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diff --git a/old/64783-0.txt b/old/64783-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e80219a..0000000 --- a/old/64783-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2027 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mortal Summer, by Mark Van Doren - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Mortal Summer - -Author: Mark Van Doren - -Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64783] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was - produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital - Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORTAL SUMMER *** - - - - -_MORTAL SUMMER_ - - - - - MORTAL - SUMMER - - _by_ - Mark Van Doren - - [Illustration] - - The Prairie Press - IOWA CITY - - - - -_Copyright 1953 by Mark Van Doren_ - -_Printed in the United States of America_ - - - - -MORTAL SUMMER - - - - - I - - [Illustration] - - - The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus - On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels - Even then were coming--even then - Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced - Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying, - Flying toward the ship all ten would take-- - The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids - Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed - And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods - Gazed at each other, wonderful again. - The sweet sleep of centuries was over, - If only as in dream; if only a mortal - Summer woke them out of endless death. - - The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly, - Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell. - - “It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered, - Tightening his sandals. “All at once, - And equally, we woke. Apollo there--” - The musical man-slayer listened and frowned-- - “And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite - Yawned at the very instant Artemis did, - With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith, - Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others, - Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares, - Scowling, and more quietly in her - The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew, - He found it; and of course in Aphrodite, - Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless - Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs. - “It was not I,” said Hermes. - Thunder sounded, - Weakly and far away. And yet no distance - Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern: - Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven - Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room. - There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners - Of a still greater person, one who changed - The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida. - Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder - Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled - As ever the proud seven, until Hermes - Listened and leaned, then spoke. - “It was the king - Our father. He has willed that we should wander, - Even as in a dream, and be the gods - Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream - He sends us, to a circle of small hills-- - Come, for I see the place!” - That suffered thunder - Sounded again, agreeing; and they went. - Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun - Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light - Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved. - No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here, - Would have discovered deity. The brambles - Hid as they ever had this stony hole - Whence seven had been wakened, and where still, - Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept. - - Invisible to suns, the seven gathered - Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there, - The Aegean, and a ship without a sail - Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus - Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled, - And waved for six to follow as down world - He leapt. - They landed, all of them, as lightly - As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow - Of the tramp _Jonathan B. Travis_, bound - Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest, - Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream - Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there, - Not one of these high seven, in the old - Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves, - To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors - Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still - At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel. - - But who were these arriving, these gaunt three - On giant wings that folded as they fell - And staggered, then stood upright? Even now - Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel - Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael. - From nearer Asia, lonely a long while, - They had come flying, sick of the desert silence, - Sick of the centuries through which no lord, - No king of the host, had blessed them with command. - As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry, - They had come hither, hopeful of these seven, - Hopeful of noble company, of new act. - Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor - Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis-- - Fingering their bows--as Hermes reared - On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite, - Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear - More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus, - Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints - Athene only studied where she stood. - - “Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever-- - Pardon this--you were, sail now as we do, - And be the gods of strangers far to west. - If only as in dream the vessel draws us, - Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire--” - But the three stared so sadly over the waves - That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel - Whispered with him alone while dolphins played - As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered. - - Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved - Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured: - “Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still, - Though silent. It is listening for his thunder - That leans us. He is busy with new folk, - New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice. - We have not learned that language--humble words, - With never death or danger in the message. - A star stood still above a stable once, - And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.” - “Our sire,” said Hermes, “--he too sleeps away - Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune. - Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded. - - The steel that sliced the water swung at length, - And in three days they nosed between the Pillars; - Past which--and the ten all shuddered--monsters once - Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs - Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile - Slid under them, familiar as a meadow - To the small men they watched amid the smoke. - Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands, - The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors, - And a deep whistle groaning. - “Now!” said Hermes, - “Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing, - Or no-wing like their leader, and went on, - High over chimneys and chill rivers, north - By west till it was there--the rounded valley, - Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns - And people, patient, waited for hot June. - - - - - II - - - Daniel was mending fence, for it was May, - And early rains had painted the drear pastures. - He walked, testing the wire, and wished again - For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody. - Berrien would never notice it on the shelf; - Berrien would never bring it. A good wife, - But scornful of the comforts. A good woman, - Who never guessed the outrage he had done her. - New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered-- - And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there. - He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire, - And snagged himself--here, in the palm of his hand. - A little blood came which he wiped away. - He did miss that tobacco. And he did, - He did loathe simple Dora--warm and simple, - Who with her dark head nodding close to his, - On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage. - He would forget her if he could; and old - Darius, her profane, her grizzled father. - So proud of her he was, and kept so neat - The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one - Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison. - Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing? - Darius--did he guess? And Doctor Smith-- - Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off, - Unmindful of the beautiful May morning. - Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious? - He had been born for Dora, she for him; - And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang - So slyly, writing ruin in cold air! - Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back - At the wild barb that bit him. - Who was that? - For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence, - Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy - And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand - A pipe--for all the township Daniel’s own! - - “Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way - Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges. - It gave itself to me, but you can have it.” - - Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved-- - For someone did--Daniel could not distinguish-- - From the far border of the field. The small - Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held - Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm. - - He must ask Berrien, he said at noon, - If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove. - He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen, - How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf. - For so it had, into his very pocket. - - “Berrien!” he called. But she was busy - With her own bother. - “Daniel, a woman’s here-- - Wants to stay and board all summer--wants - To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no, - But maybe--” - Who was the gold one, listening there - And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder - And lighting the front room with little smiles? - A faded gold one, well beyond her prime, - But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned - And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated, - Said he would think, would figure. - In the end - She stayed, the theater woman; and that night - Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed - In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.” - How could she know of Dora? It was a dream, - Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed, - All in one day, the longing he denied? - There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart-- - That sweetened as he said it--there was no hate - For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too, - Standing beside the theater woman and weeping, - And holding her simple hands out so he could say: - “Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years, - Tomorrow I will tell the world about us. - You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel; - I have been absent, darling, from your pain. - Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you, - And bear if I can the--pleasure.” - Then he woke, - And none but Berrien watched him in the room-- - Berrien, who ever after watched him, - Night and day detesting this pale witch - Who came and went and charmed him. - So she thought, - Said Daniel, never answering her eyes. - For him there were no hours now save those dark ones - When the pair came. At midnight they would be there, - Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning, - Starting from his pillow, he would mutter: - “Tomorrow is today. Then I must go - To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited - Always upon another secret midnight; - And witnessed every noon how the gold woman, - Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know - Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one. - - - - - III - - - Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous - With his own name--evil, could he but hear it. - Darius had discovered his sweet daughter’s - Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause; - And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded. - Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching - How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken-- - “Daniel.” And the kill was on. - A soldier, - Footing it home from Canada, stood by - With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank. - He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes - Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered-- - And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel, - Less than the sore so sudden in his breast, - So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure, - Was a weak thing at first--this brawny witness - Shone like a savior in the old one’s eyes, - The little old one, dancing in his fury - As he repeated “Daniel”; and made doubly - Sure that Dora’s corner room was bolted. - Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled - Soldier had spat curses on that name, - “Daniel,” and had spun a scheme for them-- - Perfection, he declared it, of revenge-- - Darius called him blessed. “You’d have failed me, - Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf - And licked this devil’s hand, but for that sergeant. - Who sent him here, I wonder?” - “I don’t know,” - Said Bruce, his mind on Dora’s room. “Is she--” - “Yes, she’s in there. And stays there till we’ve finished. - When do we go and do it? Think of that-- - Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful - Thing.” Darius nudged him, and they dropped - Their voices. - Dora, listening, heard little, - Crouched by her door. Bruce--he mustn’t do it. - Bruce--he was the only thing she wanted - In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel; - But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn’t do it, - Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood - And cried to him; but only heard Darius - Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence. - - “When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon - Does best for our good purpose--damn his bones! - Two shotguns--that’s enough--then home, then here-- - That’s it, and neither knows of it next day. - We’ll even shed a hot tear, being told! - When do we do it, boy?” - But Bruce was slow: - Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora - Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins, - He almost lost his purpose as she held him, - Wetting his face with tears. - “Listen!” she whispered. - “I have been down to Doctor, and his new nurse - Knows--I can’t guess how--knows everything. - A beautiful, tall woman, and her friend - The teacher--she is like her. Colder, though, - With different, with grey eyes. The new nurse says--” - “What, Dora, what does she say?” - “Oh, no, I can’t-- - I’ll never, never tell you.” - As she ran - He followed, farther into the still woods; - Then stopped as she did, startled. For those two-- - It must be those two new ones, those tall women-- - Pondered the carcass of a fawn, a spotted - Three-months fawn that dogs had torn at the throat. - - It was the nurse that knelt, lifting brown eyes - In sorrow, scarcely knowing Dora there. - The other one bent down to her. - “Stand up. - They both are here. The boy, too.” - Level voiced, - The teacher touched her friend’s hair. - “Stand up, stand up. - The fawn is dead. These others--” - “Yes, I know. - I heard, I saw them. But consider death. - Consider this young death awhile, and say-- - But softly--of what it is the paradigm. - Do not disdain one death, one single death; - And when we can, prevent.” - The grey eyes cooled, - Consenting. So the sorrowful one arose. - “Come here,” she said to Dora, and to Bruce - Behind her. “We were walking in the woods, - My visitor and I; we saw this sight.” - - But Bruce and Dora stared at only her, - So beautiful, so tall, and at the other - Strange one by her side. - “We had been talking, - Children, of you two. No matter if Daniel - Loves you, little girl of the dark eyes--” - - “He doesn’t!” Dora shuddered. “If he could, - He’d have it that I never lived on earth. - He hates it, having to remember me. - And that’s all right. I want it so. But Bruce--” - - “Will be, my dear, the father of your--listen, - Listen! You start away.” - For both had broken - Breath, as if with running, and only the hands - Of the grey-eyed, the firm one, held them there. - “I mean,” and the tall beautiful one blinked, - Twitching the green selvage of her skirt, - “The foster father. He is young for that; - Yet he is to be, my child, the chosen one - Who saves you, and saves it--the life you carry. - Your husband. Nothing less. And not in dream.” - - Bruce turned his head in fear that old Darius - Listened--was it he among the hemlocks, - Stepping so lightly? - But the foliage opened - For a fair, smiling face, and the broad shoulders, - Burdened with straps, of one who tramped these hills - By summer, following signs. A brilliance round him, - Caused by no sun, for none came through the branches, - Struck silence from all four; until the nurse, - Nodding as if she knew him, said: “Due north, - Pilgrim, is there. Your compass--have you lost it? - Well, north is that way”--pointing--“but stand here - In patience for some seconds; then we two - Will guide you back to town for better bearing. - Can you be patient?” - “Thank you, yes.” The giant - Smiled at her once again. - “You see, my small one, - Bruce there by your side would break and run, - Fearing his sweet fate. He even wonders - Whether some partner, deep in another plan, - Listens and chides him.” - Staring, the boy blushed. - Then, fearful, he looked up and met her eyes, - The nurse’s distant eyes, that fixed him gently. - “My friend here--she will tell you more than I can - Of the black folly born of feud. Attend her.” - - But the still teacher only parted wide - Her capable cool lids, and let him see - Agreement flash between them. - “Someone’s death”-- - She forced the words at last--“is cheap to buy. - A minute of man’s time, and breathing stops. - The cost is in the echo; for to cease - Makes sound. So you will hear it coming home, - The rumor of that death. My friend is right. - Marry the maiden.” - But the words came strangely, - Out of some older earth, and even she - The speaker knew their failure; for she frowned. - Bruce turned his head again, fearing the hemlock - Heard. Yet no one listened there; no fourth one - Followed this lofty fellow who in patience - Folded his arms and smiled--as if he too - Had knowledge, and agreed with the grey eyes. - As Dora did, said Bruce. And yet Darius-- - He paled at the grim image, and remembered, - Suddenly, that soldier; whose disgust - If the dear purpose foundered was itself - A death, along with Dora’s yesterday. - Daniel. Who but Daniel was the father - Of a whole world’s confusion? - And his anger, - Running before him, took him from this place, - This glade where three, left thoughtful, were as figures - Molded of shadow. Dora was gone with Bruce, - Gasping and crying “Wait!” - But the three tall ones - Listened to nothing human. Hermes came. - - - - - IV - - - Hermes came, and hailing his three peers, - Spoke Aphrodite’s name; whose beautiful laughter - Answered as she glistened in their midst-- - No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus - Hove into their view, and all of the others, - Manifest together. This was where, - In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet, - To sit sometimes and say how the world went, - Mortal and immortal. - “You of the golden - Shoulders,” Hermes said, “bring dreams to one - Who lived in peace without them.” - “Lived in hate, - In loathing of those very limbs he fondled-- - Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!” And her insolent - Laughter shook the listening green leaves. - “Yet he would have forgotten, and his only - Danger been from Ares”--who was there, - Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke-- - “From the two minions, old and young, of Ares. - Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind - And fury; but the damage that you do, - Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins, - Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments - The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy, - Goddess.” And he waited. But her lips, - Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented - Artemis. - “The man was free of longing, - And the dark maid of him,” the huntress said, - “Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams. - Then Ares--common soldier--fanned the fire - In those you call his minions.” Hermes nodded. - “And so our plan’s perplexed before it ripens. - Athene, Michael--tell them how we stood, - Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function.” - - But it was known among them even then, - And so no witness needed. Aphrodite, - Secure in beauty’s pride, tilted her head - To hear, intending mockery of the tale. - But the wise one withheld it, and majestic - Michael only folded his broad wings - As Gabriel did, as Raphael. - Yet that last one, - Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis, - Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused: - - “The young one when he comes--in what men call - The fall of their brief year--the roofless infant-- - It was for him we planned. And still we do--” - She dared the glittering goddess--“still we seek - Safe birth for the small mother, and for him - The wailing, the unwanted.” - Crooked Hephaestus, - Clearing his mild throat, remarked in modesty: - “The man works well and silently. He loves, - In solitude, the comfort of my fire. - And so in a bowl I brought it. As for her-- - He will not have her near him. I was by; - I read his thoughts of this.” - “Absurd contriver! - Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt! - As ever, you know nothing.” Aphrodite - Sparkled with rage, reviling him. “You saw - By daylight, and at labor in the field - One whom that very night I made my slave. - Off to your anvil, ass!” - But Hermes calmed - Their quarrel, lifting his either hand in grace. - “Without our father’s thunder we are fools - And children. Who decides when lesser gods, - When angels disagree? Authority absent, - Silence--a silver silence--that is best.” - And like a song they heard it, and they wondered, - Measuring its notes. Until Apollo, - Lord of the muses, laughed. - “You heard me humming. - All to myself I sang it--with sealed lips.” - - “What did you sing?” said Hermes. - “Nothing, nothing. - My sisters round the world--a sweet wind brought me, - Sleepily, this air.” - He hummed again, - And this time closed his eyes. “Perhaps I see,” - He said, “some silver moment coming soon-- - Necessity for music. But not now.” - - Nor could those other nine foresee the summer. - Already, in mid June, high long days - Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit, - Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man, - No god distinguished more in this green time - Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter. - In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting-- - Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word-- - Still did not spare the beautiful dream body - She sent to him by dark, when Dora too - Lived by his side and loved him: standing there - In the shed radiance of one who smiled - And smiled, and burned his reticence away. - For he would go to Dora--come July, - Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening - As night died between him and the windows, - He would go there, he would, and say it all; - He would have Dora, small in his long arms, - Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought - Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes, - So that he never went. - And had he gone, - What Dora would have seen him come and shivered? - One whom as strong a dream--if it was a dream-- - Estranged. It was of having, yet not having, - Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t-- - He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away - The vision--Bruce must never let it be. - The nurse--he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did-- - And then she wept. - Darius in the morning, - Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose. - He should conceal it better. She was afraid, - Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell. - That boy--he was so hard to keep in anger. - He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool. - That boy, the center of confusion’s cross, - For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius - Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day, - All night the dream of lying in clear peace - Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora; - That boy was whom the strangers in this valley - Watched while the moments went; while June decayed; - While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell. - - - - - V - - - A hundred people coming to the barn dance, - The barn dance at MacPherson’s, saw the full moon. - It hung there like a lantern in the low east, - Enormous and blood red, and stationary. - Daniel came, and Berrien, with that woman-- - So fair, she seemed unnatural--between them. - She must have made them bring her, someone said; - And laughed. - But no one laughed when Dora came. - She was so pitiful in her loose coat, - Concealing, healing nothing. Would she dance? - If only with Bruce Hanna, would she dance? - Too late for it, some whispered; and some blamed - The silly boy. To let her show like that! - The nurse, the doctor’s nurse, and her tall friend - The teacher--no one dreamed those two, those two-- - They stood by their grand selves, and no one saw - How Bruce, how Dora lived but in their glances. - - Then all the strangers. When the music started, - Who but a giant--handsome, with tow hair-- - Bowed to the grand ones? And to more - Beyond them? For a pair of unknown farmers, - Lanky and cave-eyed, leaned bony shoulders - Where a great upright shaded the rude floor. - From the next valley, maybe, like this lame - Pedlar; like the soldier; like that lightfoot - Traveller, the one with pointed ears, - The one with cropped hair and a twisted staff, - Who wandered in the crowd, watching and watched. - The shepherd of the strangers? Yet no word - Between them, and no look, Darius said-- - Darius, who had eyes for everything; - And ears, when music started. - “One more couple! - One more couple!” Glendy the clear-caller - Shouted while harmonicas, like locusts, - Shrilled, and while Young Gus tuned his guitar. - “One more couple!” - Here they came. - “Join hands - And circle left!” - Darius heard the words - Above him, in the corner where by Glendy - And the harmonicas he tapped the floor. - His was the curious, the musicians’ corner, - Whence he could see how Dora sat and trembled, - Wondering what next--why she was here. - “The dog!” he growled, catching on Daniel’s face, - In a far corner, hunger and indifference - Fighting. Hunger--damn him--for my child, - My child, Darius said, whom he has changed; - And smothering this, the smoke of a pretence - That nothing here was wrong, nothing at all. - The soldier had come back. Darius saw him. - Red-eyed, drinking water by a droplight, - And his own conscience hurt him. Daniel lived. - If Bruce could only raise his eyes a little-- - But they were hangdog, or were fixed in fear - On those two stranger women. Why in fear? - - The music, though. - “Swing your corner lady!” - Darius, rocking gently on his heels, - Was lost again in that, and in the wild - Mouth organs, going mournful overhead. - “First two gents cross over!” In his thought - He crossed; he took that partner by the hand; - He swung her, swung her, swung her, you know where. - He promenaded, proudly, and he clapped - His palms, that sweated bravely. Then the swinging - Ceased. The set was over. And he sang: - “Good boy, Gus! That was calling, old man Glendy!” - They winked at him, wiping their foreheads off; - Then soon another set. And still he listened - And watched, and still he saw how Dora sat, - Trembling, and never danced. - But once the soldier, - Slouching to her side, made mockery signs - Suggesting that she stand. Darius started - In anger; then he stopped, for Bruce was up, - Explaining--yet avoiding the brute stare; - And Daniel, in his corner, clenched both fists. - Even the strangers knew, for one came over-- - The one with such a neat head on his body, - And the curled stick--as if to beat away - Wild boars escaped here. That was good, was good, - Darius said; then listened as the music - Whispered again. - Whispered. - For the tune - Had altered. Where was Glendy? Who was this - Where Glendy had been standing? And what ailed, - What softened so the clamor of the mouth harps? - - “One more couple!” - Who was the intruder, - Calling in so sweet, so low a voice, - Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd, - Heedless of any difference, swirled on, - Loving its evolutions, and no head - Turned hither. - “Take your Dora by the hand--” - Darius, looking up, saw how the silver - Light of the full moon, mature at zenith, - Fell on the singer. Through one gable window - It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery - Singer. He was slender, he was strange; - And the high moon--it burned for none but him. - - “Where’s Glendy, Gus?” - “Took sick.” - The loud guitar, - Hesitating, rallied and persevered; - But modified its note to a new sweetness, - A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked, - Listened, and looked again at the mysterious - Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled. - - Take your Dora by the hand, - Your little Dora, grown so large. - By another she was manned, - But she is now your loving charge. - - Mercy marries you, my boy, - And mercy--oh, it is unjust. - But it was born of truth and joy, - And lives with misery if it must. - - Darius, and then Daniel, comprehending, - Stared at a hundred dancers who did not. - Heedless of any change, they stamped and swung, - Those hundred, as if Glendy still were here-- - Old Glendy, whose thin throat still mastered them. - Yet Daniel saw how Dora, dropping her eyes, - Sat silent, deathly silent; and how Bruce, - Guardian to her, looked only down-- - Looked everywhere save at the singer, singing: - - Take your Dora by the hand. - There is life within her waist. - And there is woe, unless you stand - And love with bravery is graced. - - So all the world will know her wed, - And all the people call it yours-- - The life within her, small and red; - And wrathful, were it none but hers. - - With you beside her all is well. - She will be tended in her time. - There is more that I could tell, - But Glendy now resumes the rhyme. - - “Circle four!” - Darius, and then Daniel, - Dazed, regarded Glendy once again. - The moonlit one was gone, and only these - Had seen him--these and Dora, and dumb Bruce. - And all of the nine strangers. For they too - Had listened; bending their bodies, they had weighed, - Had witnessed every word as it arrived; - Had watched the boy’s confusion; then the girl’s; - Then both together, as if woe had wed - Already the poor lovers. - “Nelly Gray!” - The hundred dancers, heedless, went right on; - And only Berrien’s boarder, the gold woman - Who stood so close by Daniel--only that one - Kindled. Then she blazed, and Daniel, blushing, - Knew she had found his thought. - So I have lost her-- - This was his thought--have lost her. Then my love - Must die, and no man know it. He was true, - That singer. It is not my life she carries-- - Dora, who was mine for that cold minute; - Dora, whom I never can forget. - - The eyes of the theater woman burned so fiercely, - Punishing his own, that Daniel shook. - How could she guess his trouble? Only in dreams - She knew it, only in dreams, when Dora came. - Only in darkness. “Now she disapproves, - She probes me.” - But the woman looked away, - Suddenly, and signalled to the soldier; - Who, nodding, went to stand before Darius. - Daniel saw him there, gesticulating, - With his feet spread, as if he meant to spring, - To throttle someone. And Darius blinked. - But music and the distance drowned their words. - - And now the tall nurse, bending over Dora, - Whispered to her and Bruce; and the boy, rising, - Reached for a small hand. The singer had said - To take it, and he took it, and pulled up - The girl who still was trying to be free, - To save him. - And the music never stopped. - “Kiss her if you dare!” cried old man Glendy. - And many a dancer did. But neither Bruce - Nor Dora, arm in arm, had present ears. - They listened still to what the other singer, - Gone now as the moon was from the window, - Sang and sang again, as if his silvery - Face never had faded. Arm in arm - They walked among the dancers to the big door; - Arm in arm, sleepwalking, they went forth, - Under the slant moon, and disappeared. - - - - - VI - - - Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves - When a swift body passes west, pursued them. - But Daniel never stirred. - Nor old Darius-- - Neither did he listen as the sergeant - Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes - Till most of him was fire. “Follow him home, - The fool. He is forgetting it--the purpose. - Tear him free. He softens in her arms - To the sick sound of ‘Father.’” - But Darius, - Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly: - “I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended, - She will not go alone. He is a good boy, - Bruce. I never coupled her with him. - It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldier - Left him, spitting disgust. - And Daniel saw - How all of the fair strangers followed soon-- - All of them, as if they were a company. - They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiled - In the same grave degree, as if some secret - Bound them. - And he thought the dapper one, - Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick, - His curlicue of a cane--whatever it was-- - Communicated thus to the gold woman - That she too must away. But she was Daniel’s, - Berrien’s; she was not of any company, - Wandering, like this one. She had come - Alone to them, in May, and she would go-- - Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body, - Her beautiful dream body, that was his, - Was his alone. - And suddenly his sadness - Doubled. For the singer had left living - None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone, - A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered - Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man, - A noble dead man, numbering his loss. - Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too-- - In fall--he would be losing this one too, - In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking, - Here, with that lithe one calling from the door. - For there he was, the last one to go through, - And Daniel thought the signal came again: - An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff, - His vine that had the strength to stand alone. - - But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel, - Worshiping her now. She seemed as near, - He whispered to himself, as lamplight must, - At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush - Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on. - Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms, - Her eyes, took hold of everything in him - And hurt it. - “So you let her go,” she said. - “You shadow of a man, you let her go. - Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light, - In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised, - Crushing it with yours--and yet you would not, - For it is white, is small, and precious to you-- - Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow - Falls on you for lover--disobedient - Lover of that girl whom still you crave!” - - Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken? - Berrien still watched the weary dancers - Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words? - And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge - Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night - When her own body slept in her own bed. - How could she understand? And what untruth - Was working in her, making these sweet sounds? - Their honey was more false for being heard - By him, by only him. That other singer-- - He had been true. And troubling. But his song - Was never to be lost now. Dora was, - Forever. And he said it must be so. - - The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes, - Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious, - Not to be contradicted. And her lips. - Lest the unparted lips again deliver - What was so loud, so terrible--though heard - By him, by only him--he spoke of home. - Berrien--wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was. - So with no words they went. - Some dancers saw them, - Picking their way, and winked at one another; - Daniel, with that artificial woman; - Berrien, with her boarder. What a household! - None of them looked happy. Three old-fashioned - People going home. The actress, too-- - An old, old timer, powdered up to kill, - And painted. You could see it--Indian summer - Everywhere. Yet once a pretty world. - - They could not see how beautiful she was. - Only for Daniel was she beautiful, - And for those others, strangers here with her, - Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove, - In their own forms, were watching. - Hermes leaned - Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass, - On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said: - “She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares, - She is not schooled in victory and defeat, - She is not skilful at surrender--save - The lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that. - She will not let him go, the farmer there, - While any of her poison works in him. - Ares, what if some of your new wisdom-- - You could persuade her, Ares.” - But the sullen - Soldier still was sullen, though a god; - He would not lift his face as Aphrodite, - Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way - With Daniel down the road. - “Apollo’s song,” - Said Hermes, “--it was all we needed then.” - He nodded, and the bright musician bowed. - “It was a potent song. The tough old man, - The tender young, the farmer in his heart-- - All four of them were changed. But now you see--” - He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite, - Dimming with her companions down the highway, - Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew - The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere, - Mingling as the moon did with the tops - Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice. - Artemis, more angry than the rest, - More like the moon, declining now so clear, - So cold, beyond the body of this grove, - Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,” - She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses, - Nothing but grief will grow where you and I--” - She took Athene’s hand--“have wisely tilled - And planted. Never then will the boy serve, - With loving care, my cause--the cause of the world, - Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world. - The farmer would have let the maiden go-- - Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure. - Or so we said who listened. Yet that one, - That laughing one, pursues him now and sings, - And sings--oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh, - What burden that may topple his intention? - Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal - His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would; - Even tonight you could.” - Hephaestus, pacing - Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg, - The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled. - “The farmer--he works well, and loves the fire - I gave him. Let him be.” - But none of them saw - His meaning, if he had one. He was lame - And foolish, and he muttered as he walked, - And turned and walked again, counting the steps - Between two oaks that limited his way. - The great angels watched him with their wings - Folded. Standing deeper in the shade, - They waited with the others while the moon - Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied - And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home. - - - - - VII - - - “Dora, do you take Bruce for your husband, - To cherish him, for better or for worse?” - The justice of the peace, Tobias Hapgood, - Peered over his dim glasses at the pair - Who said “I do, I do” among the dusty - Law books. - And there were three witnesses. - Darius in a white shirt stood between - Two others, old and little like himself: - The father of the groom--roundheaded, fumbling - Miserably at his tie--and full of tears - The mother, full of shame and happy tears. - - Her boy was being married. But to think-- - To think--and then the rest of it was weeping; - Was waiting till the four of them were home; - Was wondering how soon she could forget. - Dora would have his baby in her house. - And then she could forget. She wiped her eyes. - Darius here--now he would be alone, - And that perhaps was harder. So “I do” - Came distantly across the room as she compared - Their griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss, - Held on to one another, and held on - And on, as if the world would die this way, - She was content again. - But no one saw - Nine more in the brown room, or heard the voice - Of Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned, - What further end she strained for. All but Ares - Stood there, in no space the mortals knew, - The little mortals, mingling their low words - With these unheard, these high ones. Sullen Ares - Sulked on a far hill. But Aphrodite, - Resting her fair side against the law books, - Laughed; and the green goddess answered Hermes: - - “See? There still is mischief in one mind - Among us, there is insolence. The end? - She has not worked it yet. Beware of her - Who hates this thing we witness; it defeats - Her farmer, and she never will forgive.” - - The laughing goddess listened with her eyes - Turned elsewhere--on Hephaestus, whom she taunted, - Teasing him with glances at his broken - Foot, and at the thickness of his wrists. - “Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker! - You are not one of us. Then why do you creep - Each morning, crooked fool, and haunt the man? - You do, in the poor likeness of a mender-- - What is it that you mend? What is the word?” - - “Stoves.” - “I’ll not pronounce it. Such a word! - I scorn it. And scorn you. And yet I say-- - Remember my own strength, that can undo - The cunningest contriver. No more haunt - The man. By night, by morning, no more crawl-- - You hear?--and charm his sadness till it sleeps. - You think to cure his longing with some lessons, - Monger, in your art. But my own art - Is ultimate. Remember, and refrain.” - - Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles, - Refusing every glance until the rite - Was finished, and the people in the room - Departed. Then he ducked and disappeared, - Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-grey - Eyes of sage Athene. He was bound - For Daniel, whom he haunted every day - In the same likeness he had first assumed - When Daniel, missing the comfort of his pipe bowl, - Got it again, and wondered. - Bruce and Dora, - Heeled by their elders, one of whom still wept, - Went home another way; and the inaudible - Deities went home--to the green hilltop, - The high glade where Ares, though he heard, - Sent down no shout of welcome. Aphrodite, - Following to where the mountains forked, - Deserted there; dipping away and flying, - Like one of her own doves, to Daniel’s house. - - But Daniel stood with someone in the barn - By the new anvil he had bought, considering - Hot and cold; and how a hammer’s blow - Can bend the iron, not break it. - “When you came, - That day, and brought my pipe--I still am puzzled-- - How did you do it, man?” - “Look here! I take - This strip of ten-gauge, and I heat it thus-- - Pretend the forge is going--then I twist it, - So, until I have a perfect handle - For the fire tongs you need.” - No other answer. - “See? Now when you have the bellows going-- - Watch me--this is what the draft can do.” - No other answer. So the pupil bent, - Considering. - And neither of them saw-- - Or Daniel did not--bright eyes at the door, - Brimming with alien purpose. - “Your good wife,” - The woman said--and Daniel, starting round, - Saw how the gold one narrowed her long lids - Toward him who held the hammer--“sends for you. - She tells you this is wasting time, is wearing - The day out; is pure nothing. And she says-- - Dismiss the tinker. Let him go his way. - He is not wanted here.” - The hammer dropped. - But Daniel shook his head at her. - “She wouldn’t - Know. It isn’t woman’s work. Besides, - It keeps me safe from thinking certain thoughts. - She wouldn’t know that either. Or would you.” - - He flushed, remembering how much she knew - If dreams had body, and if at the dance - It was her own live lips that so rebuked him. - But no, that couldn’t be. He said it again, - And turned to the lame tinker. - “We’ll not stop, - For her or anybody. Tell me now--” - Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite, - Stamping her white foot, that all but showed - Immortal through the slipper, let them be. - - Yet not for long. The lame one in his room, - That night and every night, was pinched awake - By fingers he well knew; and knew as well - How in the darkness, sweating, to endure. - For he was steadfast--like his tossing pupil, - Daniel, in the bed where Berrien lay. - - Hour after hour, that night and every night, - Berrien strove to riddle his strange words, - His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept on - Refusing what was whispered. What was that? - Or was it anything? Was someone by them, - Whispering to him? She lay and wondered, - Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble, - Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing. - - But it was never nothing. Aphrodite, - Going between Hephaestus’ bed and his, - Was a changed goddess, bearing every charm - Of beauty she possessed, that he once more - Might madden. Dora came there too, he thought, - And wept in her first figure, the demure one, - The thin and still one, that was his again-- - “It is, it is!” the whisper at his side - Said tirelessly, “whenever you will reach - And take it. Be the lover you were then, - And take it, take it, take it. Go and be - Her lover; speak the truth as winter once, - As warmness, spoke it for you. Is it late? - Is there a foolish thing that now deforms her? - And for that thing a father? Is it published - That he is the thing’s foolish, foolish father? - Have none of it. Forget these moments since, - And take her. She is yours--see how she weeps - And wishes she had Daniel’s hands forever-- - Forever it could be, if you were bold - And shouted without shame the burning truth-- - Forever, Daniel, ever down her small - Smooth sides; or where her breasts, that breathed for you, - Might breathe again.” - He moaned and turned away, - Tormented. And sometimes the whisper died, - So that he looked again. It was an artful - Death, increasing torment, for the two - Shone there as always. They were never gone, - Those two, while August lasted; and while summer - Saddened on the stalk. - For rust had bent - The hayheads while he dreamed, and far to north - The feet of fall were coming. Daniel rose - Each day a wearier man, yet not apostate - Ever to his black anvil, where with the smith - He lost himself in lessons hot and cold. - And still the woman came to call him in. - And still he could refuse her. - So September, - With speckles on its back, slid like a serpent - Over the cool slopes; and lucky houses, - Filled with a winter’s wood, sat where they were, - Complacent; while upon the homeless highways - Wanderers appeared. - So Dora’s time - Came slowly, slowly on, with few to know - Or care when it should come; except Darius, - Who prowled each afternoon to Bruce’s house, - Consoling himself there for being lonely; - Except the little roundhead and his anxious - Wife; except those strangers up the mountain; - And Bruce himself, awaiting it with Dora. - - - - - VIII - - - It came, the time of Dora, when no man, - No man of all her three, was home for messenger. - Darius snored in his own house--a ball - Of skin beneath the bedclothes--and the night - Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father - Tramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked, - And working, thought of Dora--all day long - Of Dora’s time, next week or the week after. - - But it was now, and none of all the three men - Home to be her messenger! The doctor-- - How could he be told the time had come - For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother, - Moaning, was so helpless at the door, - Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you? - Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!” - But Bruce was on the low road, and the only - Ears that heard were scattered up the sky. - Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain, - Heard; and woke Athene; and the others, - Knowing it was time, went with them both - Like falling stars--all of them, like stars, - To drop and stand in darkness by the door - While Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called: - “Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!” - - And still another heard. But Aphrodite, - Listening while Daniel sat, could smile - And wait; could think and wait. It was the time - For punishing this man who in his dreams - Refused her. She could wait and let it work-- - The punishment she planned. - For she had looked - Last night along the valley, and seen coming, - Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers, - And said: They shall be mine. - She heard the moaning - Cease, and knew that Artemis was there. - The nurse was there, and Dora would be crying - Softly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!” - - So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength, - Waited no longer. - Where were those poor wanderers-- - That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew. - She saw them even now at the abandoned - Chapel down the old road, trying doors - And windows, and forlornly turning in - Where nothing was but darkness; and in darkness, - Nothing but cobwebs. - Smiling a last smile, - Vindictive, at the sitter, she uprose - And scented the whole night, the outer night - Of fields and barns and houses, as she flew - And flew, tinting earth with a false dawn - As in her brilliant singleness she flew - And flew to be the first where Hermes came. - - For even now the tall nurse--goddess again - In the dooryard where they clustered--told her peers: - “The time! It is the time! Go, two of you-- - Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?-- - And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for. - I could do all alone, for I am skilful, - I am the green deliveress. Yet go-- - Gabriel, with Hermes--while I soothe - And ready her. The horses that he drives-- - You hear them now, drawing the tired one home. - But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him. - Say it is the nurse--say anything-- - But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs, - Between you lest she die.” - The feet of Hermes - Glistened as the staff in his right hand - Touched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightly - Touched him again. And so the pair departed. - Before the goddess turned they were a rustle - In the far woods; and Artemis went in - Where Dora lay. - “The doctor--he is sent for. - Child! What are you staring at?” For Dora - Shuddered, and alternately her eyes - Opened and closed in terror, as at brightness - Impossible, brought near. But then she smiled. - “It was my own mistake--the way I am. - You were so different. You shone in the door - Like candles, you were like a statue lady-- - Different from us. I didn’t know you. - Now I do, though.” - She permitted hands - To smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever, - And as the pain returned; while Artemis - Looked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow, - At the small face whereon the truth had fallen; - Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes, - Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man? - - But Aphrodite was there first--an ancient - Gypsy, rising out of the dim road - And shrilling between wheels: - “Doctor, Doctor! - Come to the dead church--the one they don’t - Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow - And his sick queen--not my people, but I pity, - Pity them--they lie in the carriage shed. - Or she does, the queen. In all the world - No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles - From nowhere, and no house would take them in. - She whimpers with the young thing in her belly, - The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor, - And help her. Be the one man in the world - To help her.” - “Who are you?” His glasses peered - Through the poor light the buggy lamp cast down. - - “Romany.” - “And what’s this? You mean the church--” - - “The old one.” - “Even mice won’t go near that. - Mischief--you mean mischief. Out of the way, - Granny!” - But she seized the reins and said: - “Good doctor! Be the one man in the world--” - - And why it was he knew not, but he went - Where she did, down the sod road toward that moldy - Building where no hymnsong had been heard - Since war days, and where beggars--did she lie?-- - Might be or not be. - So when Hermes came, - And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway-- - Soft as they listened, never the good sound - Of hooves, of whirring felloes. - Long they looked - And listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard, - Signalling their presence; so that Artemis, - Stooping at the window, saw them desolate, - And knew herself defeated. - “Aphrodite!” - She only thought the word, but Dora stared - And begged of her: “Has someone--has he come? - The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?” - “Be patient, dear. - In time, in time. The doctor was not found. - But there is time, and I myself have medicines-- - You trust me?” - Dora nodded. - “Then I’ll go, child, - For certain things--for such help as I need. - Be patient a few minutes. She is here.” - For Bruce’s mother, torturing her hands - As if they were another’s on the rack, - Stood by them, bent and weeping. - All were there - When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her, - Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled - And innocently listened, fair as ever - In the fine light that clothed her--no more gypsy, - And no more theater woman. Even Ares-- - All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus - Filling his low place among the pear trees, - When the green goddess called. - “Her breath is going. - Enemy of all”--to Aphrodite-- - “I shall waste none on you. I only say, - The girl inside is going. Which of you - Can help me, and help her? The middle angel-- - Second of you three--immense of wing-- - Raphael--have you knowledge?” - There was mournful - Music in the answer. - “I have mended, - Green one, all the wounds made here on earth-- - Or there--by deed of angels. In the old days - They fell--not such as we are--and their fall, - As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons, - The daughters of frail man. If this is such--” - - “It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likeness - Of a lean passing farmer. I have herbs - And needles. You have strength, and a strange art. - Between us--but come quickly!” - And Darius - Snored in his own house. And Daniel sat - Late by a brass lamp, reading. - And the doctor, - Bending to ask the name of the new mother, - Heard “Mary.” - By the half light of a low - Fire she lay on straw and let her weak hand - Wander. - “But my husband--he is Joe. - There was no work for him. So we went on. - Thank you, Doctor.” - “Quiet. No more talking.” - - And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road, - Wondered why his son would never rest. - - - - - IX - - - The risen sun, sparkling upon their bridles, - Hastened the roan horses; and brought Bruce-- - Brought even the stiff doctor--beams of hope, - Of something like belief; though Bruce remembered, - And groaned as he remembered, how the nurse, - Weeping, had looked afraid when he came home; - How she and the dark man she had for helper, - Bending above the sufferer, grew sad, - Grew guilty as he came, hearing with him - His little mother’s whimpers, and the cry-- - Sudden, as if death were in the room-- - Of Dora when she saw him. And his father’s - Feebleness--now he remembered that, - And groaned. - “But couldn’t the nurse--for she was there-- - Wouldn’t the nurse have known?” - “I tell you, boy, - I have no nurse. Something is stranger here-- - Giddup!--than God is ever going to tell me. - Nurse? There was no such.” - And the horses galloped, - Jingling their bright bridles, till the dooryard - Darkened them, and Bruce’s mother stumbled, - Her apron at her face, among the plum trees. - - “I am alone,” she cried, “except for him--” - She pointed where her husband, on a stone - As grey as he was, sat and held his forehead-- - “We are alone now, my boy. Too late, - Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child, - The dear child, is dead. They both are dead-- - Dora, and the other one that never, - Never, never breathed.” - She clutched at Bruce, - Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed, - Then feeling not at all. She only nodded, - Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead-- - Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in, - A limp superfluous bundle. - “Oh, my boy!”-- - Perceptibly her white lips lived again-- - “Beautiful! One thing about her going, - Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw-- - Or thought she saw--ten angels in the room. - She counted them. But only three had wings. - She counted the big wings. And said the nurse - Was queen above all others.” - “Nurse? What nurse?” - The doctor in the doorway shook his head, - Frowning, as if to free it from the cobweb - Sound of that false word. “There was no such--” - - But the small mother never would believe-- - He knew it--and Bruce never would believe. - Who had this tall impostor woman been? - And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said: - “A teacher, too--her friend.” There was no such-- - - The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers-- - Butcherers of girls--who with their knotted - Grass roots and their needles--natural thorns-- - Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place. - Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any law - Catch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the world - Of meddlers on the march? For they were somewhere - Still, the doctor knew; and looked at Bruce - Bent dumbly over Dora. In good time - The boy would feel. He was so quiet now-- - An animal, playing dead. - Then Daniel stood there-- - Daniel, with Darius at his heels: - An old hound whom giant grief had gentled. - Yet he could move, and did, to where no daughter - Welcomed his hard hand; which nevertheless - Hovered and touched her--touched her, so that tears - Followed, and streamed his face. - “I brought him here,” - Said Daniel. “I was told of it by one-- - By two--but they are gone. They do not matter. - Both of them are gone. They said they knew-- - My lodgers--then they went. But that’s no matter. - I told her father, and he came with me. - Look at him now. And her. We are not enemies. - Who is my enemy?” - “I was,” said Bruce. - - “You were. And I was Dora’s. What I did--” - - “You did. But never tell it. As my friend - In sorrow, never say it. There are ears--” - - He went to where his mother, staring up, - Saw none but that dear face. - Then Daniel’s stillness - Reigned in the room. - Even the doctor, going, - Went as a thought does, thinly; but his mind - Was more with Mary and her living child, - In the lost church, than here. - A living child. - He must go back to that small son; must listen - To the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her? - “Quiet. No more talking.” Was even then - This mystery in his head, this hazy mirror - Of a much older birth? Who was it? When? - What torment not to remember. Just like this, - Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the image - Of a whole people, impotent to see now - The one god it had. - So three old friends, - By death remade, stood looking down at Dora. - - - - - X - - - Already, in this moment before silver - Morning, ten were on their way to sea. - Already, over mountains and rock rivers-- - Tawny with high autumn, yet no sun - Uprisen had revealed it--Hermes sped - And spoke not. At the center of his band, - Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flew - And flew to where a smoking funnel waited, - By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride, - Would ride the waste Atlantic. - “They were small, - These people, they were pitiful and small,” - Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy, - Nobles, of our regard.” - “They did not guess,” - Said Artemis, “how small.” - “They could not measure,” - Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying, - “Difference. They were lonely. They had nothing - Past them to compare. They do not move, - These persons, among greater persons still. - The knowledge of the difference is all. - Mortals with art to measure it are never - Pitiful.” - “I thought,” mused Aphrodite, - Beautiful by night as her own star, - Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east, - “I thought I met a presence in that musty - Stable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet-- - Not even the black beetles crept away. - Queer, if it was a god--their only god, - And none of the fools knew.” - “It was your own - Mind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and Hephaestus - Laughed--at Aphrodite he could laugh, - Now that his limbs were free. - “Was there a song? - Even a musty music? Where a god is, - Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed, - Remembering the barn dance and the moon. - “Did you hear anything to prove a presence?” - - Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenly - By the first beams of sun, was angry still. - “She heard but her own hatefulness, that plotted - Death.” - “I left the living in your hands-- - Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred, - Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret, - As you must, any faltering of skill.” - - “Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubled - As fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word! - You poison the whole dawn with it, as then - You poisoned--for I know you did--the thorns, - The rare leaves I used.” - But Hermes cried: - “Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is done - Is done. There the ship rides that we take-- - As one we take it, homing to those lands - Where sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.” - - He sighed, and the archangels echoed him: - Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night, - Had dreamed again--a star above a stable. - “Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not even - Sleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’s - Sadness was for Artemis to see, - And seeing, to have pity on, that no word - Henceforth could express. - For now the ship - Whistled, and the spires above the harbor - Glistened, and the hawsers, letting go, - Dangled in salt. - So easterly they sailed, - And sailed; then south a little. And the crew - Thought only of the Pillars, of the inland - Sea where waves were smaller. But these ten, - Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn danger - Of storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision-- - Common to them all, since reconciled-- - Was the long night ahead; or over Asia, - Centuries upon centuries of flying, - Flying where no desert, green with the Word, - Blossomed and blessed them. - Now as in a dream - Never to be redreamed the hills behind them, - Huddling that valley, muffled its fine cries - Of people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls, - Silenced, were obscure as drops of dew - Hung in the wild Antipodes. No mortal - Summer would be given these again: - These deities, these angels, who as the dark sea - Heaved went on themselves as waves do, - Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream. - - - - - [Illustration: COLOPHON] - - - This book has been designed and printed by Carroll Coleman at The - Prairie Press in Iowa City, Iowa. 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