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diff --git a/40906-0.txt b/40906-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec05485 --- /dev/null +++ b/40906-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2954 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40906 *** + +MERLIN + + + + + BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + _POEMS_ + + CAPTAIN CRAIG + THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT + THE TOWN DOWN THE RIVER + THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY + + _PLAYS_ + + VAN ZORN. A Comedy in Three Acts + THE PORCUPINE. A Drama in Three Acts + + + + + MERLIN + + _A Poem_ + + + BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON + + + New York + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + 1917 + _All rights reserved_ + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, + By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. + + Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1917. + + + Norwood Press + J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. + Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. + + + + +To GEORGE BURNHAM + + + + +MERLIN + + +I + + "Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see, + So far beyond the faint edge of the world? + D'ye look to see the lady Vivian, + Pursued by divers ominous vile demons + That have another king more fierce than ours? + Or think ye that if ye look far enough + And hard enough into the feathery west + Ye'll have a glimmer of the Grail itself? + And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady, + What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?" + So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight + Because he loved him as he laughed at him, + Intoned his idle presence on a day + To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone, + Had there been in him thought of anything + Save what was murmured now in Camelot + Of Merlin's hushed and all but unconfirmed + Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard + At first there was a ghost in Arthur's palace, + But soon among the scullions and anon + Among the knights a firmer credit held + All tongues from uttering what all glances told-- + Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon, + Fearing he might say more to Lancelot + Of Merlin's rumor-laden resurrection + Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish, + Had sauntered off with his imagination + To Merlin's Rock, where now there was no Merlin + To meditate upon a whispering town + Below him in the silence.--Once he said + To Gawaine: "You are young; and that being so, + Behold the shining city of our dreams + And of our King."--"Long live the King," said Gawaine.-- + "Long live the King," said Merlin after him; + "Better for me that I shall not be King; + Wherefore I say again, Long live the King, + And add, God save him, also, and all kings-- + All kings and queens. I speak in general. + Kings have I known that were but weary men + With no stout appetite for more than peace + That was not made for them."--"Nor were they made + For kings," Gawaine said, laughing.--"You are young + Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world + Between your fingers, knowing not what it is + That you are holding. Better for you and me, + I think, that we shall not be kings." + + Gawaine, + Remembering Merlin's words of long ago, + Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again, + He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard: + "There's more afoot and in the air to-day + Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin + May or may not know all, but he said well + To say to me that he would not be King. + No more would I be King." Far down he gazed + On Camelot, until he made of it + A phantom town of many stillnesses, + Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings + To reign in, without omens and obscure + Familiars to bring terror to their days; + For though a knight, and one as hard at arms + As any, save the fate-begotten few + That all acknowledged or in envy loathed, + He felt a foreign sort of creeping up + And down him, as of moist things in the dark,-- + When Dagonet, coming on him unawares, + Presuming on his title of Sir Fool, + Addressed him and crooned on till he was done: + "What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?" + + "Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest + Of all dishonest men, I look through Time, + For sight of what it is that is to be. + I look to see it, though I see it not. + I see a town down there that holds a king, + And over it I see a few small clouds-- + Like feathers in the west, as you observe; + And I shall see no more this afternoon + Than what there is around us every day, + Unless you have a skill that I have not + To ferret the invisible for rats." + + "If you see what's around us every day, + You need no other showing to go mad. + Remember that and take it home with you; + And say tonight, 'I had it of a fool-- + With no immediate obliquity + For this one or for that one, or for me.'" + + Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously: + "I'll not forget I had it of a knight, + Whose only folly is to fool himself; + And as for making other men to laugh, + And so forget their sins and selves a little, + There's no great folly there. So keep it up, + As long as you've a legend or a song, + And have whatever sport of us you like + Till havoc is the word and we fall howling. + For I've a guess there may not be so loud + A sound of laughing here in Camelot + When Merlin goes again to his gay grave + In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors, + Men say his beard is gone." + + "Do men say that?" + A twitch of an impatient weariness + Played for a moment over the lean face + Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly: + "The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight + Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing, + One of these days."--Gawaine looked hard at him: + "If I be too familiar with a fool, + I'm on the way to be another fool," + He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him: + "Yes, Dagonet," he ventured, with a laugh, + "Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly, + And that he shines now as the Lord's anointed, + And wears the valiance of an ageless youth + Crowned with a glory of eternal peace." + + Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head: + "I grant your valiance of a kind of youth + To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question; + For, though I know no more than any churl + Who pinches any chambermaid soever + In the King's palace, I look not to Merlin + For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb + He comes again to Camelot. Time swings + A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace + Goes down before its edge like so much clover. + No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes, + Without a trumpet--and without a beard, + If what you say men say of him be true-- + Nor yet for sudden war." + + Gawaine, for a moment, + Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet, + And, making nothing of it, looked abroad + As if at something cheerful on all sides, + And back again to the fool's unasking eyes: + "Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace, + Let Merlin stay away from Brittany," + Said he, with admiration for the man + Whom Folly called a fool: "And we have known him; + We knew him once when he knew everything." + + "He knew as much as God would let him know + Until he met the lady Vivian. + I tell you that, for the world knows all that; + Also it knows he told the King one day + That he was to be buried, and alive, + In Brittany; and that the King should see + The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed + Away to Vivian in Broceliande, + Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers, + And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods + Of many savors, and sweet ortolans. + Wise books of every lore of every land + Are there to fill his days, if he require them, + And there are players of all instruments-- + Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings + To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms + And there forgets that any town alive + Had ever such a name as Camelot. + So Vivian holds him with her love, they say, + And he, who has no age, has not grown old. + I swear to nothing, but that's what they say. + That's being buried in Broceliande + For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy. + But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard + This tale, or many like it, more than once; + And you must know that Love, when Love invites + Philosophy to play, plays high and wins, + Or low and loses. And you say to me, + 'If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay + Away from Brittany.' Gawaine, you are young, + And Merlin's in his grave." + + "Merlin said once + That I was young, and it's a joy for me + That I am here to listen while you say it. + Young or not young, if that be burial, + May I be buried long before I die. + I might be worse than young; I might be old."-- + Dagonet answered, and without a smile: + "Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that; + A fancy--a mere fancy." Then he smiled: + "And such a doom as his may be for you, + Gawaine, should your untiring divination + Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries + Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord. + And when you stake your wisdom for a woman, + Compute the woman to be worth a grave, + As Merlin did, and say no more about it. + But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high! + Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,--and her love. + Gawaine, farewell." + + "Farewell, Sir Dagonet, + And may the devil take you presently." + He followed with a vexed and envious eye, + And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet's + Departure, till his gaunt obscurity + Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees. + "Poor fool!" he murmured. "Or am I the fool? + With all my fast ascendency in arms, + That ominous clown is nearer to the King + Than I am--yet; and God knows what he knows, + And what his wits infer from what he sees + And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows + Of Lancelot, or what I might know now, + Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool + To springe a friend.... No, I like not this day. + There's a cloud coming over Camelot + Larger than any that is in the sky,-- + Or Merlin would be still in Brittany, + With Vivian and the viols. It's all too strange." + + And later, when descending to the city, + Through unavailing casements he could hear + The roaring of a mighty voice within, + Confirming fervidly his own conviction: + "It's all too strange, and half the world's half crazy!"-- + He scowled: "Well, I agree with Lamorak." + He frowned, and passed: "And I like not this day." + + +II + + Sir Lamorak, the man of oak and iron, + Had with him now, as a care-laden guest, + Sir Bedivere, a man whom Arthur loved + As he had loved no man save Lancelot. + Like one whose late-flown shaft of argument + Had glanced and fallen afield innocuously, + He turned upon his host a sudden eye + That met from Lamorak's an even shaft + Of native and unused authority; + And each man held the other till at length + Each turned away, shutting his heavy jaws + Again together, prisoning thus two tongues + That might forget and might not be forgiven. + Then Bedivere, to find a plain way out, + Said, "Lamorak, let us drink to some one here, + And end this dryness. Who shall it be--the King, + The Queen, or Lancelot?"--"Merlin," Lamorak growled; + And then there were more wrinkles round his eyes + Than Bedivere had said were possible. + "There's no refusal in me now for that," + The guest replied; "so, 'Merlin' let it be. + We've not yet seen him, but if he be here, + And even if he should not be here, say 'Merlin.'" + They drank to the unseen from two new tankards, + And fell straightway to sighing for the past, + And what was yet before them. Silence laid + A cogent finger on the lips of each + Impatient veteran, whose hard hands lay clenched + And restless on his midriff, until words + Were stronger than strong Lamorak: + + "Bedivere," + Began the solid host, "you may as well + Say now as at another time hereafter + That all your certainties have bruises on 'em, + And all your pestilent asseverations + Will never make a man a salamander-- + Who's born, as we are told, so fire won't bite him,-- + Or a slippery queen a nun who counts and burns + Herself to nothing with her beads and candles. + There's nature, and what's in us, to be sifted + Before we know ourselves, or any man + Or woman that God suffers to be born. + That's how I speak; and while you strain your mazzard, + Like Father Jove, big with a new Minerva, + We'll say, to pass the time, that I speak well. + God's fish! The King had eyes; and Lancelot + Won't ride home to his mother, for she's dead. + The story is that Merlin warned the King + Of what's come now to pass; and I believe it. + And Arthur, he being Arthur and a king, + Has made a more pernicious mess than one, + We're told, for being so great and amorous: + It's that unwholesome and inclement cub + Young Modred I'd see first in hell before + I'd hang too high the Queen or Lancelot; + The King, if one may say it, set the pace, + And we've two strapping bastards here to prove it. + Young Borre, he's well enough; but as for Modred, + I squirm as often as I look at him. + And there again did Merlin warn the King, + The story goes abroad; and I believe it." + + Sir Bedivere, as one who caught no more + Than what he would of Lamorak's outpouring, + Inclined his grizzled head and closed his eyes + Before he sighed and rubbed his beard and spoke: + "For all I know to make it otherwise, + The Queen may be a nun some day or other; + I'd pray to God for such a thing to be, + If prayer for that were not a mockery. + We're late now for much praying, Lamorak, + When you and I can feel upon our faces + A wind that has been blowing over ruins + That we had said were castles and high towers-- + Till Merlin, or the spirit of him, came + As the dead come in dreams. I saw the King + This morning, and I saw his face. Therefore, + I tell you, if a state shall have a king, + The king must have the state, and be the state; + Or then shall we have neither king nor state, + But bones and ashes, and high towers all fallen: + And we shall have, where late there was a kingdom, + A dusty wreck of what was once a glory-- + A wilderness whereon to crouch and mourn + And moralize, or else to build once more + For something better or for something worse. + Therefore again, I say that Lancelot + Has wrought a potent wrong upon the King, + And all who serve and recognize the King, + And all who follow him and all who love him. + Whatever the stormy faults he may have had, + To look on him today is to forget them; + And if it be too late for sorrow now + To save him--for it was a broken man + I saw this morning, and a broken king-- + The God who sets a day for desolation + Will not forsake him in Avilion, + Or whatsoever shadowy land there be + Where peace awaits him on its healing shores." + + Sir Lamorak, shifting in his oaken chair, + Growled like a dog and shook himself like one: + "For the stone-chested, helmet-cracking knight + That you are known to be from Lyonnesse + To northward, Bedivere, you fol-de-rol + When days are rancid, and you fiddle-faddle + More like a woman than a man with hands + Fit for the smiting of a crazy giant + With armor an inch thick, as we all know + You are, when you're not sermonizing at us. + As for the King, I say the King, no doubt, + Is angry, sorry, and all sorts of things, + For Lancelot, and for his easy Queen, + Whom he took knowing she'd thrown sparks already + On that same piece of tinder, Lancelot, + Who fetched her with him from Leodogran + Because the King--God save poor human reason!-- + Would prove to Merlin, who knew everything + Worth knowing in those days, that he was wrong. + I'll drink now and be quiet,--but, by God, + I'll have to tell you, Brother Bedivere, + Once more, to make you listen properly, + That crowns and orders, and high palaces, + And all the manifold ingredients + Of this good solid kingdom, where we sit + And spit now at each other with our eyes, + Will not go rolling down to hell just yet + Because a pretty woman is a fool. + And here's Kay coming with his fiddle face + As long now as two fiddles. Sit ye down, + Sir Man, and tell us everything you know + Of Merlin--or his ghost without a beard. + What mostly is it?" + + Sir Kay, the seneschal, + Sat wearily while he gazed upon the two: + "To you it mostly is, if I err not, + That what you hear of Merlin's coming back + Is nothing more or less than heavy truth. + But ask me nothing of the Queen, I say, + For I know nothing. All I know of her + Is what her eyes have told the silences + That now attend her; and that her estate + Is one for less complacent execration + Than quips and innuendoes of the city + Would augur for her sin--if there be sin-- + Or for her name--if now she have a name. + And where, I say, is this to lead the King, + And after him, the kingdom and ourselves? + Here be we, three men of a certain strength + And some confessed intelligence, who know + That Merlin has come out of Brittany-- + Out of his grave, as he would say it for us-- + Because the King has now a desperation + More strong upon him than a woman's net + Was over Merlin--for now Merlin's here, + And two of us who knew him know how well + His wisdom, if he have it any longer, + Will by this hour have sounded and appraised + The grief and wrath and anguish of the King, + Requiring mercy and inspiring fear + Lest he forego the vigil now most urgent, + And leave unwatched a cranny where some worm + Or serpent may come in to speculate." + + "I know your worm, and his worm's name is Modred-- + Albeit the streets are not yet saying so," + Said Lamorak, as he lowered his wrath and laughed + A sort of poisonous apology + To Kay: "And in the meantime, I'll be gyved! + Here's Bedivere a-wailing for the King, + And you, Kay, with a moist eye for the Queen. + I think I'll blow a horn for Lancelot; + For by my soul a man's in sorry case + When Guineveres are out with eyes to scorch him: + I'm not so ancient or so frozen certain + That I'd ride horses down to skeletons + If she were after me. Has Merlin seen him-- + This Lancelot, this Queen-fed friend of ours?" + + Kay answered sighing, with a lonely scowl: + "The picture that I conjure leaves him out; + The King and Merlin are this hour together, + And I can say no more; for I know nothing. + But how the King persuaded or beguiled + The stricken wizard from across the water + Outriddles my poor wits. It's all too strange." + + "It's all too strange, and half the world's half crazy!" + Roared Lamorak, forgetting once again + The devastating carriage of his voice. + "Is the King sick?" he said, more quietly; + "Is he to let one damned scratch be enough + To paralyze the force that heretofore + Would operate a way through hell and iron, + And iron already slimy with his blood? + Is the King blind--with Modred watching him? + Does he forget the crown for Lancelot? + Does he forget that every woman mewing + Shall some day be a handful of small ashes?" + + "You speak as one for whom the god of Love + Has yet a mighty trap in preparation. + We know you, Lamorak," said Bedivere: + "We know you for a short man, Lamorak,-- + In deeds, if not in inches or in words; + But there are fens and heights and distances + That your capricious ranging has not yet + Essayed in this weird region of man's love. + Forgive me, Lamorak, but your words are words. + Your deeds are what they are; and ages hence + Will men remember your illustriousness, + If there be gratitude in history. + For me, I see the shadow of the end, + Wherein to serve King Arthur to the end, + And, if God have it so, to see the Grail + Before I die." + + But Lamorak shook his head: + "See what you will, or what you may. For me, + I see no other than a stinking mess-- + With Modred stirring it, and Agravaine + Spattering Camelot with as much of it + As he can throw. The Devil got somehow + Into God's workshop once upon a time, + And out of the red clay that he found there + He made a shape like Modred, and another + As like as eyes are to this Agravaine. + 'I never made 'em,' said the good Lord God, + 'But let 'em go, and see what comes of 'em.' + And that's what we're to do. As for the Grail, + I've never worried it, and so the Grail + Has never worried me." + + Kay sighed. "I see + With Bedivere the coming of the end," + He murmured; "for the King I saw today + Was not, nor shall he ever be again, + The King we knew. I say the King is dead; + The man is living, but the King is dead. + The wheel is broken." + + "Tut!" said Lamorak; + "There are no dead kings yet in Camelot; + But there is Modred who is hatching ruin,-- + And when it hatches I may not be here. + There's Gawaine too, and he does not forget + My father, who killed his. King Arthur's house + Has more division in it than I like + In houses; and if Modred's aim be good + For backs like mine, I'm not long for the scene." + + +III + + King Arthur, as he paced a lonely floor + That rolled a muffled echo, as he fancied, + All through the palace and out through the world, + Might now have wondered hard, could he have heard + Sir Lamorak's apathetic disregard + Of what Fate's knocking made so manifest + And ominous to others near the King-- + If any, indeed, were near him at this hour + Save Merlin, once the wisest of all men, + And weary Dagonet, whom he had made + A knight for love of him and his abused + Integrity. He might have wondered hard + And wondered much; and after wondering, + He might have summoned, with as little heart + As he had now for crowns, the fond, lost Merlin, + Whose Nemesis had made of him a slave, + A man of dalliance, and a sybarite. + + "Men change in Brittany, Merlin," said the King; + And even his grief had strife to freeze again + A dreary smile for the transmuted seer + Now robed in heavy wealth of purple silk, + With frogs and foreign tassels. On his face, + Too smooth now for a wizard or a sage, + Lay written, for the King's remembering eyes, + A pathos of a lost authority + Long faded, and unconscionably gone; + And on the King's heart lay a sudden cold: + "I might as well have left him in his grave, + As he would say it, saying what was true,-- + As death is true. This Merlin is not mine, + But Vivian's. My crown is less than hers, + And I am less than woman to this man." + + Then Merlin, as one reading Arthur's words + On viewless tablets in the air before him: + "Now, Arthur, since you are a child of mine-- + A foster-child, and that's a kind of child-- + Be not from hearsay or despair too eager + To dash your meat with bitter seasoning, + So none that are more famished than yourself + Shall have what you refuse. For you are King, + And if you starve yourself, you starve the state; + And then by sundry looks and silences + Of those you loved, and by the lax regard + Of those you knew for fawning enemies, + You may learn soon that you are King no more, + But a slack, blasted, and sad-fronted man, + Made sadder with a crown. No other friend + Than I could say this to you, and say more; + And if you bid me say no more, so be it." + + The King, who sat with folded arms, now bowed + His head and felt, unfought and all aflame + Like immanent hell-fire, the wretchedness + That only those who are to lead may feel-- + And only they when they are maimed and worn + Too sore to covet without shuddering + The fixed impending eminence where death + Itself were victory, could they but lead + Unbitten by the serpents they had fed. + Turning, he spoke: "Merlin, you say the truth: + There is no man who could say more to me + Today, or say so much to me, and live. + But you are Merlin still, or part of him; + I did you wrong when I thought otherwise, + And I am sorry now. Say what you will. + We are alone, and I shall be alone + As long as Time shall hide a reason here + For me to stay in this infested world + Where I have sinned and erred and heeded not + Your counsel; and where you yourself--God save us!-- + Have gone down smiling to the smaller life + That you and your incongruous laughter called + Your living grave. God save us all, Merlin, + When you, the seer, the founder, and the prophet, + May throw the gold of your immortal treasure + Back to the God that gave it, and then laugh + Because a woman has you in her arms ... + Why do you sting me now with a small hive + Of words that are all poison? I do not ask + Much honey; but why poison me for nothing, + And with a venom that I know already + As I know crowns and wars? Why tell a king-- + A poor, foiled, flouted, miserable king-- + That if he lets rats eat his fingers off + He'll have no fingers to fight battles with? + I know as much as that, for I am still + A king--who thought himself a little less + Than God; a king who built him palaces + On sand and mud, and hears them crumbling now, + And sees them tottering, as he knew they must. + You are the man who made me to be King-- + Therefore, say anything." + + Merlin, stricken deep + With pity that was old, being born of old + Foreshadowings, made answer to the King: + "This coil of Lancelot and Guinevere + Is not for any mortal to undo, + Or to deny, or to make otherwise; + But your most violent years are on their way + To days, and to a sounding of loud hours + That are to strike for war. Let not the time + Between this hour and then be lost in fears, + Or told in obscurations and vain faith + In what has been your long security; + For should your force be slower then than hate, + And your regret be sharper than your sight, + And your remorse fall heavier than your sword,-- + Then say farewell to Camelot, and the crown. + But say not you have lost, or failed in aught + Your golden horoscope of imperfection + Has held in starry words that I have read. + I see no farther now than I saw then, + For no man shall be given of everything + Together in one life; yet I may say + The time is imminent when he shall come + For whom I founded the Siege Perilous; + And he shall be too much a living part + Of what he brings, and what he burns away in, + To be for long a vexed inhabitant + Of this mad realm of stains and lower trials. + And here the ways of God again are mixed: + For this new knight who is to find the Grail + For you, and for the least who pray for you + In such lost coombs and hollows of the world + As you have never entered, is to be + The son of him you trusted--Lancelot, + Of all who ever jeopardized a throne + Sure the most evil-fated, saving one, + Your son, begotten, though you knew not then + Your leman was your sister, of Morgause; + For it is Modred now, not Lancelot, + Whose native hate plans your annihilation-- + Though he may smile till he be sick, and swear + Allegiance to an unforgiven father + Until at last he shake an empty tongue + Talked out with too much lying--though his lies + Will have a truth to steer them. Trust him not, + For unto you the father, he the son + Is like enough to be the last of terrors-- + If in a field of time that looms to you + Far larger than it is you fail to plant + And harvest the old seeds of what I say, + And so be nourished and adept again + For what may come to be. But Lancelot + Will have you first; and you need starve no more + For the Queen's love, the love that never was. + Your Queen is now your Kingdom, and hereafter + Let no man take it from you, or you die. + Let no man take it from you for a day; + For days are long when we are far from what + We love, and mischief's other name is distance. + Let that be all, for I can say no more; + Not even to Blaise the Hermit, were he living, + Could I say more than I have given you now + To hear; and he alone was my confessor." + + The King arose and paced the floor again. + "I get gray comfort of dark words," he said; + "But tell me not that you can say no more: + You can, for I can hear you saying it. + Yet I'll not ask for more. I have enough-- + Until my new knight comes to prove and find + The promise and the glory of the Grail, + Though I shall see no Grail. For I have built + On sand and mud, and I shall see no Grail."-- + "Nor I," said Merlin. "Once I dreamed of it, + But I was buried. I shall see no Grail, + Nor would I have it otherwise. I saw + Too much, and that was never good for man. + The man who goes alone too far goes mad-- + In one way or another. God knew best, + And he knows what is coming yet for me. + I do not ask. Like you, I have enough." + + That night King Arthur's apprehension found + In Merlin an obscure and restive guest, + Whose only thought was on the hour of dawn, + When he should see the last of Camelot + And ride again for Brittany; and what words + Were said before the King was left alone + Were only darker for reiteration. + They parted, all provision made secure + For Merlin's early convoy to the coast, + And Arthur tramped the past. The loneliness + Of kings, around him like the unseen dead, + Lay everywhere; and he was loath to move, + As if in fear to meet with his cold hand + The touch of something colder. Then a whim, + Begotten of intolerable doubt, + Seized him and stung him until he was asking + If any longer lived among his knights + A man to trust as once he trusted all, + And Lancelot more than all. "And it is he + Who is to have me first," so Merlin says,-- + "As if he had me not in hell already. + Lancelot! Lancelot!" He cursed the tears + That cooled his misery, and then he asked + Himself again if he had one to trust + Among his knights, till even Bedivere, + Tor, Bors, and Percival, rough Lamorak, + Griflet, and Gareth, and gay Gawaine, all + Were dubious knaves,--or they were like to be, + For cause to make them so; and he had made + Himself to be the cause. "God set me right, + Before this folly carry me on farther," + He murmured; and he smiled unhappily, + Though fondly, as he thought: "Yes, there is one + Whom I may trust with even my soul's last shred; + And Dagonet will sing for me tonight + An old song, not too merry or too sad." + When Dagonet, having entered, stood before + The King as one affrighted, the King smiled: + "You think because I call for you so late + That I am angry, Dagonet? Why so? + Have you been saying what I say to you, + And telling men that you brought Merlin here? + No? So I fancied; and if you report + No syllable of anything I speak, + You will have no regrets, and I no anger. + What word of Merlin was abroad today?" + + "Today have I heard no man save Gawaine, + And to him I said only what all men + Are saying to their neighbors. They believe + That you have Merlin here, and that his coming + Denotes no good. Gawaine was curious, + But ever mindful of your majesty. + He pressed me not, and we made light of it." + + "Gawaine, I fear, makes light of everything," + The King said, looking down. "Sometimes I wish + I had a full Round Table of Gawaines. + But that's a freak of midnight,--never mind it. + Sing me a song--one of those endless things + That Merlin liked of old, when men were younger + And there were more stars twinkling in the sky. + I see no stars that are alive tonight, + And I am not the king of sleep. So then, + Sing me an old song." + + Dagonet's quick eye + Caught sorrow in the King's; and he knew more, + In a fool's way, than even the King himself + Of what was hovering over Camelot. + "O King," he said, "I cannot sing tonight. + If you command me I shall try to sing, + But I shall fail; for there are no songs now + In my old throat, or even in these poor strings + That I can hardly follow with my fingers. + Forgive me--kill me--but I cannot sing." + Dagonet fell down then on both his knees + And shook there while he clutched the King's cold hand + And wept for what he knew. + + "There, Dagonet; + I shall not kill my knight, or make him sing. + No more; get up, and get you off to bed. + There'll be another time for you to sing, + So get you to your covers and sleep well." + Alone again, the King said, bitterly: + "Yes, I have one friend left, and they who know + As much of him as of themselves believe + That he's a fool. Poor Dagonet's a fool. + And if he be a fool, what else am I + Than one fool more to make the world complete? + 'The love that never was!' ... Fool, fool, fool, fool!" + + The King was long awake. No covenant + With peace was his tonight; and he knew sleep + As he knew the cold eyes of Guinevere + That yesterday had stabbed him, having first + On Lancelot's name struck fire, and left him then + As now they left him--with a wounded heart, + A wounded pride, and a sickening pang worse yet + Of lost possession. He thought wearily + Of watchers by the dead, late wayfarers, + Rough-handed mariners on ships at sea, + Lone-yawning sentries, wastrels, and all others + Who might be saying somewhere to themselves, + "The King is now asleep in Camelot; + God save the King."--"God save the King, indeed, + If there be now a king to save," he said. + Then he saw giants rising in the dark, + Born horribly of memories and new fears + That in the gray-lit irony of dawn + Were partly to fade out and be forgotten; + And then there might be sleep, and for a time + There might again be peace. His head was hot + And throbbing; but the rest of him was cold, + As he lay staring hard where nothing stood, + And hearing what was not, even while he saw + And heard, like dust and thunder far away, + The coming confirmation of the words + Of him who saw so much and feared so little + Of all that was to be. No spoken doom + That ever chilled the last night of a felon + Prepared a dragging anguish more profound + And absolute than Arthur, in these hours, + Made out of darkness and of Merlin's words; + No tide that ever crashed on Lyonnesse + Drove echoes inland that were lonelier + For widowed ears among the fisher-folk, + Than for the King were memories tonight + Of old illusions that were dead for ever. + + +IV + + The tortured King--seeing Merlin wholly meshed + In his defection, even to indifference, + And all the while attended and exalted + By some unfathomable obscurity + Of divination, where the Grail, unseen, + Broke yet the darkness where a king saw nothing-- + Feared now the lady Vivian more than Fate; + For now he knew that Modred, Lancelot, + The Queen, the King, the Kingdom, and the World, + Were less to Merlin, who had made him King, + Than one small woman in Broceliande. + Whereas the lady Vivian, seeing Merlin + Acclaimed and tempted and allured again + To service in his old magnificence, + Feared now King Arthur more than storms and robbers; + For Merlin, though he knew himself immune + To no least whispered little wish of hers + That might afflict his ear with ecstasy, + Had yet sufficient of his old command + Of all around him to invest an eye + With quiet lightning, and a spoken word + With easy thunder, so accomplishing + A profit and a pastime for himself-- + And for the lady Vivian, when her guile + Outlived at intervals her graciousness; + And this equipment of uncertainty, + Which now had gone away with him to Britain + With Dagonet, so plagued her memory + That soon a phantom brood of goblin doubts + Inhabited his absence, which had else + Been empty waiting and a few brave fears, + And a few more, she knew, that were not brave, + Or long to be disowned, or manageable. + She thought of him as he had looked at her + When first he had acquainted her alarm + At sight of the King's letter with its import; + And she remembered now his very words: + "The King believes today as in his boyhood + That I am Fate," he said; and when they parted + She had not even asked him not to go; + She might as well, she thought, have bid the wind + Throw no more clouds across a lonely sky + Between her and the moon,--so great he seemed + In his oppressed solemnity, and she, + In her excess of wrong imagining, + So trivial in an hour, and, after all + A creature of a smaller consequence + Than kings to Merlin, who made kings and kingdoms + And had them as a father; and so she feared + King Arthur more than robbers while she waited + For Merlin's promise to fulfil itself, + And for the rest that was to follow after: + "He said he would come back, and so he will. + He will because he must, and he is Merlin, + The master of the world--or so he was; + And he is coming back again to me + Because he must and I am Vivian. + It's all as easy as two added numbers: + Some day I'll hear him ringing at the gate, + As he rang on that morning in the spring, + Ten years ago; and I shall have him then + For ever. He shall never go away + Though kings come walking on their hands and knees + To take him on their backs." When Merlin came, + She told him that, and laughed; and he said strangely: + "Be glad or sorry, but no kings are coming. + Not Arthur, surely; for now Arthur knows + That I am less than Fate." + + Ten years ago + The King had heard, with unbelieving ears + At first, what Merlin said would be the last + Reiteration of his going down + To find a living grave in Brittany: + "Buried alive I told you I should be, + By love made little and by woman shorn, + Like Samson, of my glory; and the time + Is now at hand. I follow in the morning + Where I am led. I see behind me now + The last of crossways, and I see before me + A straight and final highway to the end + Of all my divination. You are King, + And in your kingdom I am what I was. + Wherever I have warned you, see as far + As I have seen; for I have shown the worst + There is to see. Require no more of me, + For I can be no more than what I was." + So, on the morrow, the King said farewell; + And he was never more to Merlin's eye + The King than at that hour; for Merlin knew + How much was going out of Arthur's life + With him, as he went southward to the sea. + + Over the waves and into Brittany + Went Merlin, to Broceliande. Gay birds + Were singing high to greet him all along + A broad and sanded woodland avenue + That led him on forever, so he thought, + Until at last there was an end of it; + And at the end there was a gate of iron, + Wrought heavily and invidiously barred. + He pulled a cord that rang somewhere a bell + Of many echoes, and sat down to rest, + Outside the keeper's house, upon a bench + Of carven stone that might for centuries + Have waited there in silence to receive him. + The birds were singing still; leaves flashed and swung + Before him in the sunlight; a soft breeze + Made intermittent whisperings around him + Of love and fate and danger, and faint waves + Of many sweetly-stinging fragile odors + Broke lightly as they touched him; cherry-boughs + Above him snowed white petals down upon him, + And under their slow falling Merlin smiled + Contentedly, as one who contemplates + No longer fear, confusion, or regret, + May smile at ruin or at revelation. + + A stately fellow with a forest air + Now hailed him from within, with searching words + And curious looks, till Merlin's glowing eye + Transfixed him and he flinched: "My compliments + And homage to the lady Vivian. + Say Merlin from King Arthur's Court is here, + A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance, + Though in effect her friend and humble servant. + Convey to her my speech as I have said it, + Without abbreviation or delay, + And so deserve my gratitude forever." + "But Merlin?" the man stammered; "Merlin? Merlin?"-- + "One Merlin is enough. I know no other. + Now go you to the lady Vivian + And bring to me her word, for I am weary." + Still smiling at the cherry-blossoms falling + Down on him and around him in the sunlight, + He waited, never moving, never glancing + This way or that, until his messenger + Came jingling into vision, weighed with keys, + And inly shaken with much wondering + At this great wizard's coming unannounced + And unattended. When the way was open + The stately messenger, now bowing low + In reverence and awe, bade Merlin enter; + And Merlin, having entered, heard the gate + Clang back behind him; and he swore no gate + Like that had ever clanged in Camelot, + Or any other place if not in hell. + "I may be dead; and this good fellow here, + With all his keys," he thought, "may be the Devil,-- + Though I were loath to say so, for the keys + Would make him rather more akin to Peter; + And that's fair reasoning for this fair weather." + + "The lady Vivian says you are most welcome," + Said now the stately-favored servitor, + "And are to follow me. She said, 'Say Merlin-- + A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance, + Though in effect my friend and humble servant-- + Is welcome for himself, and for the sound + Of his great name that echoes everywhere.'"-- + "I like you and I like your memory," + Said Merlin, curiously, "but not your gate. + Why forge for this elysian wilderness + A thing so vicious with unholy noise?"-- + "There's a way out of every wilderness + For those who dare or care enough to find it," + The guide said: and they moved along together, + Down shaded ways, through open ways with hedgerows. + And into shade again more deep than ever, + But edged anon with rays of broken sunshine + In which a fountain, raining crystal music, + Made faery magic of it through green leafage, + Till Merlin's eyes were dim with preparation + For sight now of the lady Vivian. + He saw at first a bit of living green + That might have been a part of all the green + Around the tinkling fountain where she gazed + Upon the circling pool as if her thoughts + Were not so much on Merlin--whose advance + Betrayed through his enormity of hair + The cheeks and eyes of youth--as on the fishes. + But soon she turned and found him, now alone, + And held him while her beauty and her grace + Made passing trash of empires, and his eyes + Told hers of what a splendid emptiness + Her tedious world had been without him in it + Whose love and service were to be her school, + Her triumph, and her history: "This is Merlin," + She thought; "and I shall dream of him no more. + And he has come, he thinks, to frighten me + With beards and robes and his immortal fame; + Or is it I who think so? I know not. + I'm frightened, sure enough, but if I show it, + I'll be no more the Vivian for whose love + He tossed away his glory, or the Vivian + Who saw no man alive to make her love him + Till she saw Merlin once in Camelot, + And seeing him, saw no other. In an age + That has no plan for me that I can read + Without him, shall he tell me what I am, + And why I am, I wonder?" While she thought, + And feared the man whom her perverse negation + Must overcome somehow to soothe her fancy, + She smiled and welcomed him; and so they stood, + Each finding in the other's eyes a gleam + Of what eternity had hidden there. + + "Are you always all in green, as you are now?" + Said Merlin, more employed with her complexion, + Where blood and olive made wild harmony + With eyes and wayward hair that were too dark + For peace if they were not subordinated; + "If so you are, then so you make yourself + A danger in a world of many dangers. + If I were young, God knows if I were safe + Concerning you in green, like a slim cedar, + As you are now, to say my life was mine: + Were you to say to me that I should end it, + Longevity for me were jeopardized. + Have you your green on always and all over?" + + "Come here, and I will tell you about that," + Said Vivian, leading Merlin with a laugh + To an arbored seat where they made opposites: + "If you are Merlin--and I know you are, + For I remember you in Camelot,-- + You know that I am Vivian, as I am; + And if I go in green, why, let me go so, + And say at once why you have come to me + Cloaked over like a monk, and with a beard + As long as Jeremiah's. I don't like it. + I'll never like a man with hair like that + While I can feed a carp with little frogs. + I'm rather sure to hate you if you keep it, + And when I hate a man I poison him." + + "You've never fed a carp with little frogs," + Said Merlin; "I can see it in your eyes."-- + "I might then, if I haven't," said the lady; + "For I'm a savage, and I love no man + As I have seen him yet. I'm here alone, + With some three hundred others, all of whom + Are ready, I dare say, to die for me; + I'm cruel and I'm cold, and I like snakes; + And some have said my mother was a fairy, + Though I believe it not." + + "Why not believe it?" + Said Merlin; "I believe it. I believe + Also that you divine, as I had wished, + In my surviving ornament of office + A needless imposition on your wits, + If not yet on the scope of your regard. + Even so, you cannot say how old I am, + Or yet how young. I'm willing cheerfully + To fight, left-handed, Hell's three headed hound + If you but whistle him up from where he lives; + I'm cheerful and I'm fierce, and I've made kings; + And some have said my father was the Devil, + Though I believe it not. Whatever I am, + I have not lived in Time until to-day." + A moment's worth of wisdom there escaped him, + But Vivian seized it, and it was not lost. + Embroidering doom with many levities, + Till now the fountain's crystal silver, fading, + Became a splash and a mere chilliness, + They mocked their fate with easy pleasantries + That were too false and small to be forgotten, + And with ingenious insincerities + That had no repetition or revival. + At last the lady Vivian arose, + And with a crying of how late it was + Took Merlin's hand and led him like a child + Along a dusky way between tall cones + Of tight green cedars: "Am I like one of these? + You said I was, though I deny it wholly."-- + "Very," said Merlin, to his bearded lips + Uplifting her small fingers.--"O, that hair!" + She moaned, as if in sorrow: "Must it be? + Must every prophet and important wizard + Be clouded so that nothing but his nose + And eyes, and intimations of his ears, + Are there to make us know him when we see him? + Praise heaven I'm not a prophet! Are you glad?"-- + + He did not say that he was glad or sorry; + For suddenly came flashing into vision + A thing that was a manor and a palace, + With walls and roofs that had a flaming sky + Behind them, like a sky that he remembered, + And one that had from his rock-sheltered haunt + Above the roofs of his forsaken city + Made flame as if all Camelot were on fire. + The glow brought with it a brief memory + Of Arthur as he left him, and the pain + That fought in Arthur's eyes for losing him, + And must have overflowed when he had vanished. + But now the eyes that looked hard into his + Were Vivian's, not the King's; and he could see, + Or so he thought, a shade of sorrow in them. + She took his two hands: "You are sad," she said.-- + He smiled: "Your western lights bring memories + Of Camelot. We all have memories-- + Prophets, and women who are like slim cedars; + But you are wrong to say that I am sad."-- + "Would you go back to Camelot?" she asked, + Her fingers tightening. Merlin shook his head. + "Then listen while I tell you that I'm glad," + She purred, as if assured that he would listen: + "At your first warning, much too long ago, + Of this quaint pilgrimage of yours to see + 'The fairest and most orgulous of ladies'-- + No language for a prophet, I am sure-- + Said I, 'When this great Merlin comes to me, + My task and avocation for some time + Will be to make him willing, if I can, + To teach and feed me with an ounce of wisdom.' + For I have eaten to an empty shell, + After a weary feast of observation + Among the glories of a tinsel world + That had for me no glory till you came, + A life that is no life. Would you go back + To Camelot?"--Merlin shook his head again, + And the two smiled together in the sunset. + + They moved along in silence to the door, + Where Merlin said: "Of your three hundred here + There is but one I know, and him I favor; + I mean the stately one who shakes the keys + Of that most evil sounding gate of yours, + Which has a clang as if it shut forever."-- + "If there be need, I'll shut the gate myself," + She said. "And you like Blaise? Then you shall have him. + He was not born to serve, but serve he must, + It seems, and be enamoured of my shadow. + He cherishes the taint of some high folly + That haunts him with a name he cannot know, + And I could fear his wits are paying for it. + Forgive his tongue, and humor it a little."-- + "I knew another one whose name was Blaise," + He said; and she said lightly, "Well, what of it?"-- + "And he was nigh the learnedest of hermits; + His home was far away from everywhere, + And he was all alone there when he died."-- + "Now be a pleasant Merlin," Vivian said, + Patting his arm, "and have no more of that; + For I'll not hear of dead men far away, + Or dead men anywhere this afternoon. + There'll be a trifle in the way of supper + This evening, but the dead shall not have any. + Blaise and this man will tell you all there is + For you to know. Then you'll know everything." + She laughed, and vanished like a humming-bird. + + +V + + The sun went down, and the dark after it + Starred Merlin's new abode with many a sconced + And many a moving candle, in whose light + The prisoned wizard, mirrored in amazement, + Saw fronting him a stranger, falcon-eyed, + Firm-featured, of a negligible age, + And fair enough to look upon, he fancied, + Though not a warrior born, nor more a courtier. + A native humor resting in his long + And solemn jaws now stirred, and Merlin smiled + To see himself in purple, touched with gold, + And fledged with snowy lace.--The careful Blaise, + Having drawn some time before from Merlin's wallet + The sable raiment of a royal scholar, + Had eyed it with a long mistrust and said: + "The lady Vivian would be vexed, I fear, + To meet you vested in these learned weeds + Of gravity and death; for she abhors + Mortality in all its hues and emblems-- + Black wear, long argument, and all the cold + And solemn things that appertain to graves."-- + And Merlin, listening, to himself had said, + "This fellow has a freedom, yet I like him;" + And then aloud: "I trust you. Deck me out, + However, with a temperate regard + For what your candid eye may find in me + Of inward coloring. Let them reap my beard, + Moreover, with a sort of reverence, + For I shall never look on it again. + And though your lady frown her face away + To think of me in black, for God's indulgence, + Array me not in scarlet or in yellow."-- + And so it came to pass that Merlin sat + At ease in purple, even though his chin + Reproached him as he pinched it, and seemed yet + A little fearful of its nakedness. + He might have sat and scanned himself for ever + Had not the careful Blaise, regarding him, + Remarked again that in his proper judgment, + And on the valid word of his attendants, + No more was to be done. "Then do no more," + Said Merlin, with a last look at his chin; + "Never do more when there's no more to do, + And you may shun thereby the bitter taste + Of many disillusions and regrets. + God's pity on us that our words have wings + And leave our deeds to crawl so far below them; + For we have all two heights, we men who dream, + Whether we lead or follow, rule or serve."-- + "God's pity on us anyhow," Blaise answered, + "Or most of us. Meanwhile, I have to say, + As long as you are here, and I'm alive, + Your summons will assure the loyalty + Of all my diligence and expedition. + The gong that you hear singing in the distance + Was rung for your attention and your presence."-- + "I wonder at this fellow, yet I like him," + Said Merlin; and he rose to follow him. + + The lady Vivian in a fragile sheath + Of crimson, dimmed and veiled ineffably + By the flame-shaken gloom wherein she sat, + And twinkled if she moved, heard Merlin coming, + And smiled as if to make herself believe + Her joy was all a triumph; yet her blood + Confessed a tingling of more wonderment + Than all her five and twenty worldly years + Of waiting for this triumph could remember; + And when she knew and felt the slower tread + Of his unseen advance among the shadows + To the small haven of uncertain light + That held her in it as a torch-lit shoal + Might hold a smooth red fish, her listening skin + Responded with a creeping underneath it, + And a crinkling that was incident alike + To darkness, love, and mice. When he was there, + She looked up at him in a whirl of mirth + And wonder, as in childhood she had gazed + Wide-eyed on royal mountebanks who made + So brief a shift of the impossible + That kings and queens would laugh and shake themselves; + Then rising slowly on her little feet, + Like a slim creature lifted, she thrust out + Her two small hands as if to push him back-- + Whereon he seized them. "Go away," she said; + "I never saw you in my life before."-- + "You say the truth," he answered; "when I met + Myself an hour ago, my words were yours. + God made the man you see for you to like, + If possible. If otherwise, turn down + These two prodigious and remorseless thumbs + And leave your lions to annihilate him."-- + + "I have no other lion than yourself," + She said; "and since you cannot eat yourself, + Pray do a lonely woman, who is, you say, + More like a tree than any other thing + In your discrimination, the large honor + Of sharing with her a small kind of supper."-- + "Yes, you are like a tree,--or like a flower; + More like a flower to-night." He bowed his head + And kissed the ten small fingers he was holding, + As calmly as if each had been a son; + Although his heart was leaping and his eyes + Had sight for nothing save a swimming crimson + Between two glimmering arms. "More like a flower + To-night," he said, as now he scanned again + The immemorial meaning of her face + And drew it nearer to his eyes. It seemed + A flower of wonder with a crimson stem + Came leaning slowly and regretfully + To meet his will--a flower of change and peril + That had a clinging blossom of warm olive + Half stifled with a tyranny of black, + And held the wayward fragrance of a rose + Made woman by delirious alchemy. + She raised her face and yoked his willing neck + With half her weight; and with hot lips that left + The world with only philosophy + For Merlin or for Anaxagoras, + Called his to meet them and in one long hush + Of capture to surrender and make hers + The last of anything that might remain + Of what were now their beardless wizardry. + Then slowly she began to push herself + Away, and slowly Merlin let her go + As far from him as his outreaching hands + Could hold her fingers while his eyes had all + The beauty of the woodland and the world + Before him in the firelight, like a nymph + Of cities, or a queen a little weary + Of inland stillness and immortal trees. + "Are you to let me go again sometime," + She said,--"before I starve to death, I wonder? + If not, I'll have to bite the lion's paws, + And make him roar. He cannot shake his mane, + For now the lion has no mane to shake; + The lion hardly knows himself without it, + And thinks he has no face, but there's a lady + Who says he had no face until he lost it. + So there we are. And there's a flute somewhere, + Playing a strange old tune. You know the words: + 'The Lion and the Lady are both hungry.'" + + Fatigue and hunger--tempered leisurely + With food that some devout magician's oven + Might after many failures have delivered, + And wine that had for decades in the dark + Of Merlin's grave been slowly quickening, + And with half-heard, dream-weaving interludes + Of distant flutes and viols, made yet more distant + By far, nostalgic hautboys blown from nowhere,-- + Were tempered not so leisurely, may be, + With Vivian's inextinguishable eyes + Between two shining silver candlesticks + That lifted each a trembling flame to make + The rest of her a dusky loveliness + Against a bank of shadow. Merlin made, + As well as he was able while he ate, + A fair division of the fealty due + To food and beauty, albeit more times than one + Was he at odds with his urbanity + In honoring too long the grosser viand. + "The best invention in Broceliande + Has not been over-taxed in vain, I see," + She told him, with her chin propped on her fingers + And her eyes flashing blindness into his: + "I put myself out cruelly to please you, + And you, for that, forget almost at once + The name and image of me altogether. + You needn't, for when all is analyzed, + It's only a bird-pie that you are eating." + + "I know not what you call it," Merlin said; + "Nor more do I forget your name and image, + Though I do eat; and if I did not eat, + Your sending out of ships and caravans + To get whatever 'tis that's in this thing + Would be a sorrow for you all your days; + And my great love, which you have seen by now, + Might look to you a lie; and like as not + You'd actuate some sinewed mercenary + To carry me away to God knows where + And seal me in a fearsome hole to starve, + Because I made of this insidious picking + An idle circumstance. My dear fair lady-- + And there is not another under heaven + So fair as you are as I see you now-- + I cannot look at you too much and eat; + And I must eat, or be untimely ashes, + Whereon the light of your celestial gaze + Would fall, I fear me, for no longer time + Than on the solemn dust of Jeremiah-- + Whose beard you likened once, in heathen jest, + To mine that now is no man's." + + "Are you sorry?" + Said Vivian, filling Merlin's empty goblet; + "If you are sorry for the loss of it, + Drink more of this and you may tell me lies + Enough to make me sure that you are glad; + But if your love is what you say it is, + Be never sorry that my love took off + That horrid hair to make your face at last + A human fact. Since I have had your name + To dream of and say over to myself, + The visitations of that awful beard + Have been a terror for my nights and days-- + For twenty years. I've seen it like an ocean, + Blown seven ways at once and wrecking ships, + With men and women screaming for their lives; + I've seen it woven into shining ladders + That ran up out of sight and so to heaven, + All covered with white ghosts with hanging robes + Like folded wings,--and there were millions of them, + Climbing, climbing, climbing, all the time; + And all the time that I was watching them + I thought how far above me Merlin was, + And wondered always what his face was like. + But even then, as a child, I knew the day + Would come some time when I should see his face, + And hear his voice, and have him in my house + Till he should care no more to stay in it, + And go away to found another kingdom."-- + "Not that," he said; and, sighing, drank more wine; + "One kingdom for one Merlin is enough."-- + "One Merlin for one Vivian is enough," + She said. "If you care much, remember that; + But the Lord knows how many Vivians + One Merlin's entertaining eye might favor, + Indifferently well and all at once, + If they were all at hand. Praise heaven they're not." + + "If they were in the world--praise heaven they're not-- + And if one Merlin's entertaining eye + Saw two of them, there might be left him then + The sight of no eye to see anything-- + Not even the Vivian who is everything, + She being Beauty, Beauty being She, + She being Vivian, and so forever."-- + "I'm glad you don't see two of me," she said; + "For there's a whole world yet for you to eat + And drink and say to me before I know + The kind of creature that you see in me. + I'm withering for a little more attention, + But, being woman, I can wait. These cups + That you see coming are for the last there is + Of what my father gave to kings alone, + And far from always. You are more than kings + To me; therefore I give it all to you, + Imploring you to spare no more of it + Than what a cockle-shell would hold for me + To pledge your love and mine in. Take the rest, + That I may see tonight the end of it; + I'll have no living remnant of the dead + Annoying me until it fades and sours + Of too long cherishing; for Time enjoys + The look that's on our faces when we scowl + On unexpected ruins, and thrift itself + May be a kind of slow unwholesome fire + That eats away to dust the life that feeds it. + You smile, I see, but I said what I said. + One hardly has to live a thousand years + To contemplate a lost economy; + So let us drink it while it's yet alive + And you and I are not untimely ashes. + My last words are your own, and I don't like 'em."-- + A sudden laughter scattered from her eyes + A threatening wisdom. He smiled and let her laugh, + Then looked into the dark where there was nothing: + "There's more in this than I have seen," he thought, + "Though I shall see it."--"Drink," she said again; + "There's only this much in the world of it, + And I am near to giving all to you + Because you are so great and I so little." + + With a long-kindling gaze that caught from hers + A laughing flame, and with a hand that shook + Like Arthur's kingdom, Merlin slowly raised + A golden cup that for a golden moment + Was twinned in air with hers; and Vivian, + Who smiled at him across their gleaming rims, + From eyes that made a fuel of the night + Surrounding her, shot glory over gold + At Merlin, while their cups touched and his trembled. + He drank, not knowing what, nor caring much + For kings who might have cared less for themselves, + He thought, had all the darkness and wild light + That fell together to make Vivian + Been there before them then to flower anew + Through sheathing crimson into candle-light + With each new leer of their loose, liquorish eyes. + Again he drank, and he cursed every king + Who might have touched her even in her cradle; + For what were kings to such as he, who made them + And saw them totter--for the world to see, + And heed, if the world would? He drank again, + And yet again--to make himself assured + No manner of king should have the last of it-- + The cup that Vivian filled unfailingly + Until she poured for nothing. "At the end + Of this incomparable flowing gold," + She prattled on to Merlin, who observed + Her solemnly, "I fear there may be specks."-- + He sighed aloud, whereat she laughed at him + And pushed the golden cup a little nearer. + He scanned it with a sad anxiety, + And then her face likewise, and shook his head + As if at her concern for such a matter: + "Specks? What are specks? Are you afraid of them?" + He murmured slowly, with a drowsy tongue; + "There are specks everywhere. I fear them not. + If I were king in Camelot, I might + Fear more than specks. But now I fear them not. + You are too strange a lady to fear specks." + + He stared a long time at the cup of gold + Before him but he drank no more. There came + Between him and the world a crumbling sky + Of black and crimson, with a crimson cloud + That held a far off town of many towers, + All swayed and shaken, till at last they fell, + And there was nothing but a crimson cloud + That crumbled into nothing, like the sky + That vanished with it, carrying away + The world, the woman, and all memory of them, + Until a slow light of another sky + Made gray an open casement, showing him + Faint shapes of an exotic furniture + That glimmered with a dim magnificence, + And letting in the sound of many birds + That were, as he lay there remembering, + The only occupation of his ears + Until it seemed they shared a fainter sound, + As if a sleeping child with a black head + Beside him drew the breath of innocence. + + One shining afternoon around the fountain, + As on the shining day of his arrival, + The sunlight was alive with flying silver + That had for Merlin a more dazzling flash + Than jewels rained in dreams, and a richer sound + Than harps, and all the morning stars together,-- + When jewels and harps and stars and everything + That flashed and sang and was not Vivian, + Seemed less than echoes of her least of words-- + For she was coming. Suddenly, somewhere + Behind him, she was coming; that was all + He knew until she came and took his hand + And held it while she talked about the fishes. + When she looked up he thought a softer light + Was in her eyes than once he had found there; + And had there been left yet for dusky women + A beauty that was heretofore not hers, + He told himself he must have seen it then + Before him in the face at which he smiled + And trembled. "Many men have called me wise," + He said, "but you are wiser than all wisdom + If you know what you are."--"I don't," she said; + "I know that you and I are here together; + I know that I have known for twenty years + That life would be almost a constant yawning + Until you came; and now that you are here, + I know that you are not to go away + Until you tell me that I'm hideous; + I know that I like fishes, ferns, and snakes,-- + Maybe because I liked them when the world + Was young and you and I were salamanders; + I know, too, a cool place not far from here, + Where there are ferns that are like marching men + Who never march away. Come now and see them, + And do as they do--never march away. + When they are gone, some others, crisp and green, + Will have their place, but never march away."-- + He smoothed her silky fingers, one by one: + "Some other Merlin, also, do you think, + Will have his place--and never march away?"-- + Then Vivian laid a finger on his lips + And shook her head at him before she laughed: + "There is no other Merlin than yourself, + And you are never going to be old." + Oblivious of a world that made of him + A jest, a legend, and a long regret, + And with a more commanding wizardry + Than his to rule a kingdom where the king + Was Love and the queen Vivian, Merlin found + His queen without the blemish of a word + That was more rough than honey from her lips, + Or the first adumbration of a frown + To cloud the night-wild fire that in her eyes + Had yet a smoky friendliness of home, + And a foreknowing care for mighty trifles. + "There are miles and miles for you to wander in," + She told him once: "Your prison yard is large, + And I would rather take my two ears off + And feed them to the fishes in the fountain + Than buzz like an incorrigible bee + For always around yours, and have you hate + The sound of me; for some day then, for certain, + Your philosophic rage would see in me + A bee in earnest, and your hand would smite + My life away. And what would you do then? + I know: for years and years you'd sit alone + Upon my grave, and be the grieving image + Of lean remorse, and suffer miserably; + And often, all day long, you'd only shake + Your celebrated head and all it holds, + Or beat it with your fist the while you groaned + Aloud and went on saying to yourself: + 'Never should I have killed her, or believed + She was a bee that buzzed herself to death, + First having made me crazy, had there been + Judicious distance and wise absences + To keep the two of us inquisitive.'"-- + "I fear you bow your unoffending head + Before a load that should be mine," said he; + "If so, you led me on by listening. + You should have shrieked and jumped, and then fled yelling; + That's the best way when a man talks too long. + God's pity on me if I love your feet + More now than I could ever love the face + Of any one of all those Vivians + You summoned out of nothing on the night + When I saw towers. I'll wander and amend."-- + At that she flung the noose of her soft arms + Around his neck and kissed him instantly: + "You are the wisest man that ever was, + And I've a prayer to make: May all you say + To Vivian be a part of what you knew + Before the curse of her unquiet head + Was on your shoulder, as you have it now, + To punish you for knowing beyond knowledge. + You are the only one who sees enough + To make me see how far away I am + From all that I have seen and have not been; + You are the only thing there is alive + Between me as I am and as I was + When Merlin was a dream. You are to listen + When I say now to you that I'm alone. + Like you, I saw too much; and unlike you + I made no kingdom out of what I saw-- + Or none save this one here that you must rule, + Believing you are ruled. I see too far + To rule myself. Time's way with you and me + Is our way, in that we are out of Time + And out of tune with Time. We have this place, + And you must hold us in it or we die. + Look at me now and say if what I say + Be folly or not; for my unquiet head + Is no conceit of mine. I had it first + When I was born; and I shall have it with me + Till my unquiet soul is on its way + To be, I hope, where souls are quieter. + So let the first and last activity + Of what you say so often is your love + Be always to remember that our lyres + Are not strung for Today. On you it falls + To keep them in accord here with each other, + For you have wisdom, I have only sight + For distant things--and you. And you are Merlin. + Poor wizard! Vivian is your punishment + For making kings of men who are not kings; + And you are mine, by the same reasoning, + For living out of Time and out of tune + With anything but you. No other man + Could make me say so much of what I know + As I say now to you. And you are Merlin!" + + She looked up at him till his way was lost + Again in the familiar wilderness + Of night that love made for him in her eyes, + And there he wandered as he said he would; + He wandered also in his prison-yard, + And, when he found her coming after him, + Beguiled her with her own admonishing + And frowned upon her with a fierce reproof + That many a time in the old world outside + Had set the mark of silence on strong men-- + Whereat she laughed, not always wholly sure, + Nor always wholly glad, that he who played + So lightly was the wizard of her dreams: + "No matter--if only Merlin keep the world + Away," she thought. "Our lyres have many strings, + But he must know them all, for he is Merlin."-- + And so for years, till ten of them were gone,-- + Ten years, ten seasons, or ten flying ages-- + Fate made Broceliande a paradise, + By none invaded, until Dagonet, + Like a discordant, awkward bird of doom, + Flew in with Arthur's message. For the King, + In sorrow cleaving to simplicity, + And having in his love a quick remembrance + Of Merlin's old affection for the fellow, + Had for this vain, reluctant enterprise + Appointed him--the knight who made men laugh, + And was a fool because he played the fool. + + "The King believes today, as in his boyhood, + That I am Fate; and I can do no more + Than show again what in his heart he knows," + Said Merlin to himself and Vivian: + "This time I go because I made him King, + Thereby to be a mirror for the world; + This time I go, but never after this, + For I can be no more than what I was, + And I can do no more than I have done." + He took her slowly in his arms and felt + Her body throbbing like a bird against him: + "This time I go; I go because I must." + + And in the morning, when he rode away + With Dagonet and Blaise through the same gate + That once had clanged as if to shut for ever, + She had not even asked him not to go; + For it was then that in his lonely gaze + Of helpless love and sad authority + She found the gleam of his imprisoned power + That Fate withheld; and, pitying herself, + She pitied the fond Merlin she had changed, + And saw the Merlin who had changed the world. + + +VI + + "No kings are coming on their hands and knees, + Nor yet on horses or in chariots, + To carry me away from you again," + Said Merlin, winding around Vivian's ear + A shred of her black hair. "King Arthur knows + That I have done with kings, and that I speak + No more their crafty language. Once I knew it, + But now the only language I have left + Is one that I must never let you hear + Too long, or know too well. When towering deeds + Once done shall only out of dust and words + Be done again, the doer may then be wary + Lest in the complement of his new fabric + There be more words than dust." + + "Why tell me so?" + Said Vivian; and a singular thin laugh + Came after her thin question. "Do you think + That I'm so far away from history + That I require, even of the wisest man + Who ever said the wrong thing to a woman, + So large a light on what I know already-- + When all I seek is here before me now + In your new eyes that you have brought for me + From Camelot? The eyes you took away + Were sad and old; and I could see in them + A Merlin who remembered all the kings + He ever saw, and wished himself, almost, + Away from Vivian, to make other kings, + And shake the world again in the old manner. + I saw myself no bigger than a beetle + For several days, and wondered if your love + Were large enough to make me any larger + When you came back. Am I a beetle still?" + She stood up on her toes and held her cheek + For some time against his, and let him go. + + "I fear the time has come for me to wander + A little in my prison-yard," he said.-- + "No, tell me everything that you have seen + And heard and done, and seen done, and heard done, + Since you deserted me. And tell me first + What the King thinks of me."--"The King believes + That you are almost what you are," he told her: + "The beauty of all ages that are vanished, + Reborn to be the wonder of one woman."-- + "I knew he hated me. What else of him?"-- + "And all that I have seen and heard and done, + Which is not much, would make a weary telling; + And all your part of it would be to sleep, + And dream that Merlin had his beard again."-- + "Then tell me more about your good fool knight, + Sir Dagonet. If Blaise were not half-mad + Already with his pondering on the name + And shield of his unshielding nameless father, + I'd make a fool of him. I'd call him Ajax; + I'd have him shake his fist at thunder-storms, + And dance a jig as long as there was lightning, + And so till I forgot myself entirely. + Not even your love may do so much as that."-- + "Thunder and lightning are no friends of mine," + Said Merlin slowly, "more than they are yours; + They bring me nearer to the elements + From which I came than I care now to be."-- + "You owe a service to those elements; + For by their service you outwitted age + And made the world a kingdom of your will."-- + He touched her hand, smiling: "Whatever service + Of mine awaits them will not be forgotten," + He said; and the smile faded on his face,-- + "Now of all graceless and ungrateful wizards--" + But there she ceased, for she found in his eyes + The first of a new fear. "The wrong word rules + Today," she said; "and we'll have no more journeys." + + Although he wandered rather more than ever + Since he had come again to Brittany + From Camelot, Merlin found eternally + Before him a new loneliness that made + Of garden, park, and woodland, all alike, + A desolation and a changelessness + Defying reason, without Vivian + Beside him, like a child with a black head, + Or moving on before him, or somewhere + So near him that, although he saw it not + With eyes, he felt the picture of her beauty + And shivered at the nearness of her being. + Without her now there was no past or future, + And a vague, soul-consuming premonition + He found the only tenant of the present; + He wondered, when she was away from him, + If his avenging injured intellect + Might shine with Arthur's kingdom a twin mirror, + Fate's plaything, for new ages without eyes + To see therein themselves and their declension. + Love made his hours a martyrdom without her; + The world was like an empty house without her, + Where Merlin was a prisoner of love + Confined within himself by too much freedom, + Repeating an unending exploration + Of many solitary silent rooms, + And only in a way remembering now + That once their very solitude and silence + Had by the magic of expectancy + Made sure what now he doubted--though his doubts, + Day after day, were founded on a shadow. + + For now to Merlin, in his paradise, + Had come an unseen angel with a sword + Unseen, the touch of which was a long fear + For longer sorrow that had never come, + Yet might if he compelled it. He discovered, + One golden day in autumn as he wandered, + That he had made the radiance of two years + A misty twilight when he might as well + Have had no mist between him and the sun, + The sun being Vivian. On his coming then + To find her all in green against a wall + Of green and yellow leaves, and crumbling bread + For birds around the fountain while she sang + And the birds ate the bread, he told himself + That everything today was as it was + At first, and for a minute he believed it. + "I'd have you always all in green out here," + He said, "if I had much to say about it."-- + She clapped her crumbs away and laughed at him: + "I've covered up my bones with every color + That I can carry on them without screaming, + And you have liked them all--or made me think so."-- + "I must have liked them if you thought I did," + He answered, sighing; "but the sight of you + Today as on the day I saw you first, + All green, all wonderful" ... He tore a leaf + To pieces with a melancholy care + That made her smile.--"Why pause at 'wonderful'? + You've hardly been yourself since you came back + From Camelot, where that unpleasant King + Said things that you have never said to me."-- + He looked upon her with a worn reproach: + "The King said nothing that I keep from you."-- + "What is it then?" she asked, imploringly; + "You man of moods and miracles, what is it?"-- + He shook his head and tore another leaf: + "There is no need of asking what it is; + Whatever you or I may choose to name it, + The name of it is Fate, who played with me + And gave me eyes to read of the unwritten + More lines than I have read. I see no more + Today than yesterday, but I remember. + My ways are not the ways of other men; + My memories go forward. It was you + Who said that we were not in tune with Time; + It was not I who said it."--"But you knew it; + What matter then who said it?"--"It was you + Who said that Merlin was your punishment + For being in tune with him and not with Time-- + With Time or with the world; and it was you + Who said you were alone, even here with Merlin; + It was not I who said it. It is I + Who tell you now my inmost thoughts." He laughed + As if at hidden pain around his heart, + But there was not much laughing in his eyes. + They walked, and for a season they were silent: + "I shall know what you mean by that," she said, + "When you have told me. Here's an oak you like, + And here's a place that fits me wondrous well + To sit in. You sit there. I've seen you there + Before; and I have spoiled your noble thoughts + By walking all my fingers up and down + Your countenance, as if they were the feet + Of a small animal with no great claws. + Tell me a story now about the world, + And the men in it, what they do in it, + And why it is they do it all so badly."-- + "I've told you every story that I know, + Almost," he said.--"O, don't begin like that."-- + "Well, once upon a time there was a King."-- + "That has a more commendable address; + Go on, and tell me all about the King; + I'll bet the King had warts or carbuncles, + Or something wrong in his divine insides, + To make him wish that Adam had died young." + + Merlin observed her slowly with a frown + Of saddened wonder. She laughed rather lightly, + And at his heart he felt again the sword + Whose touch was a long fear for longer sorrow. + "Well, once upon a time there was a king," + He said again, but now in a dry voice + That wavered and betrayed a venturing. + He paused, and would have hesitated longer, + But something in him that was not himself + Compelled an utterance that his tongue obeyed, + As an unwilling child obeys a father + Who might be richer for obedience + If he obeyed the child: "There was a king + Who would have made his reign a monument + For kings and peoples of the waiting ages + To reverence and remember, and to this end + He coveted and won, with no ado + To make a story of, a neighbor queen + Who limed him with her smile and had of him, + In token of their sin, what he found soon + To be a sort of mongrel son and nephew-- + And a most precious reptile in addition-- + To ornament his court and carry arms, + And latterly to be the darker half + Of ruin. Also the king, who made of love + More than he made of life and death together, + Forgot the world and his example in it + For yet another woman--one of many-- + And this one he made Queen, albeit he knew + That her unsworn allegiance to the knight + That he had loved the best of all his order + Must one day bring along the coming end + Of love and honor and of everything; + And with a kingdom builded on two pits + Of living sin,--so founded by the will + Of one wise counsellor who loved the king, + And loved the world and therefore made him king + To be a mirror for it,--the king reigned well + For certain years, awaiting a sure doom; + For certain years he waved across the world + A royal banner with a Dragon on it; + And men of every land fell worshipping + The Dragon as it were the living God, + And not the living sin." + + She rose at that, + And after a calm yawn, she looked at Merlin: + "Why all this new insistence upon sin?" + She said; "I wonder if I understand + This king of yours, with all his pits and dragons; + I know I do not like him." A thinner light + Was in her eyes than he had found in them + Since he became the willing prisoner + That she had made of him; and on her mouth + Lay now a colder line of irony + Than all his fears or nightmares could have drawn + Before today: "What reason do you know + For me to listen to this king of yours? + What reading has a man of woman's days, + Even though the man be Merlin and a prophet?" + + "I know no call for you to love the king," + Said Merlin, driven ruinously along + By the vindictive urging of his fate; + "I know no call for you to love the king, + Although you serve him, knowing not yet the king + You serve. There is no man, or any woman, + For whom the story of the living king + Is not the story of the living sin. + I thought my story was the common one, + For common recognition and regard." + + "Then let us have no more of it," she said; + "For we are not so common, I believe, + That we need kings and pits and flags and dragons + To make us know that we have let the world + Go by us. Have you missed the world so much + That you must have it in with all its clots + And wounds and bristles on to make us happy-- + Like Blaise, with shouts and horns and seven men + Triumphant with a most unlovely boar? + Is there no other story in the world + Than this one of a man that you made king + To be a moral for the speckled ages? + You said once long ago, if you remember, + 'You are too strange a lady to fear specks'; + And it was you, you said, who feared them not. + Why do you look at me as at a snake + All coiled to spring at you and strike you dead? + I am not going to spring at you, or bite you; + I'm going home. And you, if you are kind, + Will have no fear to wander for an hour. + I'm sure the time has come for you to wander; + And there may come a time for you to say + What most you think it is that we need here + To make of this Broceliande a refuge + Where two disheartened sinners may forget + A world that has today no place for them." + A melancholy wave of revelation + Broke over Merlin like a rising sea, + Long viewed unwillingly and long denied. + He saw what he had seen, but would not feel, + Till now the bitterness of what he felt + Was in his throat, and all the coldness of it + Was on him and around him like a flood + Of lonelier memories than he had said + Were memories, although he knew them now + For what they were--for what his eyes had seen, + For what his ears had heard and what his heart + Had felt, with him not knowing what it felt. + But now he knew that his cold angel's name + Was Change, and that a mightier will than his + Or Vivian's had ordained that he be there. + To Vivian he could not say anything + But words that had no more of hope in them + Than anguish had of peace: "I meant the world ... + I meant the world," he groaned; "not you--not me." + + Again the frozen line of irony + Was on her mouth. He looked up once at it. + And then away--too fearful of her eyes + To see what he could hear now in her laugh + That melted slowly into what she said, + Like snow in icy water: "This world of yours + Will surely be the end of us. And why not? + I'm overmuch afraid we're part of it,-- + Or why do we build walls up all around us, + With gates of iron that make us think the day + Of judgment's coming when they clang behind us? + And yet you tell me that you fear no specks! + With you I never cared for them enough + To think of them. I was too strange a lady. + And your return is now a speckled king + And something that you call a living sin-- + That's like an uninvited poor relation + Who comes without a welcome, rather late, + And on a foundered horse." + + "Specks? What are specks?" + He gazed at her in a forlorn wonderment + That made her say: "You said, 'I fear them not.' + 'If I were king in Camelot,' you said, + 'I might fear more than specks.' Have you forgotten? + Don't tell me, Merlin, you are growing old. + Why don't you make somehow a queen of me, + And give me half the world? I'd wager thrushes + That I should reign, with you to turn the wheel, + As well as any king that ever was. + The curse on me is that I cannot serve + A ruler who forgets that he is king." + + In his bewildered misery Merlin then + Stared hard at Vivian's face, more like a slave + Who sought for common mercy than like Merlin: + "You speak a language that was never mine, + Or I have lost my wits. Why do you seize + The flimsiest of opportunities + To make of what I said another thing + Than love or reason could have let me say, + Or let me fancy? Why do you keep the truth + So far away from me, when all your gates + Will open at your word and let me go + To some place where no fear or weariness + Of yours need ever dwell? Why does a woman, + Made otherwise a miracle of love + And loveliness, and of immortal beauty, + Tear one word by the roots out of a thousand, + And worry it, and torture it, and shake it, + Like a small dog that has a rag to play with? + What coil of an ingenious destiny + Is this that makes of what I never meant + A meaning as remote as hell from heaven?" + + "I don't know," Vivian said reluctantly, + And half as if in pain; "I'm going home. + I'm going home and leave you here to wander. + Pray take your kings and sins away somewhere + And bury them, and bury the Queen in also. + I know this king; he lives in Camelot, + And I shall never like him. There are specks + Almost all over him. Long live the king, + But not the king who lives in Camelot, + With Modred, Lancelot, and Guinevere-- + And all four speckled like a merry nest + Of addled eggs together. You made him King + Because you loved the world and saw in him + From infancy a mirror for the millions. + The world will see itself in him, and then + The world will say its prayers and wash its face, + And build for some new king a new foundation. + Long live the King!... But now I apprehend + A time for me to shudder and grow old + And garrulous--and so become a fright + For Blaise to take out walking in warm weather-- + Should I give way to long considering + Of worlds you may have lost while prisoned here + With me and my light mind. I contemplate + Another name for this forbidden place, + And one more fitting. Tell me, if you find it, + Some fitter name than Eden. We have had + A man and woman in it for some time, + And now, it seems, we have a Tree of Knowledge." + She looked up at the branches overhead + And shrugged her shoulders. Then she went away; + And what was left of Merlin's happiness, + Like a disloyal phantom, followed her. + + He felt the sword of his cold angel thrust + And twisted in his heart, as if the end + Were coming next, but the cold angel passed + Invisibly and left him desolate, + With misty brow and eyes. "The man who sees + May see too far, and he may see too late + The path he takes unseen," he told himself + When he found thought again. "The man who sees + May go on seeing till the immortal flame + That lights and lures him folds him in its heart, + And leaves of what there was of him to die + An item of inhospitable dust + That love and hate alike must hide away; + Or there may still be charted for his feet + A dimmer faring, where the touch of time + Were like the passing of a twilight moth + From flower to flower into oblivion, + If there were not somewhere a barren end + Of moths and flowers, and glimmering far away + Beyond a desert where the flowerless days + Are told in slow defeats and agonies, + The guiding of a nameless light that once + Had made him see too much--and has by now + Revealed in death, to the undying child + Of Lancelot, the Grail. For this pure light + Has many rays to throw, for many men + To follow; and the wise are not all pure, + Nor are the pure all wise who follow it. + There are more rays than men. But let the man + Who saw too much, and was to drive himself + From paradise, play too lightly or too long + Among the moths and flowers, he finds at last + There is a dim way out; and he shall grope + Where pleasant shadows lead him to the plain + That has no shadow save his own behind him. + And there, with no complaint, nor much regret, + Shall he plod on, with death between him now + And the far light that guides him, till he falls + And has an empty thought of empty rest; + Then Fate will put a mattock in his hands + And lash him while he digs himself the grave + That is to be the pallet and the shroud + Of his poor blundering bones. The man who saw + Too much must have an eye to see at last + Where Fate has marked the clay; and he shall delve, + Although his hand may slacken, and his knees + May rock without a method as he toils; + For there's a delving that is to be done-- + If not for God, for man. I see the light, + But I shall fall before I come to it; + For I am old. I was young yesterday. + Time's hand that I have held away so long + Grips hard now on my shoulder. Time has won. + Tomorrow I shall say to Vivian + That I am old and gaunt and garrulous, + And tell her one more story: I am old." + + There were long hours for Merlin after that, + And much long wandering in his prison-yard, + Where now the progress of each heavy step + Confirmed a stillness of impending change + And imminent farewell. To Vivian's ear + There came for many days no other story + Than Merlin's iteration of his love + And his departure from Broceliande, + Where Merlin still remained. In Vivian's eye, + There was a quiet kindness, and at times + A smoky flash of incredulity + That faded into pain. Was this the Merlin-- + This incarnation of idolatry + And all but supplicating deference-- + This bowed and reverential contradiction + Of all her dreams and her realities-- + Was this the Merlin who for years and years + Before she found him had so made her love him + That kings and princes, thrones and diadems, + And honorable men who drowned themselves + For love, were less to her than melon-shells? + Was this the Merlin whom her fate had sent + One spring day to come ringing at her gate, + Bewildering her love with happy terror + That later was to be all happiness? + Was this the Merlin who had made the world + Half over, and then left it with a laugh + To be the youngest, oldest, weirdest, gayest, + And wisest, and sometimes the foolishest + Of all the men of her consideration? + Was this the man who had made other men + As ordinary as arithmetic? + Was this man Merlin who came now so slowly + Towards the fountain where she stood again + In shimmering green? Trembling, he took her hands + And pressed them fondly, one upon the other, + Between his: + + "I was wrong that other day, + For I have one more story. I am old." + He waited like one hungry for the word + Not said; and she found in his eyes a light + As patient as a candle in a window + That looks upon the sea and is a mark + For ships that have gone down. "Tomorrow," he said; + "Tomorrow I shall go away again + To Camelot; and I shall see the King + Once more; and I may come to you again + Once more; and I shall go away again + For ever. There is now no more than that + For me to do; and I shall do no more. + I saw too much when I saw Camelot; + And I saw farther backward into Time, + And forward, than a man may see and live, + When I made Arthur king. I saw too far, + But not so far as this. Fate played with me + As I have played with Time; and Time, like me, + Being less than Fate, will have on me his vengeance. + On Fate there is no vengeance, even for God." + He drew her slowly into his embrace + And held her there, but when he kissed her lips + They were as cold as leaves and had no answer; + For Time had given him then, to prove his words, + A frozen moment of a woman's life. + + When Merlin the next morning came again + In the same pilgrim robe that he had worn + While he sat waiting where the cherry-blossoms + Outside the gate fell on him and around him, + Grief came to Vivian at the sight of him; + And like a flash of a swift ugly knife, + A blinding fear came with it. "Are you going?" + She said, more with her lips than with her voice; + And he said, "I am going. Blaise and I + Are going down together to the shore, + And Blaise is coming back. For this one day + Be good enough to spare him, for I like him. + I tell you now, as once I told the King, + That I can be no more than what I was, + And I can say no more than I have said. + Sometimes you told me that I spoke too long, + And sent me off to wander. That was good. + I go now for another wandering, + And I pray God that all be well with you." + + For long there was a whining in her ears + Of distant wheels departing. When it ceased, + She closed the gate again so quietly + That Merlin could have heard no sound of it. + + +VII + + By Merlin's Rock, where Dagonet the fool + Was given through many a dying afternoon + To sit and meditate on human ways + And ways divine, Gawaine and Bedivere + Stood silent, gazing down on Camelot. + The two had risen and were going home: + "It hits me sore, Gawaine," said Bedivere, + "To think on all the tumult and affliction + Down there, and all the noise and preparation + That hums of coming death, and, if my fears + Be born of reason, of what's more than death. + Wherefore, I say to you again, Gawaine,-- + To you--that this late hour is not too late + For you to change yourself and change the King; + For though the King may love me with a love + More tried, and older, and more sure, may be, + Than for another, for such a time as this + The friend who turns him to the world again + Shall have a tongue more gracious and an eye + More shrewd than mine. For such a time as this + The King must have a glamour to persuade him." + + "The King shall have a glamour, and anon," + Gawaine said, and he shot death from his eyes; + "If you were King, as Arthur is--or was-- + And Lancelot had carried off your Queen, + And killed a score or so of your best knights-- + Not mentioning my two brothers, whom he slew + Unarmored and unarmed--God save your wits! + Two stewards with skewers could have done as much, + And you and I might now be rotting for it." + + "But Lancelot's men were crowded,--they were crushed; + And there was nothing for them but to strike + Or die, not seeing where they struck. Think you + They would have slain Gareth and Gaheris, + And Tor, and all those other friends of theirs? + God's mercy for the world he made, I say, + And for the blood that writes the story of it. + Gareth and Gaheris, Tor and Lamorak,-- + All dead, with all the others that are dead! + These years have made me turn to Lamorak + For counsel--and now Lamorak is dead." + "Why do you fling those two names in my face? + 'Twas Modred made an end of Lamorak, + Not I; and Lancelot now has done for Tor. + I'll urge no king on after Lancelot + For such a two as Tor and Lamorak: + Their father killed my father, and their friend + Was Lancelot, not I. I'll own my fault-- + I'm living; and while I've a tongue can talk, + I'll say this to the King: 'Burn Lancelot + By inches till he give you back the Queen; + Then hang him--drown him--or do anything + To rid the world of him.' He killed my brothers, + And he was once my friend. Now damn the soul + Of him who killed my brothers! There you have me." + + "You are a strong man, Gawaine, and your strength + Goes ill where foes are. You may cleave their limbs + And heads off, but you cannot damn their souls; + What you may do now is to save their souls, + And bodies too, and like enough your own. + Remember that King Arthur is a king, + And where there is a king there is a kingdom + Is not the kingdom any more to you + Than one brief enemy? Would you see it fall, + And the King with it, for one mortal hate + That burns out reason? Gawaine, you are king + Today. Another day may see no king + But Havoc, if you have no other word + For Arthur now than hate for Lancelot. + Is not the world as large as Lancelot? + Is Lancelot, because one woman's eyes + Are brighter when they look on him, to sluice + The world with angry blood? Poor flesh! Poor flesh! + And you, Gawaine,--are you so gaffed with hate + You cannot leave it and so plunge away + To stiller places and there see, for once, + What hangs on this pernicious expedition + The King in his insane forgetfulness + Would undertake--with you to drum him on? + Are you as mad as he and Lancelot + Made ravening into one man twice as mad + As either? Is the kingdom of the world, + Now rocking, to go down in sound and blood + And ashes and sick ruin, and for the sake + Of three men and a woman? If it be so, + God's mercy for the world he made, I say,-- + And say again to Dagonet. Sir Fool, + Your throne is empty, and you may as well + Sit on it and be ruler of the world + From now till supper-time." + + Sir Dagonet, + Appearing, made reply to Bedivere's + Dry welcome with a famished look of pain, + On which he built a smile: "If I were King, + You, Bedivere, should be my counsellor; + And we should have no more wars over women. + I'll sit me down and meditate on that." + Gawaine, for all his anger, laughed a little, + And clapped the fool's lean shoulder; for he loved him + And was with Arthur when he made him knight. + Then Dagonet said on to Bedivere, + As if his tongue would make a jest of sorrow: + "Sometime I'll tell you what I might have done + Had I been Lancelot and you King Arthur-- + Each having in himself the vicious essence + That now lives in the other and makes war. + When all men are like you and me, my lord, + When all are rational or rickety, + There may be no more war. But what's here now? + Lancelot loves the Queen, and he makes war + Of love; the King, being bitten to the soul + By love and hate that work in him together, + Makes war of madness; Gawaine hates Lancelot, + And he, to be in tune, makes war of hate; + Modred hates everything, yet he can see + With one damned illegitimate small eye + His father's crown, and with another like it + He sees the beauty of the Queen herself; + He needs the two for his ambitious pleasure, + And therefore he makes war of his ambition; + And somewhere in the middle of all this + There's a squeezed world that elbows for attention. + Poor Merlin, buried in Broceliande! + He must have had an academic eye + For woman when he founded Arthur's kingdom, + And in Broceliande he may be sorry. + Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols. God be with him! + I'm glad they tell me there's another world, + For this one's a disease without a doctor." + + "No, not so bad as that," said Bedivere; + "The doctor, like ourselves, may now be learning; + And Merlin may have gauged his enterprise + Whatever the cost he may have paid for knowing. + We pass, but many are to follow us, + And what they build may stay; though I believe + Another age will have another Merlin, + Another Camelot, and another King. + Sir Dagonet, farewell." + + "Farewell, Sir Knight, + And you, Sir Knight: Gawaine, you have the world + Now in your fingers--an uncommon toy, + Albeit a small persuasion in the balance + With one man's hate. I'm glad you're not a fool, + For then you might be rickety, as I am, + And rational as Bedivere. Farewell. + I'll sit here and be king. God save the King!" + + But Gawaine scowled and frowned and answered nothing + As he went slowly down with Bedivere + To Camelot, where Arthur's army waited + The King's word for the melancholy march + To Joyous Gard, where Lancelot hid the Queen + And armed his host, and there was now no joy, + As there was now no joy for Dagonet + While he sat brooding, with his wan cheek-bones + Hooked with his bony fingers: "Go, Gawaine," + He mumbled: "Go your way, and drag the world + Along down with you. What's a world or so + To you if you can hide an ell of iron + Somewhere in Lancelot, and hear him wheeze + And sputter once or twice before he goes + Wherever the Queen sends him? There's a man + Who should have been a king, and would have been, + Had he been born so. So should I have been + A king, had I been born so, fool or no: + King Dagonet, or Dagonet the King; + King-Fool, Fool-King; 'twere not impossible. + I'll meditate on that and pray for Arthur, + Who made me all I am, except a fool. + Now he goes mad for love, as I might go + Had I been born a king and not a fool. + Today I think I'd rather be a fool; + Today the world is less than one scared woman-- + Wherefore a field of waving men may soon + Be shorn by Time's indifferent scythe, because + The King is mad. The seeds of history + Are small, but given a few gouts of warm blood + For quickening, they sprout out wondrously + And have a leaping growth whereof no man + May shun such harvesting of change or death, + Or life, as may fall on him to be borne. + When I am still alive and rickety, + And Bedivere's alive and rational-- + If he come out of this, and there's a doubt,-- + The King, Gawaine, Modred, and Lancelot + May all be lying underneath a weight + Of bloody sheaves too heavy for their shoulders, + All spent, and all dishonored, and all dead; + And if it come to be that this be so, + And it be true that Merlin saw the truth, + Such harvest were the best. Your fool sees not + So far as Merlin sees: yet if he saw + The truth--why then, such harvest were the best. + I'll pray for Arthur; I can do no more." + + "Why not for Merlin? Or do you count him, + In this extreme, so foreign to salvation + That prayer would be a stranger to his name?" + + Poor Dagonet, with terror shaking him, + Stood up and saw before him an old face + Made older with an inch of silver beard, + And faded eyes more eloquent of pain + And ruin than all the faded eyes of age + Till now had ever been, although in them + There was a mystic and intrinsic peace + Of one who sees where men of nearer sight + See nothing. On their way to Camelot, + Gawaine and Bedivere had passed him by, + With lax attention for the pilgrim cloak + They passed, and what it hid: yet Merlin saw + Their faces, and he saw the tale was true + That he had lately drawn from solemn strangers. + + "Well, Dagonet, and by your leave," he said, + "I'll rest my lonely relics for a while + On this rock that was mine and now is yours. + I favor the succession; for you know + Far more than many doctors, though your doubt + Is your peculiar poison. I foresaw + Long since, and I have latterly been told + What moves in this commotion down below + To show men what it means. It means the end-- + If men whose tongues had less to say to me + Than had their shoulders are adept enough + To know; and you may pray for me or not, + Sir Friend, Sir Dagonet." + + "Sir Fool, you mean," + Dagonet said, and gazed on Merlin sadly: + "I'll never pray again for anything, + And last of all for this that you behold-- + The smouldering faggot of unlovely bones + That God has given to me to call Myself. + When Merlin comes to Dagonet for prayer, + It is indeed the end." + + "And in the end + Are more beginnings, Dagonet, than men + Shall name or know today. It was the end + Of Arthur's insubstantial majesty + When to him and his knights the Grail foreshowed + The quest of life that was to be the death + Of many, and the slow discouraging + Of many more. Or do I err in this?" + + "No," Dagonet replied; "there was a Light; + And Galahad, in the Siege Perilous, + Alone of all on whom it fell, was calm; + There was a Light wherein men saw themselves + In one another as they might become-- + Or so they dreamed. There was a long to-do, + And Gawaine, of all forlorn ineligibles, + Rose up the first, and cried more lustily + Than any after him that he should find + The Grail, or die for it,--though he did neither; + For he came back as living and as fit + For new and old iniquity as ever. + Then Lancelot came back, and Bors came back,-- + Like men who had seen more than men should see, + And still come back. They told of Percival, + Who saw too much to make of this worn life + A long necessity, and of Galahad, + Who died and is alive. They all saw Something. + God knows the meaning or the end of it, + But they saw Something. And if I've an eye, + Small joy has the Queen been to Lancelot + Since he came back from seeing what he saw; + For though his passion hold him like hot claws, + He's neither in the world nor out of it. + Gawaine is king, though Arthur wears the crown; + And Gawaine's hate for Lancelot is the sword + That hangs by one of Merlin's fragile hairs + Above the world. Were you to see the King, + The frenzy that has overthrown his wisdom, + Instead of him and his upheaving empire, + Might have an end." + + "I came to see the King," + Said Merlin, like a man who labors hard + And long with an importunate confession. + "No, Dagonet, you cannot tell me why, + Although your tongue is eager with wild hope + To tell me more than I may tell myself + About myself. All this that was to be + Might show to man how vain it were to wreck + The world for self, if it were all in vain. + When I began with Arthur I could see + In each bewildered man who dots the earth + A moment with his days a groping thought + Of an eternal will, strangely endowed + With merciful illusions whereby self + Becomes the will itself and each man swells + In fond accordance with his agency. + Now Arthur, Modred, Lancelot, and Gawaine + Are swollen thoughts of this eternal will + Which have no other way to find the way + That leads them on to their inheritance + Than by the time-infuriating flame + Of a wrecked empire, lighted by the torch + Of woman, who, together with the light + That Galahad found, is yet to light the world." + + A wan smile crept across the weary face + Of Dagonet the fool: "If you knew that + Before your burial in Broceliande, + No wonder your eternal will accords + With all your dreams of what the world requires. + My master, I may say this unto you + Because I am a fool, and fear no man; + My fear is that I've been a groping thought + That never swelled enough. You say the torch + Of woman and the light that Galahad found + Are some day to illuminate the world? + I'll meditate on that. The world is done + For me; and I have been, to make men laugh, + A lean thing of no shape and many capers. + I made them laugh, and I could laugh anon + Myself to see them killing one another + Because a woman with corn-colored hair + Has pranked a man with horns. 'Twas but a flash + Of chance, and Lancelot, the other day + That saved this pleasing sinner from the fire + That she may spread for thousands. Were she now + The cinder the King willed, or were you now + To see the King, the fire might yet go out; + But the eternal will says otherwise. + So be it; I'll assemble certain gold + That I may say is mine and get myself + Away from this accurst unhappy court, + And in some quiet place where shepherd clowns + And cowherds may have more respondent ears + Than kings and kingdom-builders, I shall troll + Old men to easy graves and be a child + Again among the children of the earth. + I'll have no more of kings, even though I loved + King Arthur, who is mad, as I could love + No other man save Merlin, who is dead." + + "Not wholly dead, but old. Merlin is old." + The wizard shivered as he spoke, and stared + Away into the sunset where he saw + Once more, as through a cracked and cloudy glass, + A crumbling sky that held a crimson cloud + Wherein there was a town of many towers + All swayed and shaken, in a woman's hand + This time, till out of it there spilled and flashed + And tumbled, like loose jewels, town, towers, and walls, + And there was nothing but a crumbling sky + That made anon of black and red and ruin + A wild and final rain on Camelot. + He bowed, and pressed his eyes: "Now by my soul, + I have seen this before--all black and red-- + Like that--like that--like Vivian--black and red; + Like Vivian, when her eyes looked into mine + Across the cups of gold. A flute was playing-- + Then all was black and red." + + Another smile + Crept over the wan face of Dagonet, + Who shivered in his turn. "The torch of woman," + He muttered, "and the light that Galahad found, + Will some day save us all, as they saved Merlin. + Forgive my shivering wits, but I am cold, + And it will soon be dark. Will you go down + With me to see the King, or will you not? + If not, I go tomorrow to the shepherds. + The world is mad, and I'm a groping thought + Of your eternal will; the world and I + Are strangers, and I'll have no more of it-- + Except you go with me to see the King." + + "No, Dagonet, you cannot leave me now," + Said Merlin, sadly. "You and I are old; + And, as you say, we fear no man. God knows + I would not have the love that once you had + For me be fear of me, for I am past + All fearing now. But Fate may send a fly + Sometimes, and he may sting us to the grave, + So driven to test our faith in what we see. + Are you, now I am coming to an end, + As Arthur's days are coming to an end, + To sting me like a fly? I do not ask + Of you to say that you see what I see, + Where you see nothing; nor do I require + Of any man more vision than is his; + Yet I could wish for you a larger part + For your last entrance here than this you play + Tonight of a sad insect stinging Merlin. + The more you sting, the more he pities you; + And you were never overfond of pity. + Had you been so, I doubt if Arthur's love, + Or Gawaine's, would have made of you a knight. + No, Dagonet, you cannot leave me now, + Nor would you if you could. You call yourself + A fool, because the world and you are strangers. + You are a proud man, Dagonet; you have suffered + What I alone have seen. You are no fool; + And surely you are not a fly to sting + My love to last regret. Believe or not + What I have seen, or what I say to you, + But say no more to me that I am dead + Because the King is mad, and you are old, + And I am older. In Broceliande + Time overtook me as I knew he must; + And I, with a fond overplus of words, + Had warned the lady Vivian already, + Before these wrinkles and this hesitancy + Inhibiting my joints oppressed her sight + With age and dissolution. She said once + That she was cold and cruel; but she meant + That she was warm and kind, and over-wise + For woman in a world where men see not + Beyond themselves. She saw beyond them all, + As I did; and she waited, as I did, + The coming of a day when cherry-blossoms + Were to fall down all over me like snow + In springtime. I was far from Camelot + That afternoon; and I am farther now + From her. I see no more for me to do + Than to leave her and Arthur and the world + Behind me, and to pray that all be well + With Vivian, whose unquiet heart is hungry + For what is not, and what shall never be + Without her, in a world that men are making, + Knowing not how, nor caring yet to know + How slowly and how grievously they do it,-- + Though Vivian, in her golden shell of exile, + Knows now and cares, not knowing that she cares, + Nor caring that she knows. In time to be, + The like of her shall have another name + Than Vivian, and her laugh shall be a fire, + Not shining only to consume itself + With what it burns. She knows not yet the name + Of what she is, for now there is no name; + Some day there shall be. Time has many names, + Unwritten yet, for what we say is old + Because we are so young that it seems old. + And this is all a part of what I saw + Before you saw King Arthur. When we parted, + I told her I should see the King again, + And, having seen him, might go back again + To see her face once more. But I shall see + No more the lady Vivian. Let her love + What man she may, no other love than mine + Shall be an index of her memories. + I fear no man who may come after me, + And I see none. I see her, still in green, + Beside the fountain. I shall not go back. + We pay for going back; and all we get + Is one more needless ounce of weary wisdom + To bring away with us. If I come not, + The lady Vivian will remember me, + And say: 'I knew him when his heart was young, + Though I have lost him now. Time called him home, + And that was as it was; for much is lost + Between Broceliande and Camelot.'" + + He stared away into the west again, + Where now no crimson cloud or phantom town + Deceived his eyes. Above a living town + There were gray clouds and ultimate suspense, + And a cold wind was coming. Dagonet, + Now crouched at Merlin's feet in his dejection, + Saw multiplying lights far down below, + Where lay the fevered streets. At length he felt + On his lean shoulder Merlin's tragic hand + And trembled, knowing that a few more days + Would see the last of Arthur and the first + Of Modred, whose dark patience had attained + To one precarious half of what he sought: + "And even the Queen herself may fall to him," + Dagonet murmured.--"The Queen fall to Modred? + Is that your only fear tonight?" said Merlin; + "She may, but not for long."--"No, not my fear; + For I fear nothing. But I wish no fate + Like that for any woman the King loves, + Although she be the scourge and end of him + That you saw coming, as I see it now." + Dagonet shook, but he would have no tears, + He swore, for any king, queen, knave, or wizard-- + Albeit he was a stranger among those + Who laughed at him because he was a fool. + "You said the truth, I cannot leave you now," + He stammered, and was angry for the tears + That mocked his will and choked him. + + Merlin smiled, + Faintly, and for the moment: "Dagonet, + I need your word as one of Arthur's knights + That you will go on with me to the end + Of my short way, and say unto no man + Or woman that you found or saw me here. + No good would follow, for a doubt would live + Unstifled of my loyalty to him + Whose deeds are wrought for those who are to come; + And many who see not what I have seen, + Or what you see tonight, would prattle on + For ever, and their children after them, + Of what might once have been had I gone down + With you to Camelot to see the King. + I came to see the King,--but why see kings? + All this that was to be is what I saw + Before there was an Arthur to be king, + And so to be a mirror wherein men + May see themselves, and pause. If they see not, + Or if they do see and they ponder not,-- + I saw; but I was neither Fate nor God. + I saw too much; and this would be the end, + Were there to be an end. I saw myself-- + A sight no other man has ever seen; + And through the dark that lay beyond myself + I saw two fires that are to light the world." + On Dagonet the silent hand of Merlin + Weighed now as living iron that held him down + With a primeval power. Doubt, wonderment, + Impatience, and a self-accusing sorrow + Born of an ancient love, possessed and held him + Until his love was more than he could name, + And he was Merlin's fool, not Arthur's now: + "Say what you will, I say that I'm the fool + Of Merlin, King of Nowhere; which is Here. + With you for king and me for court, what else + Have we to sigh for but a place to sleep? + I know a tavern that will take us in; + And on the morrow I shall follow you + Until I die for you. And when I die ..."-- + "Well, Dagonet, the King is listening."-- + And Dagonet answered, hearing in the words + Of Merlin a grave humor and a sound + Of graver pity, "I shall die a fool." + He heard what might have been a father's laugh, + Faintly behind him; and the living weight + Of Merlin's hand was lifted. They arose, + And, saying nothing, found a groping way + Down through the gloom together. Fiercer now, + The wind was like a flying animal + That beat the two of them incessantly + With icy wings, and bit them as they went. + The rock above them was an empty place + Where neither seer nor fool should view again + The stricken city. Colder blew the wind + Across the world, and on it heavier lay + The shadow and the burden of the night; + And there was darkness over Camelot. + + +Printed in the United States of America. + + + + +The following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author. + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +The Man Against the Sky + +_Cloth, $1.00; Leather, $1.60_ + +It has been some years since Mr. Robinson has given us a new collection of +poems. Those who remember "Captain Craig, A Book of 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 have been realized. + +"A new book by Edwin Arlington Robinson is something of a literary +event.... In these selections we have the richly assorted best of +Robinson; which is the same as saying that we have here one of the most +direct and distinctive writers of the day."--_Chicago Evening Post._ + +"He is writing as good poetry as is being written on either side of the +Atlantic."--_New York Sun._ + +"Mr. Robinson, with his fascinating, discursive style, is one of the best +singers in this country to-day."--_Springfield Republican._ + + +The Porcupine: A Drama in Three Acts + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ + +Edwin Arlington Robinson's comedy "Van Zorn" proved him to be one of the +most accomplished of the younger generation of American dramatists. Of +this play the _Boston Transcript_ said "It is an effective presentation of +modern life in New York City, in which a poet shows his skill of +playwriting ... he brings to the American drama to-day a thing it sadly +lacks, and that is character." In manner and technique Mr. Robinson's new +play "The Porcupine" recalls some of the work of Ibsen. Written adroitly +and with the literary cleverness exhibited in "Van Zorn" it tells a story +of a domestic entanglement in a dramatic fashion well calculated to hold +the reader's attention. + +"He writes admirable dialogue, and his characters have strong and +consistent individuality. Moreover, he has freshness of invention, and +knows how to unfold an interesting story in dramatic form."--_Nation._ + + +Van Zorn: A Comedy + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ + +"The setting is American and the characters are true to the American +type.... The second act is drama in its highest expression."--_San +Francisco Chronicle._ + +"He has done something unique. His comedy depicts life among the artists +in Manhattan. It is the first time it has been done by one of the +initiated."--_Brooklyn Daily Eagle._ + +"'Van Zorn,' by Edwin Arlington Robinson, might be called a comedy of +temperament, introspection, and destiny. It tells an interesting story and +is stimulative to thought."--_Providence Journal._ + +"An effective presentation of modern life in New York City, in which a +poet shows his skill at prose playwriting ... he brings into the American +drama to-day a thing it sadly lacks, and that is character."--_Boston +Transcript._ + +"A lively tale told with humor and dramatic force."--_Booknews Monthly._ + +"... the attraction of the play is the manner in which from scene to scene +the interest is piqued, until at last there is a dénouement almost Shavian +in its impudence, that is, in the impudence of the main +characters."--_Kentucky Post._ + + +Captain Craig, A Book of Poems + +_Revised edition with additional poems, 12mo, cloth, $1.25_ + +"There are few poets writing in English to-day whose work is so permeated +by individual charm as is Mr. Robinson's. Always one feels the presence of +a man behind the poet--a man who knows life and people and things and +writes of them clearly, with a subtle poetic insight that is not visible +in the work of any other living writer."--_Brooklyn Daily Eagle._ + +"The 'Book of Annandale,' a splendid poem included in this collection, is +one of the most moving emotional narratives found in modern +poetry."--_Review of Reviews._ + +"... His handling of Greek themes reveals him as a lyrical poet of +inimitable charm and skill."--_Reedy's Mirror._ + +"A poem that must endure; if things that deserve long life get it."--_N. +Y. Evening Sun._ + +"Wherever you hear people who know speak of American poets ... they assume +that you take the genius and place of Edwin Arlington Robinson as +granted.... A man with something to say that has value and beauty. His +thought is deep and his ideas are high and stimulating."--_Boston +Transcript._ + + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publisher 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Merlin, by Edwin Arlington Robinson + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40906 *** |