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diff --git a/old/61440-0.txt b/old/61440-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7f62cf8..0000000 --- a/old/61440-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2143 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton, by Humbert Wolfe - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton - And other poems - -Author: Humbert Wolfe - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61440] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - SHYLOCK REASONS WITH - MR. CHESTERTON - - AND OTHER POEMS - - BY - - HUMBERT WOLFE - - Author of - - “LONDON SONNETS.” - - OXFORD - - BASIL BLACKWELL - - MDCCCCXX - - - - - DEDICATION. - - - Only this--that when I’ve done with wearing - Gold words upon my heart and reaching after - My immortality, I shall be hearing - Then, and long afterwards (be sure!) your laughter. - - Only this--that when I come to sleeping - And later men appraise me in the quarrels - Of poets and the bays, tell them I’m keeping - No bays, but at my heart a lover’s laurels. - -Some of these poems have appeared in “The Saturday Review,” “The -Westminster Gazette,” and “The Saturday Westminster Gazette.” They are -republished by the courtesy of the editors of those journals. - - - - - CONTENTS. - -[Illustration] - - - Page - - -PERSONALITIES. - -Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton 7 - -The Unknown God: - - I. Pheidias 12 - - II. Paul 16 - -Cassio hears Othello 22 - -The First Airman 23 - -Mary 24 - -The Sicilian Expedition 27 - -Caesar and Anthony 30 - -The Dancers 31 - -Battersea 32 - -The Woodcutters of Hütteldorf 33 - -Heine’s Last Song 37 - - -IMPERSONALITIES. - -The Satyr 39 - -Balder’s Song 40 - -Mary the Mother 42 - -Apples 43 - -The Skies 44 - -Three Epitaphs: - -I. Flecker 45 - -II. Edith Cavell 45 - -III. The Little Sleeper 45 - -To him whom the cap fits 46 - -France 47 - -Alchemy 48 - -Orpheus 49 - -The Wind 50 - -Gabriel 51 - -Opals and Amber 52 - -After Battle 53 - -Mademoiselle de Maupin 54 - -Du Bist wie eine Blume 54 - -Cambridge 55 - -A Room in Bohemia 55 - -Victory 56 - -Cleopatra 56 - -Medusa 57 - -The Jungle 58 - -The Pencil 59 - -Columbine 60 - -The Crowder’s Tune 61 - -ENVOI 63 - - - - - PERSONALITIES. - - - - - SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON. - - - Jew-baiting still! Two thousand years are run - And still, it seems, good Master Chesterton, - Nothing’s abated of the old offence. - Changing its shape, it never changes tense. - Other things were, this only was and is. - And whether Judas murder with a kiss, - Or Shylock catch a Christian with a gin, - All all’s the same--the first enormous sin - Traps Judas in the moneylender’s mesh - And cuts from Jesus’ side the pound of flesh. - Nor is this all the punishment. For still - Through centuries to suffer were no ill - If we in human axes and the rod - Discerned the high pro-consulate of God - Chastening his people. But we are not chastened. - Age after age upon our hearts is fastened - The same cold malice, and for all they bleed - They burn for ever with unchanging greed. - Grosser with suffering we grow, and one - Calls to another “If in Babylon - Are gold and silver, be content with them, - Better found gold than lost Jerusalem.” - They forget Zion; in the market place - Rebuild the Temple for the Jewish race, - And thus from age to age do Jews like me - Have their revenge on Christianity, - Since thus from age to age Christians like you - Unchristian grow in hounding down the Jew. - And thus from age to age His will is done, - And Shylock’s sins produce a Chesterton. - - But since we both must suffer and both are - Bound in the orb of one outrageous star, - Hater and hated, for a little while - Let us together watch how mile on mile - The heavenly moon, all milky white, regains - Her gentle empery, and smooths the stains - Of red our star left in her heaven, thus - Bringing a respite even unto us - Before the red star strikes again. The riot - Of the heart for a moment sinks, and in the quiet - Like a cool bandage on the forehead be - Content a second with tranquillity. - And from your lips the secular taunt of dog - Banish, to hear what in the synagogue - We heard once at Barmitzvah (as we call - The confirmation, when the praying shawl - Is for the first time worn, and the boy waits - For law and manhood at the altar gates). - Whether ’tis true or no, it shall be true - just long enough to build a bridge to you, - That hangs a shining second till your laughter - Reminds me of my ducats and my daughter. - - It happened thus. When the last “adonoi” - Had faltered into silence of some boy - Whose voice was all a silver miracle - Of water, a voice echoed “Israel,” - A sweeter voice than even his, but broken - With a sorrowful thrill, as though the heart had spoken - Of countless generations doomed to pain - And none to ease them found. It cried again, - Or so we thought who listened, “Ye do well - To let the children come, O Israel, - But even these are lost and unforgiven, - Since not of these His kingdom and His heaven - Who at their fathers’ fathers’ hands was sold - In Calvary; and not their voice, though gold, - Nor innocent eyes, nor ways that children have - Of magic in their reaching hands, can save. - For, though ye offer these as sacrifice, - A nation’s childhood is too small a price - To pay the interest upon the debt - That all your sorrows cannot liquidate. - O what a usury our God has made - On thirty pieces that the high priest paid! - Profit was none, but from the first the loss - That grew of the fourth ghost upon the Cross. - Two on the Cross were seen at Jesus’ side, - The fourth, the fourth unseen and crucified - With piercéd hands and feet, and heart as well, - The ghost betrayed of traitor Israel. - Yourselves ye bought and sold, yourselves decreed - To the end of the world your doom. For who will heed - The prayer or utter mercy on a child, - However sweet he call? The heart is wild - Of your own ghost, and not the softest lamb - Of God escapes his sentence. For I am - The wraith of all your children from the first - Long ere their birth inexorably cursed.” - None saw the ghost. Some said it was the boy - That spoke. Yet someone answered “adonoi, - Thy will be done” and it was finished. All - Closer about their foreheads drew the shawl - Fearing to see, and as the darkness grows - Deeper save where above the altar glows - One lamp, in hearts that Pharoah would unharden - For pity rises not a cry for pardon, - But to the Mills of God a bitter call - “Grind quickly, since ye grind exceeding small!” - - That is the tale. But mark, the moon in heaven - Is hid with clouds. This little time was given - To peace and to remembering one another - Who might have been (God knows) brother with brother. - But since ’tis over and the peace is done - Shylock returns and with him Chesterton. - - - - - THE UNKNOWN GOD. - - “Whom you ignorantly worship, him I declare unto you.” - - - I. PHEIDIAS. - - Pheidias, the sculptor, dying bade them set - His last-cut marble near lest he forget, - Travelling, where beauty ends, what beauty is - In the world and the light no longer his. - And while they brought it, women, as they use, - Sang in the house the litany of Zeus - That is the god of gods, yet could not save - His own beloved lady from the grave. - “The dearest head” they sung, “yea even her’s, - Whose hair was like a harp, when the wind stirs - Upon the strings and wakes them, golden hair, - Must droop upon the ground and perish there-- - Even her hair (the women sung), alas - For loveliness! wherein Olympus was - Lost for a god and found, when he, with mist - About him of its glory twist on twist, - Found on her mouth, more passionate for this, - Mortality, that trembled in the kiss - --Even that hair, for all a high god’s art, - Long since is dust, and dust that was her heart.” - This song of ending in the darkness came - To Pheidias in the courtyard, where the flame - Of torches threw a final light and shewed - Two pillars of the house, a turn of road - That led (he thought) beyond all sight, and he - Must walk it with a quiet company - --The cold imagined gods, no prayer might cozen - To help him on the way, immortal, frozen - Glimpses of deity his hand, creating - In marble out of his heart where they were waiting - For life, had carved, and given them instead - Of life the eternal gesture of the dead. - He with those gods must walk, since he had grown - Into their silence, and had made his own - Their longings thus imprisoned, and their heart - On one beat fixed for ever. He must start - To follow, but before his striving spirit - Steps out upon the road or falters near it, - One god, that guards the passage, waiting stands-- - His latest marble, made like those, with hands, - Fashioned, like those, of a man’s dreams, but overstepping - His maker’s mind, and into a glory sweeping - No man might share. For the great forehead lifted - Out of the shade of life, and light had shifted - Her quality, whose radiant indecision - Found, though the eyes were closed, consummate vision. - This was the god that dying Pheidias - Had beaten out of marble. This he was, - And would not share with other gods their death - In beauty, but was living with the breath - Of his creator, who with death at strife - Laid down his own to give his creature life. - This god they brought to Pheidias, for whom - The whole great world had been a little room, - Which he had used, as others use, but he - Looked through the window on eternity. - And seeing his god, upon his mind the cloud - Faded an instant, and he cried aloud, - As though all Hellas heard him, “O be proud - Of beauty, Hellas, nor be curious - Of what the secret is that haunted us - Your poets, who had strained to it, and after - Lay down to sleep, sealing their lips with laughter. - For laughter is the judgment of the wise, - Who measure equally with level eyes - What the world is, what gods, and what are men, - And twixt too great a joy, too sharp a pain, - Strikes on a balance, so that tears are shot - With laughter, laughter with tears, and these are not - Themselves, but greater than themselves, and each - From other learns and doth to other teach. - We are content with beauty thus, who find - That when all’s done--sculpture or song--behind - What we have carved or sung, a greater thing - Startles the heart with movement of a wing - We neither see nor dare see. For our thought - Is larger than we know, and what we sought - Passes and has forgotten; what we do, - The truth we did not guess at pierces through, - If what was done was well done. This last bust - Of mine not as I willed but as I must - I carved, and now, at the end of all, I can - See that the dream he does not dream is man. - The earlier gods I carved and knew, they wait - My coming as their master at the gate - Of death, for what I knew is mine to have, - Live with my life, and wither in my grave. - Thus beauty known is fading, known love fades, - And the truth we know a shadow in the shades, - And only that which lies beyond our hands, - Beauty, no earth-bound spirit understands, - But guesses at and faints for in desire; - And love, that does not burn, because the fire - Is lit beyond the world, and truth that dies - Beyond our thoughts in unimagined lies - That are the truth beyond truth, only these - Are lasting and outwit our memories. - But the familiar gods that I have made-- - With those I will not walk. O be afraid - Of beauty attainable and love attained - And limited immortality. Unchained - The greatest soul must walk and walk alone - With what it has not seen and has not known!” - Thus Pheidias spoke and presently the flame - Of torches died, his god that had no name - --His latest statue--watched his spirit pass - And the dawn came that knew not Pheidias. - - - II. PAUL. - - Paul the apostle, on the sacred hill - Of Mars at Athens, felt a hidden will - Working against his gospel. That was old - (It seemed), yet had the thrust of boyhood cold, - Yet tempered in wild fires, and sensing this - He prayed in silence. The Acropolis, - Making a final bid for beauty, took - The dying sun to her heart with the wild look - As of a woman yielding to her lover; - And he in flame confederate leaning over - With armfuls of clouded roses, blossom on blossom, - Rifled the sweets of evening, and for her bosom - Dismantling heaven’s high pavilion - With tumbled beauties wooed her thus and won. - - This Paul from prayer rising saw, nor cared, - Watching a Cross in the East, if these had snared - The West with meshes trailing from the wrist - Of Venus, also an Evangelist. - “So little is the conquest of the flesh, - So like a spinner, weaving her small mesh - --And a boy tears it as he passes by-- - Embroiders fruitlessly her tapestry - The Paphian woman, and the threads are thin - And ghostly as the new light enters in-- - The tapestry that was the world and all - The curtain Jesus tears aside” says Paul: - “What is there worshipful here? These skies are fleeting, - This beauty made by hands of the sun is beating - Into the night that swallows her, and none - Is warm, when night has fallen, with the sun; - And the whole frame of the celestial - Firmament, though dusted with the stars, must fall - As being under death, and change in Hell, - When death is conquered, her corruptible - Beauty, and at the trumpet’s sound put on, - As ye must also, incorruption.” - And while he spoke the curtain of the sky - Night fretted with the cool embroidery - Of stars, and the moon upon her silent spindle - Did all the velvet warp to silver kindle. - But a young man of the philosophers, - Who stood about him, said “The moonlight stirs - With beauty in the heart, and in the mind - The things that seem do such a glory find - Lit with this wonder of the moon and star, - As almost to persuade us that they are, - But these we know are broken images - Of patterns laid-up in heaven. Socrates, - A citizen of Athens, was betrayed - To death for teaching this, and smiling laid - His cup of hemlock down, because his heart - Already of eternity was part, - And death for such is freedom. Yet for this - He did surrender the Acropolis, - That had all Hellas for a coronet - About her forehead radiantly set, - Island on island, and for this forsook - The friendship of his friends, his dreams, the look - Of hesitating spring that dare not stay - Yet will not leave the hills of Attica. - For this all gifts, all memories, he gave - Freely believing that the narrow grave - Was the end of all. Thus he passed out alone, - Content to face the gods no man had known - Because they beggar knowledge, and persuaded - It was enough, that, when for him had faded - The light, for us his death a light had lit - Would shew a path and we might walk by it. - ‘This is the spirit of man; in vain it reaches - Beyond the limits ordained and vainly stretches - To where truth, beauty, goodness, three in one, - Find each in all supreme communion. - For what is greater than we know,’ he said - ‘It is well to die,’ and smiling he was dead. - This he believed, all this he sacrificed. - Did he teach better, Jew, whom you call Christ?” - - A cloud passed by the moon, and no one spoke, - Till suddenly her silver spear-head broke - The cloudy targe, and leaning from the place - She has in heaven struck with light the face - Of Pheidias’ god. And Paul cried “Even thus - Ye have your answer, superstitious - Who set this idol up, and worshipped it - In darkness, and behold the face is lit - With fire from on high. A period - Is set to ignorance and to the god - Ye ignorantly worship, and the stone - Or marble of the god ye have not known, - Changes beneath my hand and in my speech - Unto the living god I know and preach. - Do you rejoice because that Socrates - Died facing death and dark? I tell you these - In Christ are conquered. Death has lost her sting, - The dark her victory, and angels sing - At the empty mouth of the grave, because my king - Has made the grave a refuge and protection - From the pain of living by His resurrection. - Socrates sleeps; the god he did not know - Sleeps with him, and long since the grasses grow - Above their resting place, but flowers reach - In vain their roots to find Him whom I preach. - He is not there, but though we darkly see, - As in a glass, his immortality - Waits for us all, and beckons in the place - Where we who find Him see Him face to face. - Socrates, to death a prisoner, did well, - But death was all; Christ by the miracle - Of the open grave, his deity forsaken, - For all the world has death a prisoner taken. - Nor Socrates in vain all sacrificed - If here his fruitless death has pled for Christ.” - Dionysius the Areopagite - Cried loudly unto Paul “Were it not right - To shatter on his marble pedestal - This idol that has stood for death?” and Paul - Answered “What say ye brethren, for His sake - Who vanquished death shall we the idol break?” - But even as Paul raised his hand the light - Faded upon the sculptured face. The night - Cloaked it, and, though Paul pressed, the threatened blow - Hung in the air and fell not. For a low - Strange glory changed upon the face, and seemed - A face that Paul had seen before or dreamed - To see when near Damascus, and instead - Of Pheidias’ god unknown another Head - Sorrowful-sweet on Paul astonished shone - And, ere his threatening hand could fall, was gone. - But a voice whispered “Art thou after all - Thine unknown God still persecuting, Saul?” - - - - - CASSIO HEARS OTHELLO. - - - Thus for the last last time with the first kiss! - O my white bird, here is the precipice! - I throw you like a homing carrier - Into the footless spaces of the air! - And your spread wings, set free, beat up and out - In mounting circles, storming death’s redoubt - And the cloudy fortress of Avilion. - Gone, my white bird, beyond all dreaming, gone! - And my hands warm that held her. Cassio - It was well done! Always to let her go - In the grave they shall be open thus, and yet - Feeling the half-poised wings--poor hands! Forget - My madness, Cassio, and think of me - As of a man who set his sea-bird free - From the prison of his heart to see her win - The deep blue floors of heaven and enter in. - O I am glad, I am glad, I dared this thing. - Even now my bird is home, awakening - Among her shining sisters, far--so far, - Not even the thoughts I have can trouble her. - So carve upon the stone that marks my grave: - “All that he had to death Othello gave, - And has kept nothing back but the sweet wound - Of life, that grew so dear, because he found - The mortal knife, that stabbed him, slit the strings - That gave his bird the guerdon of her wings.” - - - - - THE FIRST AIRMAN. - - - Give me the wings, magician. I will know - What blooms on airy precipices grow - That no hand plucks, large unexpected blossoms, - Scentless, with cry of curlews in their bosoms, - And the great winds like grasses where their stems - Spangle the universe with diadems. - I will pluck those flowers and those grasses, I, - Icarus, drowning upwards through the sky - With air that closes underneath my feet - As water above the diver. I will meet - Life with the dawn in heaven, and my fingers - Dipped in the golden floss of hair that lingers - Across the unveiled spaces and makes them colder, - As a woman’s hair across her naked shoulder. - Death with the powdered stars will walk and pass - Like a man’s breath upon a looking-glass, - For a suspended heart-beat making dim - Heaven brighter afterwards because of him. - - Give me the wings, magician. So their tune - Mix with the silver trumpets of the moon - And, beyond music mounting, clean outrun - The golden diapason of the sun. - There is a secret that the birds are learning - Where the long lanes in heaven have a turning - And no man yet has followed; therefore these - Laugh hauntingly across our usual seas. - I’ll not be mocked by curlews in the sky; - Give me the wings magician, or I die. - - His call for wings or death was heard and thus - Came both to the first airman, Icarus. - - - - - MARY. - - (Sister of Martha.) - - - There was no star in the East the night I came - With spikenard in hushed Jerusalem-- - But a light in an upper chamber dimly lit - Was star enough--I would have followed it - Through lonelier streets unto the smaller room - Where afterwards it blossomed in the tomb. - Light of the world, but how much more to me - The light that other women also see! - No choiring angels in gold groups adored - Their king that night, but searching for my Lord - Unchoired, uncrowned, whose Kingdom had not come, - I heard none call, but dumb, as death is dumb, - The night misled his angels, or may be - Night and the angels made a way for me. - My footfalls in the street rang very clear - As I drew on. It seemed that all must hear - My coming, eyes that peered behind the grating, - Cloaked hands to hold me at each corner waiting. - But nothing stirred till suddenly there ran - The flame of the moon in heaven for a span - Less than a heart-beat, and I saw a man - Steal out of Simon’s house, and pass me by - With such a horror on his lips that I, - Also a traitor, shrunk and knew him not-- - Him that was Judas called Iscariot. - Also a traitor I, because I came - Not worshipping the Master in that Name - That his disciples called him, not the Christ - Of God for me that night. I sought a tryst - With a man of men, and if my heart had won - The Son of God had died in Mary’s son, - And he, who, knowing the appointed evil, - Sent forth Iscariot to his task, a devil, - Also accepted, though this was more hard, - The sweet betrayal of the spikenard. - He knew me what I meant and in his eyes, - That for a moment smiled, was Paradise - Lost unto love, that for the greater sin - Than even Judas’ might not enter in. - And when the disciples would have stayed my hands, - “She does but good” He said “she understands.” - And I who poured the unguent understood, - But good it was not, as a man means good. - For I forget the Master, I but see - (A woman taken in adultery - With a dream and a dream) his human face - I would have saved from God, and in the place - Of Gospel and of resurrection I - Hear him say “Mary” and behold him die. - Judas, to death who sold him for a kiss, - Sinned less than I, who’d buy him back for this. - And Christ forgave me--How shall I forgive - Jesus, my love, the man who would not live? - - - - - THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. - - - To-day the Triremes sailed for Sicily - With no wind stirring on a soundless sea; - But a great crying of birds beat up and filled - The empty caverns of the air and stilled - The thrashing of the oars. The level sun - Unto himself, it seemed, drew one by one - With strings of gold the ships that no one heard - Move on the waters, till at last one bird - (Of all the wings past knowledge and past counting) - Wheeled upwards on the air and mounting, mounting, - Rose out of human sight, but all the rest - Passed with the passing fleet into the West. - - To-day the Triremes sailed--and will their sailing - Prosper or fail because a gull was wailing - For crumbs about the prows? Who but a fool - Would find a message in a screaming gull? - For if gods use such messengers as these - The less gods they (or so says Socrates). - They are not gods (he says) of fear and hate, - A swollen type of man degenerate, - Catching at flattery, at sorrow fleering - And every spiteful whisper overhearing; - But largely on their mountain they attend - Unflinchingly the one appointed end, - When what was nobly done and finely striven - Will find the archetype laid up in heaven. - Not these by gulls pronounce or suffer doom, - Nor cries among the ships (and yet the gloom - Settles about Athene’s temple. If - An injured god used his prerogative - Of anger, might not Hermes?)--that’s the gull - Stirring the superstition of a fool! - What if a week ago we, waking, found - The Hermae spoiled or fallen to the ground? - Shall Fate be altered or a doom be spoken - Because an image was in malice broken? - Or Athens, that remembers Marathon, - Rock in her empire for a splintered stone? - How dear she is--was never city else - So loved, or lovely in her strength; like bells - Pealed in the brain her beauty. This is she, - Athens, whose sweeter name is liberty. - - To-day the Triremes sailed--as Zeus decrees - All shall be done; but hardly Socrates, - As Westward in the dark our captains wear, - Would frown if an Athenian spoke a prayer - Even to Hermes, (even though it seem - We fear the flight of birds and cries in him), - Thus saying simply for the love of her-- - Athens--“O Hermes, called the Messenger, - God of the wings, since now the sails are set, - If aught was evil, evil now forget! - If aught was left undone, think not of this - But her remember, Hermes, what she is, - A city leaning to the sea, and shod - With freedom on her feet, as thou a god - With wings art poised for flight--O, if the gull - Were bird of thine, Hermes, be merciful.” - - - - - CAESAR AND ANTHONY. - - - Augustus Caesar, aging by the sea, - Remembered, musingly, dead Anthony, - And wondered as he thought upon his days - Which had been better, laurel leaves or bays. - “Bays for the victor, when his fight is over, - But laurels” thought Augustus “for the lover. - That brown Egyptian woman, the fierce queen - Who with a serpent died--she came between - Him and the world’s dominion, whispering - ‘Does empire burn so, has thy crown the sting - These lips have when they touch thee--thus and thus? - Choose then!’ ‘I choose!’ replied Antonius.” - “I wonder” thought Augustus as he lay - Watching the menial clouds of conquered day - Applaud with vehement reflection - The cold triumphant ending of the sun. - “The sun’s an emperor, and all the sky - Burns to a flame for his nativity, - And not less beautiful nor unattended - By conquered flocks of cloud he passes splendid, - Throwing his slaves this laminated gold. - Master in death, but in his death how cold! - But to have died astonished on a kiss - Had heat to the end and Anthony had this.” - - - - - THE DANCERS. - - - This was the way of it, or I forget - How visions end. The flaming sun was set - Or setting in a sky as green as grass, - Stained here and there like a window, where there was - A martyr-cloud with halo dipped in gold - Or red as the Sacred Heart is. From the old - Low house--a country house not built with hands - And of that country where the poplar stands - Whose leaves have shivered in our dreams--there came - With the rising moon the dancers to the same - Tune we have heard we scarce remember when, - Nor care so only that it sound again. - Each dancer wears a fancy for a dress, - This one with starlike tears is gemmed no less - Than that is crowned with roses as of lips - That kissed and do not kiss. There also trips - Pierrot, because we all have lost, and thin, - Cruelly swift, victorious Harlequin, - Because some find and keep, but both entwine, - Because she needs them both, with Columbine. - Then lanterns on the trees to radiant fruit - Burn till dawn plucks them, and the light pursuit - Of dancers on the lawn is done, and laughter - Of those who fled and those who followed after - Dies; to a little wind the darkened trees - Bend gravely and resume their silences. - - - - - BATTERSEA. - - - I have always known just where the river ends - (Or seems to end) that I shall find my friends, - Who are my friends no longer, being dead, - And hear the ordinary things they said, - That now seem wonderful, some evening when - I take the Number Nineteen bus again - To Battersea. It will, I think, be clear - With stars behind the four great chimneys. Dear - In the moon, young and unchanging, they - Will cry me welcome in the boyish way - They had before they went to France, but I, - A boy no more, will greet them silently. - - - - - THE WOODCUTTERS OF HÜTTELDORF. - - “The plan by which individual Viennese are allowed to obtain their - own wood supplies has already been described by more than one - observer. It will, however, in time to come appear so incredible, - and it so completely sums up the misery of the people and the - breakdown of civilization and administration, that no excuse is - needed for placing it once more formally and definitely on record. - - In the immediate neighbourhood of Vienna lies a forest known as the - Wienerwald, the nearest point being on hills to the north, two or - three miles from the centre of the city. - - The two chief centres of wood collection are the suburbs of - Hütteldorf and Dorhbach. - - The prevalence of women and children among the collectors is the - most painful feature of the proceedings.” - - _From_ “Peace in Austria,” _by Sir W. Beveridge_. - - - Nous n’irons plus au bois: the woods are shut: - Les lauriers sont coupés: the laurels cut. - Thus love, when still his pitiful sweet cry - For youth and spring, his play-boys, sensibly - Touched at the heart. But now he does not care - What woods, what trees are standing anywhere. - For there’s no wood in the world to be found - That does not stab his feet, and the trees wound - His eyes with thorns--the eyes which did not see - In joy, but find their sight in misery. - - There is a wood they named the Wienerwald. - There when the spring was new the throstle called - Spring to her ball-room, and the Viennese - Heard her light foot provoking the grave trees, - Half willingly at first, young leaves to stir, - That later passionately danced with her. - And here the cannon-fodder used to feed - The altar-fire of the older need, - And sweeter than the need of death. In spring - The Austrian boys saw love awakening - Here, and as English boys in English wood - Have given all to love, all that they could - These gave--their childhood, dawn’s relentless star - That is put out with kisses. These they gave - And buried childhood lightly in her grave - So that a man might hear her calling yet, - “Primrose farewell, good-morrow violet!”-- - Might yet have heard her, but the woods are shut - To those who would return: the laurels cut. - - There are many go to-day to Wienerwald, - But love does not go with them. He has failed - In the Great War, who had so little skill - In the Will to Murder, love who was the Will - To live and make live, but the War has shewn - His Will is treachery, and love’s alone - In a great wilderness. For if he cries - Aloud, they mock him in their Paradise-- - The Angels of Armageddon. “This is he - Who ruled us, being blind, now let him see” - They say, “a prisoner, what we have done, - The priests of mankind’s last religion. - Let him look deep and celebrate in Hell - How we reverse the Christian miracle, - Stealing their spirits from the sullen swine - And consecrating them as yours and mine, - So that we rush together suddenly - Down a steep place, where by an empty sea - Our worshippers pile on a flaming wharf - The trees that were the woods at Hütteldorf.” - - Ares, the god of battles, has prevailed. - At Hütteldorf, deep in the Wienerwald, - They go to the woods for fuel, and one sees - A child that beats upon the laurel trees - With starved small hands that hold an axe, and how - The spring returns to find a hooded crow - Waiting and waiting, as the thrush once waited - For childhood’s end. But this, it seems, was fated - That all should change, save only that these seem - Still unsubstantial as the lover’s dream, - As unsubstantial, but with blossoms set - That have no traffic with the violet - And primrose. Here the purple flowers of Dis - Burn their young foreheads and they fade with this, - Who find a different end and different haven, - Where the hooded crow is waiting with the raven. - - In Wienerwald the starving Viennese - Have spoiled the woods and cut the laurel trees, - Nous n’irons plus au bois: oh love, oh love! - Will you not go the more because they prove - So shattered, the poor woods? and will you shut - Your heart, O love, because the trees are cut? - Les lauriers sont coupés, but you can heal - Even the broken laurel, and reveal - Where in the valley of death the children falter - That, though all else doth change, love does not alter, - And, though the woods were dead, there is a tree - You know of, love, planted in Calvary. - - Go back to the woods; replant the laurel trees. - Still love than war hath greater victories, - And while the devils beat the warlike drum - Into their kingdom of peace the children come. - - - - - HEINE’S LAST SONG. - - - Life’s a blonde of whom I’m tired - (Being fair is just a knack - Women learn to be desired - By a Jew--who answers back). - - Blonde, oh blonde, ye lost princesses - With the shadow in your eyes - As of bodiless caresses - Known ere birth in Paradise. - - Little ears of alabaster, - Where like ocean in a shell - Gentle murmurs drown the vaster - Voice of rapture or of Hell. - - Tender bodies--ah too tender - To be given or be lent - Unto love the money-lender - Who demands his cent per cent. - - Thus you took a man and tricked him, - Life and ladies, to a will - In your favour, but the victim - Cheats you with a codicil. - - All I had, you thought, was given-- - Life and ladies, you were wrong: - In a poet’s secret heaven - There is always one last song. - - Even he is half afraid of, - Even he but hears in part, - For the stuff that it is made of, - Ladies, is the poet’s heart. - - Not for you, oh blonde princesses - Is that final tune, but I - Sing it drowning in the tresses - Of a darker Lorelei. - - For her hair than yours is stranger; - Wilder lights are lost in hers - Where the heart’s immortal danger, - That you cannot know of, stirs. - - Life and ladies, it is over: - Blonde asks all, gives nothing back; - You must find another lover, - For the poet chooses black. - - Where death’s raven marriage blossom - Falls in clouds about her breast, - On his dark beloved’s bosom - Heinrick Heine is at rest. - - - - - IMPERSONALITIES. - - - - - THE SATYR. - - - “Hollow” he cries and “hollow, hollow.” - Mark how the creeping moon is yellow - On the cold stones, enmeshing feet - That are not soft, with blood not sweet. - - Though in the night one cry his Name - The shuddering air shrinks from the aim; - And failing eddies will not stir - To let him through to Lucifer. - - What answers where no echoes fly? - None where the moon looks balefully. - Unheard, far-off “O hollow, hollow” - The satyr crieth to his fellow. - - - - - BALDER’S SONG. - - - It may be raining now, that first warm rain - That melts the heart of earth beneath the snows, - Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s pain - Who catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flows - Shuddering back into the frozen vein). - And did ye think I should not come again - At the long last in spring-time with the rain? - - Or may be there is singing in the air - At building-time where the tall windy trees, - By sap and young leaves hurt, can hardly bear - The spring’s reiterated urgencies - That at the woods with actual fingers tear. - And did ye, when these songs are everywhere, - Of Balder, who first taught them song, despair? - - Or it may be where once my altar stood - And where my worshipped name in prayer ascended, - Blue, like a trumpet, in the solitude - Harebells, that ring before the winter’s ended, - Have with the wind my litanies renewed. - Did ye forget (alas! that any could) - That I, the god of flowers, found these good? - - And may be where the dog-rose remedies - With her wild flush the hedge, and spring begins, - Born of all these there trembles the first kiss - That from Valhalla brings the Paladins - And ladies, who for all the immortal bliss - Of heaven, have no joy as sharp as this. - Did ye not know in your own memories - That where are love and spring there Balder is? - - It may be raining now, that first warm rain - That melts the heart of earth beneath the snows, - Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s pain - Who catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flows - Shuddering back into the frozen vein). - And did ye think I should not come again - At the long last in spring-time with the rain? - - - - - MARY THE MOTHER. - - (Cradle Song.) - - - So great a lady, so dear is she, - Princess in heaven, but mother to me! - When little Jesus lay in her arm - It was enough for him that he was warm. - - When the small head at her bosom did nod - Did she remember that He was the God? - Or when she sang to Him low in His ear, - Did she say “Master” or did she sob “Dear”? - - Was it the star on the manger that shone - Crowned her an empress, or was it her Son? - So great a lady to lie in a stall-- - But only a mother (she thought) after all. - - So great a lady, so dear is she, - Princess in heaven! but who does not see - How against Godhead, in spite of the Cross, - She holds to her bosom her Jesus that was? - - - - - APPLES. - - - When there is no more sea and no more sailing - Will God go vintaging the wine-dark seas, - Reaping gold apples of the storm and trailing - To harvest home the lost Hesperides? - - Will God, the gates that guard the river breaking, - Annul the blinding gesture of the sword, - And find the Tree, all other dreams forsaking, - Whose apples are the knowledge of the Lord? - - Forsaking dreams--forgiveness and salvation, - Sins that were needless needlessly forgiven, - Hell where he knew vicarious damnation - And ghosts of rapture in a ghost of heaven? - - No longer from self-knowledge then exempted - Shall God the apple tasting Eve repeat - Thus altered, saying, “By the devil tempted - Through all these years I could and did not eat.” - - Thus at the last shall Man and Maker pardon - Eve’s ancient wrong, seeing that, though He cursed, - Knowledge, alone of those who used the Garden - God was afraid of apples from the first. - - Thereafter as it was in the beginning, - Before the spirit moved upon the deep, - There shall be no more sea and no more sinning - And God will share with his beloved sleep. - - - - - THE SKIES. - - - Though the world tumble tier by tier, - Down, down the broken galleries, - By day the sun would shine as clear - By night the moon would ride her seas. - - Though man and all was meant by men - Upon the empty air were spent, - Irrevocably Charles’s Wain - Would swing across the firmament. - - So large they are and cool the skies; - God’s frozen breath in dreams, or worse: - Beautiful unsupported lies - That simulate a universe. - - - - - THREE EPITAPHS. - - - I. FLECKER. - - You have made the golden journey. Samarkand - Is all about you, Flecker, and where you lie - How youth and her beauty perish in the sand - They are singing in the caravanserai. - - - II. EDITH CAVELL. - - Who died for love, we use to nourish hate: - Who was all tenderness, our hearts to harden; - And who of mercy had the high estate - By us escheated of her right of pardon. - - - III. THE LITTLE SLEEPER. - - This little sleeper, who was overtaken - By death, as one child overtakes another, - Dreams by his side all night and will not waken - Till the dawn comes in heaven with his mother. - - - - - TO HIM WHOM THE CAP FITS. - - _“What sword is left?” sighs England. Answer her_ - _(For you must answer) “This--Excalibur.”_ - - - I. - - That is the sword of England. Arthur drew - The blade at that last battle when he failed, - (Shadow among the shadows, who prevailed - Victorious in disaster). Harold knew - Its point in his heart at Hastings, and it flew - Out of the scabbard when King Richard sailed - And did not reach Jerusalem. It wailed - In the false hand that on the scaffold slew - Charles, and proud Balliol saw the light on it - Shining for Ridley through the flame; was seen - When Mary, Queen of Scotland, was a queen - On earth no longer, and when William Pitt - “England! O how I leave thee,” failing cried, - The sword, the sword, was with him when he died. - - - II. - - The line at Mons were privy to the blade, - When God and England seemed together lost, - And riding by the far Pacific coast - Admiral Cradock took its accolade. - These are its victories--to be afraid, - To hear thin bugles sounding “The Last Post,” - Until the blood creeps noiseless as a ghost - And cold, and all we cherished is betrayed. - That is the sword’s way. Those who lose shall have; - And only those who in defeat have known - The bitterness of death, and stood alone - In darkness, shall have worship in the grave. - Swordsman, go into battle, and record - How one more English knight has found his sword! - - - - - FRANCE. - - - To-day you’ll find by field and ditch - The small invasion of the vetch: - And where they sleep rest-harrow will - Follow upon the daffodil. - - These in their soft disordered ranks - Withstand and overcome the Tanks; - And the small unconsidered grass - Cries to the gunner “On ne passe.” - - The corn outlasts the bayonet, - Whose blades no blood nor rust can fret, - Or only the immortal rust - Of poppies failing in their thrust. - - The line these hold no force can break, - Nor their platoons advancing shake, - Whose wide offensive wave on wave - Doth make a garden of a grave. - - These with the singing lark conspire - To veil with loveliness the wire, - While he ascending cleans the stain - In heaven of the aeroplane. - - These in the fields and open sky - Reverse the errors of Versailles, - Who with a natural increase - From year to year establish peace. - - For all the living these will cloak - The things they spoiled, the hearts they broke; - And where these heal the earth will be - For all the dead indemnity. - - - - - ALCHEMY. - - - When Kew found spring, and we found Kew, - Gold was the London that we knew-- - The gold of gold whose metal is - As yellow as the primroses. - - London’s Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington, - In heaven heard the carillon - “Turn again;” London after all - Is paved with gold by Chiswick Mall. - - But afterwards the town was sold - To a mad alchemist for gold, - Who used his art to change, instead - Of lead to gold, the gold to lead. - - If where the streets to Hampstead twist - You meet a doting alchemist - Seeking lost gold, refuse him pity; - He changed us when he changed the city! - - - - - ORPHEUS. - - - What Orpheus whistled for Eurydice - (While all the shades were silent, achingly - Holding out hands, and hands stretched evermore - In a vain longing for the further shore). - - The blue smoke floats - Lazily in the dawn above the white - Flat roof you knew, and somewhere out of sight - A child is singing the old Linus song, - Sweeter because the baby voice goes wrong - --The little goatherd calling to her goats. - - There’s a small hill - On which the olive trees you used to call - Athene’s little sisters, now grown tall, - Watch all day long the coming of the child, - And you’ll remember how the brook, else wild, - About these pastures suddenly grows still. - - There’s such a peace, - Save where a wandering beast shakes on its bell, - You’d almost think the trees had learned a spell - From their wise sister (or from you) to bless - A baby frightened of the loneliness, - Tending her herd and waiting by the trees. - - Ah! certainly - There are two things are stronger than the fates-- - A lover’s song in Hell, a child that waits. - The shadows lengthen. Ere the night descend - On earth, O sweetheart, Mother, friend - Win out of Hell! Return Eurydice! - - - - - THE WIND. - - - What is there left? The wind makes answer - “I saw the green leaves grow brown and fall; - I danced with the shadows, I the dancer - Among bare branches. For I,” he saith, - “Hear the thin music whistle and call, - Music, horn-music, the music of death.” - - “There stands at the edge of the wood the player - Dark in the darkness, but I have seen, - Ere my feet were lifted, the branches stir. - Darker than dark, than light more fair, - Before I have come he slips between; - But I, the dancer,” wind saith, “do not care.” - - “The leaves have fallen and who shall discover - What there is left in the blackened tree? - And who will know when the years are over, - Among bare branches if I,” wind saith, - “Dance where the shadows and music be, - Music, horn-music, the music of death?” - - - - - GABRIEL. - - - Suppose I gave you what my heart has given-- - A door to dreams, a little road to heaven. - Would you pass through the door, my dreams forgetting, - And turn the corner when my sun is setting? - - So I should only have (as I have only) - Your hair remembered, eyes that left me lonely, - A mouth as cold as roses, and the kiss - Of Gabriel, sealing love’s defeat with this! - - - - - OPALS AND AMBER. - - - Call it an age, call it a day, - What’s in the world with love away? - The sun a round and golden ghost, - The moon the shadow he has lost; - And spring herself for all her green - The bare and brown a pause between. - Call it an age, call it a day, - When love is gone, what’s there to say? - - Opal or gold, amber or gray, - What’s in the world with love away? - Opal a pool of changeling fires, - Where the gold angel stirs desires - That do not heal Bethesda way - But only turn the amber gray. - Call it an age, call it a day, - When love is gone, what’s there to say? - - Call it a dream, call it a play, - What’s in the world with love away? - With love away can a man clamber - To heaven by a rope of amber? - Or can an opal stretch a wire - To lead a girl to her desire? - - Amber and opal--but I remember - Love that was better than opal or amber. - Call it an age, call it a day, - What’s in the world with love away? - - - - - AFTER BATTLE. - - - After the fighting - Comes not sudden peace, but weariness; - A gloom no lighting - Of little lamps of jest or speech unravels, - But for the brain and body endless travels, - Twisting and turning like the lovers hurled - For punishment athwart the underworld, - Twisting and turning and no respite sighting. - - After the living - Comes not relief, but a grey level gloom, - When the heart beats as in a padded room - With wild shapes moving-- - Silence imploring and from silence flying, - Praying to life and all athirst for dying. - Tearing lost dreams and for the torn dreams weeping, - Fearing to wake, tumultuously sleeping. - - * * * * * - - Death’s a poor leech with worn-out simples striving - To heal in vain the malady of living. - - - - - MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. - - - When the stir and the movement are over, - When you that had the lightness of a wind - Or the poise of some swift bird - Burn no longer in any man’s mind, - And your voice in no man’s heart is heard, - Who in the world will dare to be a lover? - - Would any being hurt in the night be crying - “O God! her little mouth that with a kiss - Drank all a man; and--God! her weaving fingers!” - Would any of another dare say this? - Will there be other women, other singers? - I wish with you and me love might be dying. - - - - - DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME. - - (Version.) - - - You have the way of a blossom, - Cold petal with April green, - And you melt the heart in the bosom - As your beauty enters in. - - I will fold my hands together, - Asking of God for you - Always in April weather - Cold petal and colder dew. - - - - - CAMBRIDGE. - - - All that I know of Cambridge-- - The colleges and that indulgent air - Of a great gentleman who is content - That lesser men should make experiment - With life, for which he does not vastly care-- - Is that you tell me you were happy there. - - All that I’ll say of Cambridge-- - Though in her courts Apollo lose the art - Of immortality to find it where - Rupert was used to walk at Grantchester-- - Is that for me Cambridge is but a part - Of greater beauties than inform your heart. - - - - - A ROOM IN BOHEMIA. - - - The sun is shining in the August weather - In the little room and, I suppose, - Gilding the painted parrot on the wall, - The truckle-bed, the table and the rose - Of the poor carpet that we bought together. - And from the street the muted voices call - As though we saw, as though we heard it all. - - - - - VICTORY. - - - Let it be written down, while still the wound - Festers and there is horror in the world - At what was done and suffered, while unfurled - The wings of death are dark upon the ground. - Let it be written “Death we have not found - The worst, though death is evil, nor the curled - Fangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurled - The tracery of old cities, when no sound - - Is in their broken streets. But there’s an ape - Out of the slime into the spirit creeping, - That twists mankind back, back into the shape - That mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping. - Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rust - As their flame dies and smoulders into lust.” - - - - - CLEOPATRA. - - - Why should I care for love? The urgent rose-- - What does she promise the heart and what fulfill? - “Delight, delight” she whispers, and she goes ... - But love the rose outbidding is falser still. - - Why should I care for love? But hush, oh hush! - What bird is singing in the dawn “Forget - The spring,” and, you,--have you forgotten, thrush?... - But love the thrush outsinging is falser yet. - - Why should I care for love? Love does not care - Whether you care or do not care, says she! - But ask your lips how the rose smells in my hair, - If the thrush beats at my heart--here--Anthony! - - - - - MEDUSA. - - - In your black hair are there not nightingales - Singing in the dark, and when you let it down - Is there no stir in the air of tiniest sails - That ever on lost seas of song were blown? - - In your black hair the heart of Hyacinth - Laments the daylight he shall see no more, - And flowers are red as in the labyrinth - The red eyes of the crazy Minotaur. - - In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakes - That twine themselves about Laocoon, - How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaks - Before they strike and turn it into stone. - - - - - THE JUNGLE. - - - Truth is the fourth dimension. By her grace - Motion, the idiot of time and space, - Grows reasonable, so that the spirit sees - Behind the aimless drag of categories - The moving centuries, whose gestures mirror - And dissipate the cloudy shapes of error. - O there’s the long way back, the dawns that scatter - Like startled birds about the spirit, and chatter - Of animal voices seeking lucid speech - In colonies of darkness. Truth can stretch, - Though motionless, and set a hatchet blazing - A path through the jungle where an ape is gazing - At the edge of a little light, with dripping muzzle, - Black writhing palms, and eyes a drowsy puzzle - Of fears and beastlike hopes. Then the light reaches - His pelt and holds him fast. In vain he snatches - At the sheltering trees, in vain the leafy dance - Down the long avenues of ignorance. - Knowledge and the pain of knowledge fly beside him, - And, where the leaves are darkest, clutch and ride him - Until he sloughs the shape of beast and can - Stand in the dawn upon his feet a man. - - But the jungle is not cleared, and still the shapes - Of time and space and error move like apes. - - - - - THE PENCIL. - - - With this golden pencil--write - “Written words must serve for sight. - For the broken lights that stirred - Wedded eyes the complete word. - - Written words the trembling nerve - Of the lover’s ear must serve. - Laughter’s done and tears are over-- - Written words, instead, my lover. - - Words that have no scent must tell - How the secret jonquils smell - In your hair, and words protest - There are jonquils at your breast. - - Written words the gift must waste, - When the very air hath taste - Of your lip, the sweets that part - Love’s soft mouth and reach the heart. - - Separable these await - For the fifth to consummate, - That are nothing, each alone, - But all heaven joined in one. - - This, being lost, had hurt too much, - Here are words instead of touch.” - - Therefore write and break the lead - “Love that was alive is dead.” - - - - - COLUMBINE. - - - If any ask, O tell them that the moon - Was lit in heaven when Queen Ashtaroth - Beat at her lamp and fell upon the swoon - Of love that soars in fire to fall a moth. - - If any ask, O tell them that for this - Priam’s great city of Troy was sacrificed, - For love that is as bitter as the kiss - Of Judas the Iscariot, slaying Christ. - - If any ask, O tell them it is well, - Though love comes like the swallow and flies as soon: - Who has not found his heaven in the Hell - Of love unsatisfied beneath the moon? - - - - - THE CROWDER’S TUNE. - - - The crowder’s tune - Down a street in Babylon-- - His fiddle to the moon - With notes like stars that one by one - Glittered upon the empty street, - Glittered and laughed and went - (But there was a lisp of ghostly feet) - To build a firmament. - - “Who walks by night in Babylon? - ‘I,’ said a lady, ‘because - Of the wonderful thing I was, - And the beautiful things all done, - I walk in Babylon.’ - - Who seeks for a lady by night? - ‘I,’ said a king, ‘My throne - Is empty in Babylon. - She fled from the light to the light, - I seek for a lady by night.’ - - Who calls by night in Babylon? - ‘They,’ answered love, ‘Yes over and over - She calls to her God, but he to his lover, - And each of them walks by night alone, - And they will not meet in Babylon.’” - - The crowder played - His little tune, almost - As though he were afraid - Of some forgotten ghost - Awakening, - And crying on the string - Of what was lost - And would not come - Again. - He feared in vain. - For the ghost, the ghost is dumb - Of love that is past over, - And the merciless laughter of the moon - Pursues the ghostly lover, - Till in the empty street - There’s an end of the lisp of feet, - And the crowder breaks his fiddle and the tune, - And all the stars are gone - In Babylon. - - - - - ENVOI. - - - Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-bus - Takes and shakes the three of us. - When first we went, there were but two - In Epping Forest, I and you. - - That summer as I understand - A forester from fairyland - Set a notice up, “No road,” - By the ways our feet had trod. - - No one came and no one knew, - When the spring returned and blue - Flowers burned, how deep behind - Burned the blossoms of the mind. - - No one guessed and no one heard - How beyond the singing bird, - Some one sang in solitude - In the wood within the wood. - - No one watched the years go by - (Not even you, not even I), - In the wood alone apart - Green and waiting in the heart. - - Till last week the forester - Heard a little footstep stir, - Took his notice down and smiled - At the coming of a child. - - Conquering the solitude - A child is laughing in the wood. - Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-bus - Takes us back the three of us. - - -_Printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford._ - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shylock reasons with Mr. Chesterton, by -Humbert Wolfe - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. *** - -***** This file should be named 61440-0.txt or 61440-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61440/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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