountains like a shepherd, + And in the folds of tumultuous misty cities, + I will put all my thoughts, all my old thoughts, safely to sleep. + + For it is already autumn, + O whiteness of the pale southwestern sky! + O wavering dream that was not mine to keep! + + * * * * * + + In midnight, in mournful moonlight, + By paths I could not trace, + I walked in the white garden, + Each flower had a white face. + + Their perfume intoxicated me: thus I began my dream. + + I was alone; I had no one to guide me, + But the moon was like the sun: + It stooped and kissed each waxen petal, + One after one. + + Green and white was that garden: diamond rain hung in the branches, + You will not believe it! + + In the morning, at the dayspring, + I wakened, shivering; lo, + The white garden that blossomed at my feet + Was a garden hidden in snow. + It was my sorrow to see that all this was a dream. + + + + III + + + Blue, clogged with purple, + Mists uncoil themselves: + Sparkling to the horizon, + I see the snow alone. + + In the deep blue chasm, + Boats sleep under gold thatch; + Icicle-like trees fret + Faintly rose-touched sky. + + Under their heaped snow-eaves, + Leaden houses shiver. + Through thin blue crevasses, + Trickles an icy stream. + + The pines groan white-laden, + The waves shiver, struck by the wind; + Beyond from treeless horizons, + Broken snow-peaks crawl to the sea. + + * * * * * + + Wearily the snow glares, + Through the grey silence, day after day, + Mocking the colourless cloudless sky + With the reflection of death. + + There is no smoke through the pine tops, + No strong red boatmen in pale green reeds, + No herons to flicker an instant, + No lanterns to glow with gay ray. + + No sails beat up to the harbour, + With creaking cordage and sailors' song. + Somnolent, bare-poled, indifferent, + They sleep, and the city sleeps. + + Mid-winter about them casts, + Its dreary fortifications: + Each day is a gaunt grey rock, + And death is the last of them all. + + * * * * * + + Over the sluggish snow, + Drifts now a pallid weak shower of bloom; + Boredom of fresh creation, + Death-weariness of old returns. + + White, white blossom, + Fall of the shattered cups day on day: + Is there anything here that is not ancient, + That has not bloomed a thousand years ago? + + Under the glare of the white-hot day, + Under the restless wind-rakes of the winter, + White blossom or white snow scattered, + And beneath them, dark, the graves. + + Dark graves never changing, + White dream drifting, never changing above them: + O that the white scroll of heaven might be rolled up, + And the naked red lightning thrust at the smouldering + earth! + + + + + MIDSUMMER DREAMS + + _(Symphony in White and Blue)_ + + + + I + + + There is a tall white weed growing at the top of this sand hill: + In the grass + It is very still. + + It lifts its heavy bracts of flattened bloom + Against the sky + Hazily grey with brume. + + Out over yonder boats pass + And the swallows + Flatten themselves on the grass. + + The lake is silvering beneath the heat. + The wind's feet + Touch lazily each crest, + Like white gulls slow flapping + To windward. + + One rose white cloud slowly disengages, loosening itself, + And stands + Above the larkspur-coloured water: + Like Dione's daughter + Braiding up her wet hair with her pale, hands. + + + + II + + + The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees, + Which do not lift one drooping leaf, this night of June. + There is no lazy breeze to set them clashing adrift. + + Thin gleams of silver rise and break in the air, + Fireflies--here and there. + + Forest of blue masses suddenly quivering with rapid points of white, + Are the forests beneath the sea where no breeze passes + As still as you to-night? + + The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees; + Through my window, the bed cut evenly with diagonal shafts of light, + Is a boat rocking out adrift. + + Under it bend the silver tips of the dark blue coral trees, + And fireflies like glass fish + Drift and ripple upwards in the breeze. + + + + III + + + We are drifting slowly, you and I, + To where the clouds are lifting + High-fretted towers in the sky: + Palaces of ivory, + Which we look at dreamily. + Over our sail + Frail white clouds, + Drift as slowly + Over the undulant pale blue silk of the water, + As we. + + We are racing swiftly, you and I, + The sun darts one firm track + Through the blue-black + Of the crinkled water. + Gold spirals spattering, flashing, + The water heaves and curls away at our bow, + A mad fish splashing. + + We are rocked together, you and I, + To this undulant movement. + White cloud with blue water blent, + Cloud dipping down to wave its lazy head, + Wave curling under cloud its cloudy blue. + I and you, + All alone, alone, at last. + I hold you fast. + + + + IV + + + The midsummer clouds were piling up upon the south horizon, + Mountains of drifting translucence in the larkspur-fields of the sky: + Ascending and toppling in crumbled ravines, dribbling down chasms + of silence, + Reassembling in crowded multitudes, massive forms one above another. + And I saw in their ridges and hollows, the appearance of a woman + Immeasurable, carven in stainless marble, motionless, naked, fair: + Her head thrown back, her pointed breasts up-gleaming in chill sunlight, + Her heavy flanks dark in the shadow, resting forever inert. + And up to her there suddenly clomb and hurried another cloud, + Huge, hairy, bulging, and knobby, with dark and knotted brows: + And he thrust out long bungling arms to her and drew himself up to her, + And I watched them melting together, blue mouth to sad white mouth. + + + + + ORANGE SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + Now that all the world is filled + With armies clamouring; + Now that men no longer live and die, one by one, + But in vague indeterminate multitudes: + + Now that the trees are coppery towers, + Now that the clouds loom southward, + Now that the glossy creeper + Spatters the walls like spilt wine: + + I will go out alone, + To catch strong joy of solitude + Where the treelines, in gold and scarlet, + Swing strong grape-cables up the smouldering face of the hill. + + + + II + + + Guns crashing, + Thudding, + Ululating, + Tumultuous. + + Guns yelping over the cracked earth, + Where dry bugles blare. + + Here in this hollow + It is very quiet, + Only the wind's hissing laughter + In the place of tombs. + + One by one these gaunt scarred faces + Lift up blurred wrinkled inscriptions + Silently beseeching me to stop and ponder. + What does it matter if I do not stop to read them? + No one at all has gone this way that I have chosen before. + + A leaf drops slowly in silence; + It is a long time twisting and hovering on its way to + the earth. + + Guns booming, + Bellowing, + Crashing, + Desperate. + Insistent outcry of savage guns, + Rocking the gloomy hollow. + + I will run out like the wind, + Snarling, with savage laughter; + Like the wind that tosses the grey-black clouds, + Against the shot-racked barrier of flaming trees. + + I will race between the grey guns, + And the clouds, like shrapnel exploding, + Flinging their hail through the tumult, + Bursting, will melt in cold spray. + + I am the wanderer of the world; + No one can hold me. + Not the cannon assembled for battle, + Nor the gloomy graves of the hollow, + Nor the house where I long time slumbered, + Nor the hilltop where roads are straggling. + + My feet must march to the wind. + Like a leaf dropping slowly, + An orange butterfly turning and twisting, + I touch with moist passionate palms the leaden inscriptions + Of my past. Then I turn to depart. + + + + III + + + The trees dance about the inn; + The wind thrusts them into flamelets. + Now my thoughts gipsying, + Go forth to strange walls and new fires. + + Mouths stained with brown-red berries, + Bronzed cheeks sunken, unshaven, + Ragged attire; + We swing our guitars at the hip + As we tramp heedless, uncaring. + + In the inn the fire crackles: + On the hearth the wine is simmering. + Lift up the brown beaker one instant, + Drink deeply--fling out the last coin--let us go. + On the plains there is drooping harvest, + But no harvest can for long time hold us, + We have seen the winds, baffled, + Racing up the orange-flecked trench of the hills. + + + + IV + + + On the hill summit + Where the gusty wind all night long has assailed me, + Now I see stars vanishing + Before the long cold clutching fingers of dawn. + + Stars scintillant, fire-hued, metallic, + Topaz fruit of the deep-blue garden: + Southward you go, my constellations, + And leave me with the white day, alone. + + Over the hilltop + Swish with a scurry of wings + Millions of pale brown birds, + Songless, pulsing southward. + + Birds who have filled the trees, + And who fled long ago at my passing, + Now you clatter in heedless tumult, + Fanning with your hot wings my face. + + Carry this word to the southward; + Say that I have forgotten them that wait for me, + All the loves and the hates need expect me no longer, + In the autumn at last I am alone. + + Suddenly + The wind crashes through the tree-tops, + Stripping away their orange-tiled domes; + Stark blue skeletons, forbidding + Gesticulate in my face. + You whom I planted and lavished + With all the wealth and beauty I had to bestow + Hurry away, vain harvest, + The winds' scythes can reap you, + Where you lie on the earth, and to death's barns you can go. + + Beyond the hilltop + I have seen only the sky. + The wind, naked, prodding up black-furred clouds, + Cossacks of winter. + + Cry, wind, + Shriek to the shivering southland, + That I am going into winter, + That I do not hope to return. + + Farewell, crowded stars, + Farewell, birds, winds, clouds and tree-tops, + I, weary of you all, seek my destined joy in the north-land, + Amid blue ice and the rose-purple night of the pole. + + + + V + + + Beyond the land there lies the sea; + And on the sea with wings unfurled, + Bloodily huge the sunset rests, + Feathers flickering and claws curled, + Watching to seize the ruined world. + + Rolling in a torrent, + Brown leaves, my achievements, + Rise up from dark-wooded valleys + And scatter themselves on the sea; + Brown birds, my wild dreams, + Mingle their bodies together, + Shrieking and clamouring as they pass, + Black charred silhouettes + Against the west, curtained in orange flame. + Now the wind starts up + And strikes the seething water: + Hissing in uncoiled fury + Each foam-curled wave darts forward + To clash and batter + The smouldering iron-rust cliff, + Where the end of my road is lost. + + Rise up, black clouds; + Pounce upon the sunset: + Tear it with your jagged teeth. + Fling yourselves, seething winds, in circles + Upon the blue-black water, + Swirl, leaves, and dance + Amid the chaos of breakers, + Flicker, birds, an instant + Against the tawny tiger throat of the sun + Which is snarling in the west. + Beat down, O great winds, westward, + Loose reins and gallop to seaward, + Rush me, too, to that ocean, + In which I have found my goal. + + Lash me, lap me, rugged waves of blue-black water, + Dash me, clutch me and do not let me rest one instant; + All through the purple-blue night rock and soothe me, + Till I awaken dreamingly at the faint rose breast of the dawn. + + + + + RED SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + Over the ink-black cauldron of the sea, + Heavily, on wings of leaden cloud, + Howling the sunset + Races out to assail me. + + Long have I voyaged, + Night after night the grey rains swept the sea: + The heaving breakers + Hissed and quivered but held no light. + + Now my voyage is ending, + White storm winds have swept bare my soul; + With their harsh laughter, + Their maddening mockery, + Their bayonet-thrusts of despair. + + Over the keen, clean-swept zenith + Roll crushingly, huge masses of cloud: + Dull, ponderous, sagging with the burden + Of creaking snow. + + They drop flat on the sea, + They hang menacing over me, + They festoon the sun + With swags of crimson light. + + They stripe the horizon, + They bar every way with their iron tongues; + They loom weltering over my effort, + They steadfastly close me in. + + Meanwhile the sun + With dying force + Wrenches one little crack + In the midst of the sagging masses, + And I steer on to it. + + Like a crimson lake + The light overflows and touches the bulging surfaces + With carmine, with scarlet, + With orange, with vermillion, + With brick red, with bluish purple, + With maroon, with rose, with russet, + With savage green, with snowy blue, + With grey, with ebony, with gold. + + It is the storm of the evening + That races out shrieking + To assail me, + And I hail it. + + + + II + + + The sky's vast emptiness + Is crowded with fragments colliding, + Ragged, splintered masses + Swirling away to the night. + + The volcano of the sun + Has burst and split its crater: + Black slag is hurled to the zenith + Above the red lava-sea. + + Black shrivelled, charred fragments + Fall into the scarlet torrent: + Huge tresses of darkness sweep over my face, + Leaving me choking. + + The sea is one crimson steaming fire; + Each fanged wavelet + Flickers and dances about the one behind it, + Hungrily licking at the ship. + + Fierce whirling swords, + Tossed spear-heads lancelike + Spit and stab, then suddenly fall + Leaving me there + On a rolling summit of flame, facing a gulf of despair. + + The ship + Lurches + With ice-crusted prow into the wave-trough; + And rises, rapidly dripping liquid lire, + Long twisted necklaces, that burn out to green frozen chrysolite. + + + + III + + + Over my head a bell beats: it is midnight. + Perhaps I will live to the dawn. + + About me are the mouths of yawning furnaces + And from these scarlet mouths the heat outpours, + And darts and licks its dry tongues at my brain + Till it, too, seems a black shell almost bursting + With the force of flame in it. + + Still, wearily, I swing my shovel, + Spattering the black coal over the palates + Of the snoring mouths which rapidly swallow. + There is nothing else to do. + + My legs seem melting away in sweat beneath me: + In my body my lungs and heart are fighting for air, + My eyes are seared by the appalling scarlet, + Of the furnaces about me--I scarcely-see them--My + shovelfuls fall short with every swing. + + Without I hear the battering of the tempest, + The ship is pounded sideways by black immeasurable wave-thrusts, + And rising dizzily again, like a half-senseless fighter, + Is again sent downwards, by those unseen fists. + + My shovel rises to the ship's slow recovery, + My shovel shoots out at the smash of toppling masses, + Sometimes I pause and pant for an endless instant, + While the ship crouches, quivering. + + Over my head a bell beats: it is morning. + Wearily I drop the shovel, + And drag myself to the deck. + + + + IV + + + Afar + There is something that seems a shore; + The sky has been blown clean of clouds except to westward, + And these stare hard at me, like huge sardonyx towers. + + I cling to a half-shattered rail that reels and dances, + Soused by the choking water, + My face a streaming mass of blood and salt and grime, + I wait and dizzily I try to remember. + + What is this city that out there awaits me? + Am I its conqueror? + + Will scarlet flags hang fluttering in the streets + To greet my coming? + Will crimson lanterns + Jingle and toss in festival to-night? + + Has the fire burned the ship and is the water + But stinging icy fire, + That whips and sears my face? + + Down there the furnaces go out, for the water + Sloshes about the floor; + And steaming acrid fumes arise, + No living soul could stay in such a place. + + Out here the decks are shattered, + The boats are shorn away, + And far on the horizon, + The city glares with its sardonyx towers. + + Now the red bells, + The black-red bells, + The storm bells, + Break loose from the horizon, + Leaping upon the eastern sea, + And breaking it in their teeth. + + The towers + Infuriate, enkindle + From base to summit, + In layers, and orange terraces, + Against the blue snow haze that drifts down on them from the east. + + The ship of my soul + Is rolling to port at last, + With one clang from its heaving boilers, + One sigh from its shaking funnels, + One rattle from its loosened chains. + I will lash myself to the masthead + And wait + Empty-eyed and open-mouthed, + Till the city that is all one scarlet flame of death + Takes me to itself at last. + + + + + VIOLET SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + But yesterday + Moonsails were raking high the harbour of my dreams. + + Dull night of trees, + Dark sorrows drooping, + Glittering raindrops gleam on you + In recollection + Of my despair. + + But yesterday + Stardust was scattered deep on the dark gulf of my dreams. + + Wind of the night, + Questing, swaying, calling, + Rustle of dull grasses, + Why do you trouble me? + + Yesterday + Purple mist was powdered on the windless sea of dreams. + + Faces of the night that pass me, + Haggard, monotonous faces, + Windblown hair and lustful lips, + I am not what you desire. + + Yesterday + One--two--sails above the mist--. + Windswallows that hover + Towards the rainclouds of the horizon, + Out of the reedy harbours + Rocking, swaying, falling, + Blown to sea and parted + Yesterday, + Yesterday. + + + + II + + + Purple-blue bloom of night, + Globed grapes clustered morosely + Down the dark vineyards of untrodden streets: + + The noise of the moments is like the clash of the hoofs of a horse + rattling, + Thin tattoo in the stillness: + The noise of the moments takes me, uncaring, + Towards the day. + + With brassy crash, dawn's corybants + Invade and trample the vineyard: + Like a faun I hide and watch them, + A dark cup in my hand. + + Spoilers of my vineyard, + Spilling the lees of my sweet red wine, + You will yet ask in vain for a cup that is not yours, + A purple, dewy cup of lonely night. + + Tramplers in the morning, + Sunburnt faces and weary lips, + There is yet a cup here you cannot have, + I hold it in my hands. + + Would you drink of it? + Lay down your thyrse and timbrel. + Break the harsh dance that flickers through the morning, + Forget the scarlet perfumes of the day. + + Remember only starless night, cool swish of many seas. + + Faint pearl-glow of evening, + Cool marble in the silence: + Purple-blue grapes of night crushed freshly, + Deep sleep and the drowsy stars. + + + + III + + + I love the night that in long violet shroud + Slowly and lovingly wraps up the day, + Hiding its blurred imperfections + In endless tenderness. + + I love the day's + High violet cone of light, + With thin haze on the horizon + Like a wavering summer sea. + + But most of all I love midsummer dawn, + When far-off planes of light ascend and tremble together + Like distant purple waves, the sound of whose dim breaking + Is lost in the wild babel of awaking birds. + + + + IV + + + Twisted fragments of violet paper, + The dawn drops you + Into the green bowl filled with the day's grey waves. + + I love the night's + Deep purple grapes + That yesterday + Were crushed and spilled, + In long and sluggish rivers + That joined and made a sea, + Where, half-guessed through the mist, + Two golden sails + Drifted on silently. + + The blue fume of my dreams + Is laced with violet flame. + + One golden sail alone came back to rest + In its nest + Among the reeds. + The other sail is lost; + Behind the mist, + Beyond the craggy rock, + About which race in jagged white + The waves, + Horizon on horizon far away + She waits. + But through the day, + Comes no faint song, nor creaking of the ropes. + + Twisted fragments of violet paper, + Charred and fallen: + Out of the green bowl lazily coils grey smoke. + + + + + GREY SYMPHONY + + + + I + + + Up on the hillside a long row of larches + Shake from their grizzled Beards the vestiges of rain, + From grey-blue melting ice-slabs 'neath their arches + The spring goes up again. + + Writhing, exuding, + Up-steaming, streaming, + The earth is breathing to the sky + Wet clouds of spring. + + Dim rosy fans, the trees + As they flick to and fro, + Seem driving greyish vapour + Over the snow. + + The sky remodulates itself + From violet-grey to blue, + Under the upturned eaves of the blue larches + The sun looks through. + + Now with the heat of the sun + The grey-blue ice-slabs quiver, + They slide in muddy trickles + Towards the river. + + Up on the hillside between the long row of larches + Fume up from south pale clouds that bear the rain; + In pearl and violet arches + They break and shape again. + + + + II + + + I have seen in the evening + The greyish-violet clouds + Roll wearily back from northward + To the place whence first they came. + + One or two orange lamps burnt low + Against deep purple hills-- + + The wind was hurrying, bundling them together, + The pines awoke to sing + The song of the snow buzzing and screaming + On its one string. + + I have seen within my heart + Crocuses, purple and gold, + Drop cold and dull and colourless + Beneath the snow. + + One or two orange lamps burnt low, + Vain memories. + + The wind has driven me too many winters, + My songs are snowflakes whirling about my breast. + I will wrap my frozen and bitter songs about me, + In one grey drift, and rest. + + + + III + + + Fluttering and soft the snow + Flings outward, swirls and settles, + But when I try to seize it, + The wind tears it away. + + Through poised green platforms of enormous pines, + I see far hilltops pushing up blue roofs. + Snow comes, + And hums + Through the woof + Of the lower branches. + It skips and dances: + It drops in sluggish folds + Of grey, + To where the frozen rhododendron bushes + With lower air-gusts play, + And the earth hushes + Its movement. + + Fluttering and soft the snow is blent + In long loose spirals with my dream. + + It is all I have, the snow, + And I know + That when I chase it, it will fly from me; + Beyond the lifeless green, + Beyond the low blue hills, + Beyond the pale straw-coloured glare, + Down in the west + It goes; + Straight southward where the purple-orange flare + Of sunset flows, + And into the blackened heart of my last rose + Pours its despair. + + Fluttering, soft, and dim + Regrets that skip and skim + Grey in the grey twilight; + Slim and weary whirls the snow, + And where it goes I too shall go. + + + + IV + + + Of my long nights afar in alien cities + I have remembered only this: + They were black scarves all dusted over with silver, + In which I wrapped my dreams; + They were black screens on which I made those pictures + That faded out next day. + + Youth without glory, manhood one mad struggle, + Maturity a battle without trumpet calls: + Long gleams from pallid suns seen only in my dreaming + Struck those dissolving walls. + + And of my days, + I only know + They slipped and fell, + Like too-brief sunsets, + Into the hill-ravines that held the snow. + Three lofty pines + At the corners of my heart + Waited, apart. + + They only see + In the mystery + Of the grey sky, + The jaggled clouds that fly, + Endlessly. + + + + + POPPIES OF THE RED YEAR + + _(A Symphony in Scarlet)_ + + + + I + + + The words that I have written + To me become as poppies: + Deep angry disks of scarlet flame full-glowing in the stillness + Of a shut room. + + Silken their edges undulate out to me, + Drooping on their hairy stems; + Flaring like folded shawls, down-curved like rockets starting + To break and shatter their light. + + Wide-flaunting and heavy, crinkle-lipped blossom, + Darting faint shivers through me; + Globed Chinese lanterns on green silk cords a-swaying + Over motionless pools. + + These are lamps of a festival of sleep held each night to welcome me, + Crimson-bursting through dark doors. + Out to the dull, blue, heavy fumes of opium rolling + From their rent red hearts, I go to seek my dream. + + + + II + + + A riven wall like a face half torn away + Stares blankly at the evening: + And from a window like a crooked mouth + It barks at the sunset sky. + + And over there, beyond, + On plains where night has settled, + Ten-like encampments of vaporous blue smoke or mist, + Three men are riding. + + One of them looks and sees the sky: + One of them looks and sees the earth: + The last one looks and sees nothing at all. + They ride on. + + One of them pauses and says, "It is death." + Another pauses and says, "It is life." + The last one pauses and says, "'Tis a dream." + His bridle shakes. + + The sky + Is filled with oval violet-tinted clouds + Through which the sun long settled strikes at random, + Enkindling here and there blotched circles of rosy light. + + These are poppies, + Unclosing immense corollas, + Waving the horsemen on. + + Over the earth, upheaving, folding, + They ride: their bridles shake: + One of them sees the sky is red: + One of them sees the earth is dark: + The last man sees he rides to his death, + Yet he says nothing at all. + + + + III + + + There will be no harvest at all this year; + For the gaunt black slopes arising + Lift the wrinkled aching furrows of their fields, falling away, + To the rainy sky in vain. + + But in the furrows + There is grass and many flowers. + Scarlet tossing poppies + Flutter their wind-slashed edges, + On which gorged black flies poise and sway in drunken sleep. + + The black flies hang + Above the tangled trampled grasses, + Grey, crumpled bundles lie in them: + They sprawl, + Heave faintly; + And between their stiffened fingers, + Run out clogged crimson trickles, + Spattering the poppies and standing in beads on the grass. + + + + IV + + + I saw last night + Sudden puffs of flame in the northern sky. + + The sky was an even expanse of rolling grey smoke, + Lit faintly by the moon that hung + Its white face in a dead tree to the east. + + Within the depths of greenish greyish smoke + Were roars, + Crackles and spheres of vapour, + And then + Huge disks of crimson shooting up, falling away. + + And I said these are flower petals, + Sleep petals, dream petals, + Blown by the winds of a dream. + + But still the crimson rockets rose. + They seemed to be + One great field of immense poppies burning evenly, + Casting their viscid perfume to the earth. + + The earth is sown with dead, + And out of these the red + Blooms are pushing up, advancing higher, + And each night brings them nigher, + Closer, closer to my heart. + + + + V + + + By the sluggish canal + That winds between thin ugly dunes, + There are no passing boats with creaking ropes to-day. + + But when the evening + Crouches down, like a hurt rabbit, + Under the everlasting raincloud whirling up the north horizon, + Downwards on the stream will float + Glowing points of fire. + + Orange, coppery, scarlet, + Crimson, rosy, flickering, + They pass, the lanterns + Of the unknown dead. + + Out where the sea, sailless, + Is mouthing and fretting + Its chaos of pebbles and dried sticks by the dunes. + + By the wall of that house + That looks like a face half torn away, + And from its flat mouth barks at the sky, + The sky which is shot with broad red disks of light, + Petals drowsily falling. + + + + VI + + + "It was not for a sacred cause, + Nor for faith, nor for new generations, + That unburied we roll and float + Beneath this flaming tumult of drunken sleep-flowers. + But it was for a mad adventure, + Something we longed for, poisonous, seductive, + That we dared go out in the night together, + Towards the glow that called us, + On the unsown fields of death. + + "Now we lie here reaped, ungarnered, + Red swaths of a new harvest: + But you who follow after, + Must struggle with our dream: + And out of its restless and oppressive night, + Filled with blue fumes, dull, choking, + You will draw hints of that vision + Which we hold aloof in silence." + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Goblins and Pagodas, by John Gould Fletcher + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 38856 *** |