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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7845-8.txt b/7845-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..35db047 --- /dev/null +++ b/7845-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8504 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Toward the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Toward the Gulf + +Author: Edgar Lee Masters + + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7845] +This file was first posted on May 22, 2003 +Last Updated: May 21, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWARD THE GULF *** + + + + +Produced by Dave Maddock, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +TOWARD THE GULF + +By Edgar Lee Masters + + + + +CONTENTS + + TOWARD THE GULF + THE LAKE BOATS + CITIES OF THE PLAIN + EXCLUDED MIDDLE + SAMUEL BUTLER, ET AL + JOHNNY APPLESEED + THE LOOM + DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S + SIR GALAHAD + ST. DESERET + HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR + VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART + THE LANDSCAPE + TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY + SWEET CLOVER + SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL + FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE + POOR PIERROT + MIRAGE OF THE DESERT + DAHLIAS + THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES + DELILAH + THE WORLD-SAVER + RECESSIONAL + THE AWAKENING + IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR + FRANCE + BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES + DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC + DEAR OLD DICK + THE ROOM OF MIRRORS + THE LETTER + CANTICLE OF THE RACE + BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE + MY LIGHT WITH YOURS + THE BLIND + "I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU" + CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT + WIDOW LA RUE + DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE + FRIAR YVES + THE EIGHTH CRUSADE + THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE + NEANDERTHAL + THE END OF THE SEARCH + BOTANICAL GARDENS + + + + +TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY + + +It would have been fitting had I dedicated Spoon River Anthology to +you. Considerations of an intimate nature, not to mention a literary +encouragement which was before yours, crowded you from the page. Yet +you know that it was you who pressed upon my attention in June, 1909, +the Greek Anthology. It was from contemplation of its epitaphs that my +hand unconsciously strayed to the sketches of "Hod Putt," "Serepta The +Scold" ("Serepta Mason" in the book), "Amanda Barker" ("Amanda" in the +book), "Ollie McGee" and "The Unknown," the first written and the +first printed sketches of The Spoon River Anthology. The +_Mirror_ of May 29th, 1914, is their record. + +I take one of the epigrams of Meleager with its sad revealment and +touch of irony and turn it from its prose form to a verse form, making +verses according to the breath pauses: + +"The holy night and thou, O Lamp, we took as witness of our vows; and +before thee we swore, he that would love me always and I that I would +never leave him. We swore, and thou wert witness of our double +promise. But now he says that our vows were written on the running +waters. And thou, O Lamp, thou seest him in the arms of another." + +In verse this epigram is as follows: + + The holy night and thou, + O Lamp, + We took as witness of our vows; + And before thee we swore, + He that would love me always + And I that I would never leave him. + We swore, + And thou wert witness of our double promise. + But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters. + And thou, O Lamp, + Thou seest him in the arms of another. + +It will be observed that iambic feet prevail in this translation. They +merely become noticeable and imperative when arranged in verses. But +so it is, even in the briefest and starkest rendering of these +epigrams from the Greek the humanism and dignity of the original +transfer themselves, making something, if less than verse, yet more +than prose; as Byron said of Sheridan's speeches, neither poetry nor +oratory, but better than either. It was no difficult matter to pass +from Chase Henry: + + "In life I was the town drunkard. + When I died the priest denied me burial + In holy ground, etc." + +to the use of standard measures, or rhythmical arrangements of iambics +or what not, and so to make a book, which for the first third required +a practiced voice or eye to yield the semblance of verse; and for the +last two-thirds, or nearly so, accommodated itself to the less +sensitive conception of the average reader. The prosody was allowed +to take care of itself under the emotional requirements and +inspiration of the moment. But there is nothing new in English +literature for some hundreds of years in combinations of dactyls, +anapests or trochees, and without rhyme. Nor did I discover to the +world that an iambic pentameter can be lopped to a tetrameter without +the verse ceasing to be an iambic; though it be no longer the blank +verse which has so ennobled English poetry. A great deal of unrhymed +poetry is yet to be written in the various standard rhythms and in +carefully fashioned metres. + +But obviously a formal resuscitation of the Greek epigrams, ironical +and tender, satirical and sympathetic, as casual experiments in +unrelated themes would scarcely make the same appeal that an epic +rendition of modern life would do, and as it turned out actually +achieved. + +The response of the American press to Spoon River Anthology during the +summer of 1914 while it was appearing in the _Mirror_ is my +warrant for saying this. It was quoted and parodied during that time +in the country and in the metropolitan newspapers. _Current +Opinion_ in its issue of September, 1914, reproduced from the +_Mirror_ some of the poems. Though at this time the schematic +effect of the Anthology could not be measured, Edward J. Wheeler, that +devoted patron of the art and discriminating critic of its +manifestations, was attracted, I venture to say, by the substance of +"Griffy, The Cooper," for that is one of the poems from the Anthology +which he set forth in his column "The Voice of Living Poets" in the +issue referred to. _Poetry, A Magazine of Verse_, followed in +its issue of October, 1914, with a reprinting from the _Mirror_. +In a word, the Anthology went the rounds over the country before it +was issued in book form. And a reception was thus prepared for the +complete work not often falling to the lot of a literary production. +I must not omit an expression of my gratitude for the very high praise +which John Cowper Powys bestowed on the Anthology just before it +appeared in book form and the publicity which was given his lecture by +the _New York Times_. Nathan Haskell Dole printed an article in +the Boston _Transcript_ of June 30, 1915, in which he contrasted +the work with the Greek Anthology, pointing in particular to certain +epitaphs by Carphylides, Kallaischros and Pollianos. The critical +testimony of Miss Harriet Monroe in her editorial comments and in her +preface to "The New Poetry" has greatly strengthened the judgment of +to-day against a reversal at the hands of a later criticism. + +This response to the Anthology while it was appearing in the +_Mirror_ and afterwards when put in the book was to nothing so +much as to the substance. It was accepted as a picture of our life in +America. It was interpreted as a transcript of the state of mind of +men and women here and elsewhere. You called it a Comedy Humaine in +your announcement of my identity as the author in the _Mirror_ of +November 20, 1914. If the epitaphic form gave added novelty I must +confess that the idea was suggested to me by the Greek Anthology. But +it was rather because of the Greek Anthology than from it that I +evolved the less harmonious epitaphs with which Spoon River Anthology +was commenced. As to metrical epitaphs it is needless to say that I +drew upon the legitimate materials of authentic English versification. +Up to the Spring of 1914, I had never allowed a Spring to pass without +reading Homer; and I feel that this familiarity had its influence both +as to form and spirit; but I shall not take the space now to pursue +this line of confessional. + +What is the substance of which I have spoken if it be not the life +around us as we view it through eyes whose vision lies in heredity, +mode of life, understanding of ourselves and of our place and time? +You have lived much. As a critic and a student of the country no one +understands America better than you do. As a denizen of the west, but +as a surveyor of the east and west you have brought to the country's +interpretation a knowledge of its political and literary life as well +as a proficiency in the history of other lands and other times. You +have seen and watched the unfolding of forces that sprang up after the +Civil War. Those forces mounted in the eighties and exploded in free +silver in 1896. They began to hit through the directed marksmanship of +Theodore Roosevelt during his second term. You knew at first hand all +that went with these forces of human hope, futile or valiant endeavor, +articulate or inarticulate expression of the new birth. You saw and +lived, but in greater degree, what I have seen and lived. And with +this back-ground you inspired and instructed me in my analysis. +Standing by you confirmed or corrected my sculpturing of the clay +taken out of the soil from which we both came. You did this with an +eye familiar with the secrets of the last twenty years, familiar also +with the relation of those years to the time which preceded and bore +them. + +So it is, that not only because I could not dedicate Spoon River to +you, but for the larger reasons indicated, am I impelled to do you +whatever honor there may be in taking your name for this book. By this +outline confession, sometime perhaps to be filled in, do I make known +what your relation is to these interpretations of mine resulting from +a spirit, life, thought, environment which have similarly come to us +and have similarly affected us. + +I call this book "Toward the Gulf," a title importing a continuation +of the attempts of Spoon River and The Great Valley to mirror the age +and the country in which we live. It does not matter which one of +these books carries your name and makes these acknowledgments; so far, +anyway, as the opportunity is concerned for expressing my appreciation +of your friendship and the great esteem and affectionate interest in +which I hold you. + +EDGAR LEE MASTERS. + + + +The following poems were first printed in the publications indicated: + +Toward the Gulf, The Lake Boats, The Loom, Tomorrow is my +Birthday, Dear Old Dick, The Letter, My Light with Yours, Widow +LaRue, Neanderthal, in Reedy's Mirror. + +Draw the Sword, Oh Republic, in the Independent. + +Canticle of the Race, in Poetry, a Magazine of Verse. + +Friar Yves, in the Cosmopolitan Magazine. + +"I pay my debt for Lafayette and Rochambeau," in Fashions of +the Hour. + + + + + +TOWARD THE GULF + + _Dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt_ + + + From the Cordilleran Highlands, + From the Height of Land + Far north. + From the Lake of the Woods, + From Rainy Lake, + From Itasca's springs. + From the snow and the ice + Of the mountains, + Breathed on by the sun, + And given life, + Awakened by kisses of fire, + Moving, gliding as brightest hyaline + Down the cliffs, + Down the hills, + Over the stones. + Trickling as rills; + Swiftly running as mountain brooks; + Swirling through runnels of rock; + Curving in spheréd silence + Around the long worn walls of granite gorges; + Storming through chasms; + And flowing for miles in quiet over the Titan basin + To the muddled waters of the mighty river, + Himself obeying the call of the gulf, + And the unfathomed urge of the sea! + + * * * * * + + Waters of mountain peaks, + Spirits of liberty + Leaving your pure retreats + For work in the world. + Soiling your crystal springs + With the waste that is whirled to your breast as you run, + Until you are foul as the crawling leviathan + That devours you, + And uses you to carry waste and earth + For the making of land at the gulf, + For the conquest of land for the feet of men. + + * * * * * + + De Soto, Marquette and La Salle + Planting your cross in vain, + Gaining neither gold nor ivory, + Nor tribute + For France or Spain. + Making land alone + For liberty! + You could proclaim in the name of the cross + The dominion of kings over a world that was new. + But the river has altered its course: + There are fertile fields + For a thousand miles where the river flowed that you knew. + And there are liberty and democracy + For thousands of miles + Where in the name of kings, and for the cross + You tramped the tangles for treasure. + + * * * * * + + The Falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters + In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices, + Swirling, dancing, leaping, foaming, + Spirits of caverns, of canyons and gorges: + Waters tinctured by star-lights, sweetened by breezes + Blown over snows, out of the rosy northlands, + Through forests of pine and hemlock, + Whisperings of the Pacific grown symphonic. + Voices of freedom, restless, unconquered, + Mad with divinity, fearless and free:-- + Hunters and choppers, warriors, revelers, + Laughers, dancers, fiddlers, freemen, + Climbing the crests of the Alleghenies, + Singing, chopping, hunting, fighting + Erupting into Kentucky and Tennessee, + Into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, + Sweeping away the waste of the Indians, + As the river carries mud for the making of land. + And taking the land of Illinois from kings + And handing its allegiance to the Republic. + What riflemen with Daniel Boone for leader, + And conquerors with Clark for captain + Plunge down like melted snows + The rocks and chasms of forbidden mountains, + And make more land for freemen! + Clear-eyed, hard-muscled, dauntless hunters, + Choppers of forests and tillers of fields + Meet at last in a field of snow-white clover + To make wise laws for states, + And to teach their sons of the new West + That suffrage is the right of freemen. + Until the lion of Tennessee, + Who crushes king-craft near the gulf. + Where La Salle proclaimed the crown, + And the cross, + Is made the ruler of the republic + By freeman suffragans, + And winners of the West! + + * * * * * + + Father of Waters! Ever recurring symbol of wider freedom, + Even to the ocean girdled earth, + The out-worn rule of Florida rots your domain. + But the lion of Tennessee asks: Would you take from Spain + The land she has lost but in name? + It shall be done in a month if you loose my sword. + It was done as he said. + And the sick and drunken power of Spain that clung, + And sucked at the life of Chile, Peru, Argentina, + Loosened under the blows of San Martin and Bolivar, + Breathing the lightning thrown by Napoleon the Great + On the thrones of Europe. + Father of Waters! 'twas you who made us say: + No kings this side of the earth forever! + One-half of the earth shall be free + By our word and the might that is back of our word! + + * * * * * + + The falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters + In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices! + And the river moves in its winding channel toward the gulf, + Over the breast of De Soto, + By the swamp grave of La Salle! + The old days sleep, the lion of Tennessee sleeps + With Daniel Boone and the hunters, + The rifle men, the revelers, + The laughers and dancers and choppers + Who climbed the crests of the Alleghenies, + And poured themselves into Tennessee, Ohio, + Kentucky, Illinois, the bountiful West. + But the river never sleeps, the river flows forever, + Making land forever, reclaiming the wastes of the sea. + And the race never sleeps, the race moves on forever. + And wars must come, as the waters must sweep away + Drift-wood, dead wood, choking the strength of the river-- + For Liberty never sleeps! + + * * * * * + + The lion of Tennessee sleeps! + And over the graves of the hunters and choppers + The tramp of troops is heard! + There is war again, + O, Father of Waters! + There is war, O, symbol of freedom! + They have chained your giant strength for the cause + Of trade in men. + But a man of the West, a denizen of your shore, + Wholly American, + Compact, clear-eyed, nerved like a hunter, + Who knew no faster beat of the heart, + Except in charity, forgiveness, peace; + Generous, plain, democratic, + Scarcely appraising himself at full, + A spiritual rifleman and chopper, + Of the breed of Daniel Boone-- + This man, your child, O, Father of Waters, + Waked from the winter sleep of a useless day + By the rising sun of a Freedom bright and strong, + Slipped like the loosened snows of your mountain streams + Into a channel of fate as sure as your own-- + A fate which said: till the thing be done + Turn not back nor stop. + Ulysses of the great Atlantis, + Wholly American, + Patient, silent, tireless, watchful, undismayed + Grant at Fort Donelson, Grant at Vicksburg, + Leading the sons of choppers and riflemen, + Pushing on as the hunters and farmers + Poured from the mountains into the West, + Freed you, Father of Waters, + To flow to the Gulf and be one + With the earth-engirdled tides of time. + And gave us states made ready for the hands + Wholly American: + Hunters, choppers, tillers, fighters + For epochs vast and new + In Truth, in Liberty, + Posters from land to land and sea to sea + Till all the earth be free! + + * * * * * + + Ulysses of the great Atlantis, + Dream not of disaster, + Sleep the sleep of the brave + In your couch afar from the Father of Waters! + A new Ulysses arises, + Who turns not back, nor stops + Till the thing is done. + He cuts with one stroke of the sword + The stubborn neck that keeps the Gulf + And the Caribbean + From the luring Pacific. + Roosevelt the hunter, the pioneer, + Wholly American, + Winner of greater wests + Till all the earth be free! + + * * * * * + + And forever as long as the river flows toward the Gulf + Ulysses reincarnate shall come + To guard our places of sleep, + Till East and West shall be one in the west of heaven and earth! + + * * * * * + + In an old print + I see a thicket of masts on the river. + But in the prints to be + There will be lake boats, + With port holes, funnels, rows of decks, + Huddled like swans by the docks, + Under the shadows of cliffs of brick. + And who will know from the prints to be, + When the Albatross and the Golden Eagle, + The flying craft which shall carry the vision + Of impatient lovers wounded by Spring + To the shaded rivers of Michigan, + That it was the Missouri, the Iowa, + And the City of Benton Harbor + Which lay huddled like swans by the docks? + + You are not Lake Leman, + Walled in by Mt. Blanc. + One sees the whole world round you, + And beyond you, Lake Michigan. + And when the melodious winds of March + Wrinkle you and drive on the shore + The serpent rifts of sand and snow, + And sway the giant limbs of oaks, + Longing to bud, + The boats put forth for the ports that began to stir, + With the creak of reels unwinding the nets, + And the ring of the caulking wedge. + But in the June days-- + The Alabama ploughs through liquid tons + Of sapphire waves. + She sinks from hills to valleys of water, + And rises again, + Like a swimming gull! + I wish a hundred years to come, and forever + All lovers could know the rapture + Of the lake boats sailing the first Spring days + To coverts of hepatica, + With the whole world sphering round you, + And the whole of the sky beyond you. + + I knew the captain of the City of Grand Rapids. + He had sailed the seas as a boy. + And he stood on deck against the railing + Puffing a cigar, + Showing in his eyes the cinema flash of the sun on the waves. + It was June and life was easy. ... + One could lie on deck and sleep, + Or sit in the sun and dream. + People were walking the decks and talking, + Children were singing. + And down on the purser's deck + A man was dancing by himself, + Whirling around like a dervish. + And this captain said to me: + "No life is better than this. + I could live forever, + And do nothing but run this boat + From the dock at Chicago to the dock at Holland + And back again." + + One time I went to Grand Haven + On the Alabama with Charley Shippey. + It was dawn, but white dawn only, + Under the reign of Leucothea, + As we volplaned, so it seemed, from the lake + Past the lighthouse into the river. + And afterward laughing and talking + Hurried to Van Dreezer's restaurant + For breakfast. + (Charley knew him and talked of things + Unknown to me as he cooked the breakfast.) + Then we fished the mile's length of the pier + In a gale full of warmth and moisture + Which blew the gulls about like confetti, + And flapped like a flag the linen duster + Of a fisherman who paced the pier-- + (Charley called him Rip Van Winkle). + The only thing that could be better + Than this day on the pier + Would be its counterpart in heaven, + As Swedenborg would say-- + Charley is fishing somewhere now, I think. + + There is a grove of oaks on a bluff by the river + At Berrien Springs. + There is a cottage that eyes the lake + Between pines and silver birches + At South Haven. + There is the inviolable wonder of wooded shore + Curving for miles at Saugatuck. + And at Holland a beach like Scheveningen's. + And at Charlevoix the sudden quaintness + Of an old-world place by the sea. + There are the hills around Elk Lake + Where the blue of the sky is so still and clear + It seems it was rubbed above them + By the swipe of a giant thumb. + And beyond these the little Traverse Bay + Where the roar of the breeze goes round + Like a roulette ball in the groove of the wheel, + Circling the bay, + And beyond these Mackinac and the Cheneaux Islands-- + And beyond these a great mystery!-- + + Neither ice floes, nor winter's palsy + Stays the tide in the river. + + + + +LAKE BOATS + + + And under the shadows of cliffs of brick + The lake boats + Huddled like swans + Turn and sigh like sleepers---- + They are longing for the Spring! + + + + +CITIES OF THE PLAIN + + + Where are the cabalists, the insidious committees, + The panders who betray the idiot cities + For miles and miles toward the prairie sprawled, + Ignorant, soul-less, rich, + Smothered in fumes of pitch? + + * * * * * + + Rooms of mahogany in tall sky scrapers + See the unfolding and the folding up + Of ring-clipped papers, + And letters which keep drugged the public cup. + The walls hear whispers and the semi-tones + Of voices in the corner, over telephones + Muffled by Persian padding, gemmed with brass spittoons. + Butts of cigars are on the glass topped table, + And through the smoke, gracing the furtive Babel, + The bishop's picture blesses the picaroons, + Who start or stop the life of millions moving + Unconscious of obedience, the plastic + Yielders to satanic and dynastic + Hands of reproaching and approving. + + * * * * * + + Here come knights armed, + But with their arms concealed, + And rubber heeled. + Here priests and wavering want are charmed. + And shadows fall here like the shark's + In messages received or sent. + Signals are flying from the battlement. + And every president + Of rail, gas, coal and oil, the parks, + The receipt of custom knows, without a look, + Their meaning as the code is in no book. + The treasonous cracksmen of the city's wealth + Watch for the flags of stealth! + + * * * * * + + Acres of coal lie fenced along the tracks. + Tracks ribbon the streets, and beneath the streets + Wires for voices, fire, thwart the plebiscites, + And choke the counsels and symposiacs + Of dreamers who have pity for the backs + That bear and bleed. + All things are theirs: tracks, wires, streets and coal, + The church's creed, + The city's soul, + The city's sea girt loveliness, + The merciless and meretricious press. + + * * * * * + + Far up in a watch-tower, where the news is printed, + Gray faces and bright eyes, weary and cynical + Discuss fresh wonders of the old cabal. + But nothing of its work in type is hinted: + Taxes are high! The mentors of the town + Must keep their taxes down + On buildings, presses, stocks + In gas, oil, coal and docks. + The mahogany rooms conceal a spider man + Who holds the taxing bodies through the church, + And knights with arms concealed. The mentors search + The spider man, the master publican, + And for his friendship silence keep, + Letting him herd the populace like sheep + For self and for the insatiable desires + Of coal and tracks and wires, + Pick judges, legislators, + And tax-gatherers. + Or name his favorites, whom they name: + The slick and sinistral, + Servitors of the cabal, + For praise which seems the equivalent of fame: + Giving to the delicate handed crackers + Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers, + The flash and thunder of front pages! + And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages + Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate. + And the unilluminate, + Whose brows are brass, + Who weep on every Sabbath day + For Jesus riding on an ass, + Scarce know the ass is they, + Now ridden by his effigy, + The publican with Jesus' painted mask, + Along a way where fumes of odorless gas + First spur then fell them from the task. + + * * * * * + + Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle + Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle. + And the angels say to Yahveh looking down + From the alabaster railing, on the town, + O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack + We wish we had our little Sodom back! + + + + +EXCLUDED MIDDLE + + + Out of the mercury shimmer of glass + Over these daguerreotypes + The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges + With its little figure of flowers. + And the enameled glair of parted hair + Lies over the oval brow, + From under which eyes of fiery blackness + Look through you. + And the only repose of spirit shown + Is in the hands + Lying loosely one in the other, + Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. ... + And in the companion folder of this case + Of gutta percha + Is the shape of a man. + His brow is oval too, but broader. + His nose is long, but thick at the tip. + His eyes are blue + Wherein faith burns her signal lights, + And flashes her convictions. + His mouth is tense, almost a slit. + And his face is a massive Calvinism + Resting on a stock tie. + + They were married, you see. + The clasp on this gutta percha case + Locks them together. + They were locked together in life. + And a hasp of brass + Keeps their shadows face to face in the case + Which has been handed down-- + (The pictures of noble ancestors, + Showing what strains of gentle blood + Flow in the third generation)-- + From Massachusetts to Illinois. ... + + Long ago it was over for them, + Massachusetts has done its part, + She raised the seed + And a wind blew it over to Illinois + Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated + Until one soul comes forth: + But a soul all striped and streaked, + And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed, + As it were a tree which on one branch + Bears northern spies, + And on another thorn apples. ... + + Come Weissmann, Von Baer and Schleiden, + And you Buffon and De Vries, + Come with your secrets of sea shore asters + Night-shade, henbanes, gloxinias, + Veronicas, snap-dragons, Danebrog, + And show us how they cross and change, + And become hybrids. + And show us what heredity is, + And how it works. + For the secret of these human beings + Locked in this gutta percha case + Is the secret of Mephistos and red Campions. + + Let us lay out the facts as far as we can. + Her eyes were black, + His eyes were blue. + She saw through shadows, walls and doors, + She knew life and hungered for more. + But he lived in the mists, and climbed to high places + To feel clouds about his face, and get the lights + Of supernal sun-sets. + She was reason, and he was faith. + She had an illumination, but of the intellect. + And he had an illumination but of the soul. + And she saw God as merciless law, + And he knew God as divine love. + And she was a man, and he in part was a woman. + He stood in a pulpit and preached the Christ, + And the remission of sins by blood, + And the literal fall of man through Adam, + And the mystical and actual salvation of man + Through the coming of Christ. + + And she sat in a pew shading her great eyes + To hide her scorn for it all. + She was crucified, + And raged to the last like the impenitent thief + Against the fate which wasted and trampled down + Her wisdom, sagacity, versatile skill, + Which would have piled up gold or honors + For a mate who knew that life is growth, + And health, and the satisfaction of wants, + And place and reputation and mansion houses, + And mahogany and silver, + And beautiful living. + She hated him, and hence she pitied him. + She was like the gardener with great pruners + Deciding to clip, sometimes not clipping + Just for the dread. + She had married him--but why? + Some inscrutable air + Wafted his pollen to her across a wide garden-- + Some power had crossed them. + And here is the secret I think: + (As we would say here is electricity) + It is the vibration inhering in sex + That produces devils or angels, + And it is the sex reaction in men and women + That brings forth devils or angels, + And starts in them the germs of powers or passions, + Becoming loves, ferocities, gifts and weaknesses, + Till the stock dies out. + So now for their hybrid children:-- + She gave birth to four daughters and one son. + + But first what have we for the composition of these daughters? + Reason opposed and becoming keener therefor. + Faith mocked and drawing its mantel closer. + Love thwarted and becoming acid. + Hatred mounting too high and thinning into pity. + Hunger for life unappeased and becoming a stream under-ground + Where only blind things swim. + God year by year removing himself to remoter thrones + Of inexorable law. + God coming closer even while disease + And total blindness came between him and God + And defeated the mercy of God. + And a love and a trust growing deeper in him + As she in great thirst, hanging on the cross, + Mocked his crucifixion, + And talked philosophy between the spasms of pain, + Till at last she is all satirist, + And he is all saint. + + And all the children were raised + After the strictest fashion in New England, + And made to join the church, + And attend its services. + And these were the children: + + Janet was a religious fanatic and a virago, + She debated religion with her husband for ten years, + Then he refused to talk, and for twenty years + Scarcely spoke to her. + She died a convert to Catholicism. + They had two children: + The boy became a forgerer + Of notorious skill. + The daughter married, but was barren. + + Miranda married a rich man + And spent his money so fast that he failed. + She lashed him with a scorpion tongue + And made him believe at last + With her incessant reasonings + That he was a fool, and so had failed. + In middle life he started over again, + But became tangled in a law-suit. + Because of these things he killed himself. + + Louise was a nymphomaniac. + She was married twice. + Both husbands fled from her insatiable embraces. + At thirty-two she became a woman on a telephone list, + Subject to be called, + And for two years ran through a daily orgy of sex, + When blindness came on her, as it came on her father before her, + And she became a Christian Scientist, + And led an exemplary life. + + Deborah was a Puritan of Puritans, + Her list of unmentionable things + Tabooed all the secrets of creation, + Leaving politics, religion, and human faults, + And the mistakes most people make, + And the natural depravity of man, + And his freedom to redeem himself if he chooses, + As the only subjects of conversation. + As a twister of words and meanings, + And a skilled welder of fallacies, + And a swift emerger from ineluctable traps of logic, + And a wit with an adder's tongue, + And a laugher, + And an unafraid facer of enemies, + Oppositions, hatreds, + She never knew her equal. + She was at once very cruel, and very tender, + Very selfish and very generous + Very little and very magnanimous. + Scrupulous as to the truth, and utterly disregardless of the truth. + + Of the keenest intuitions, yet gullible, + Easily used at times, of erratic judgment, + Analytic but pursuing with incredible swiftness + The falsest trails to her own undoing-- + All in all the strangest mixture of colors and scent + Derived from father and mother, + But mixed by whom, and how, and why? + + Now for the son named Herman, rebel soul. + His brow was like a loaf of bread, his eyes + Turned from his father's blue to gray, his nose + Was like his mother's, skin was dark like hers. + His shapely body, hands and feet belonged + To some patrician face, not to Marat's. + And his was like Marat's, fanatical, + Materialistic, fierce, as it might guide + A reptile's crawl, but yet he crawled to peaks + Loving the hues of mists, but not the mists + His father loved. And being a rebel soul + He thought the world all wrong. A nothingness + Moving as malice marred the life of man. + 'Twas man's great work to fight this Giant Fraud, + And all who praise and serve Him. 'Tis for man + To free the world from error, suffer, die + For liberty of thought. You see his mother + Is in possession of one part of him, + Or all of him for some time. + + So he lives + Nursing the dream (like father he's a dreamer) + That genius fires him. All the while a gift + For analytics stored behind that brow, + That bulges like a loaf of bread, is all + Of which he well may boast above the man + He hates as but a slave of faith and fear. + He feeds luxurious doubt with Omar Khyam, + But for long years neglects the jug of wine. + And as for "thou" he does not wake for years, + Is a pure maiden when he weds, the grains + Run counter in him, end in knots at times. + He takes from father certain tastes and traits, + From mother certain others, one can see + His mother's sex re-actions to his father, + Not passed to him to make him celibate, + But holding back in sleeping passions which + Burst over bounds at last in lust, not love. + Not love since that great engine in the brow + Tears off the irised wings of love and bares + The poor worm's body where the wings had been: + What is it but desire? Such stuff in rhyme + In music over what is but desire, + And ends when that is satisfied! + + He's a crank. + And follows all the psychic thrills which run + To cackles o'er the world. It's Looking Backward, + Or Robert Elsmere, Spencer's Social Statics, + It's socialism, Anarchism, Peace, + It's non-resistance with a swelling heart, + As who should say how truer to the faith + Of Jesus am I, without hope or faith, + Than churchmen. He's a prohibitionist, + The poor's protagonist, the knight at arms + Of fallen women, yelling at the rich + Whose wicked greed makes all the prostitutes-- + No prostitutes without the wicked rich! + But as he ages, as the bitter days + Approach with perorations: O ye vipers, + The engine in him changes all the world, + Reverses all the wheels of thought behind. + For Nietzsche comes, and makes him superman. + He dumps the truth of Jesus over--there + It lies with his youth's textual skepticism, + And laughter at the supernatural. + + Now what's the motivating principle + Of such a mind? In youth he sought for rules + Wherewith to trail and capture truths. He found it + In James McCosh's Logic, it was this: + Lex Exclusi Tertii aut Medii, + Law of Excluded Middle speaking plain: + A thing is true, or not true, never a third + Hypothesis, so God is or is not. + That's very good to start with, how to end + And how to know which of the two is false-- + He hunted out the false, as mother did-- + Requires a tool. He found it in this book, + Reductio ad absurdum; let us see + Excluded middle use reductio. + God is or God is not, but then what God? + Excluded Middle never sought a God + To suffer demolition at his hands + Except the God of Illinois, the God + Grown but a little with his followers + Since Moses lived and Peter fished. So now + God is or God is not. Let us assume + God is and use reductio ad absurdum, + Taking away the rotten props, the posts + That do not fit or hold, and let Him fall. + For if he falls, the other postulate + That God is not is demonstrated. See + A universe of truth pass on the way + Cleared by Excluded Middle through the stuff + Of thought and visible things, a way that lets + A greater God escape, uncaught by all + The nippers of reductio ad absurdum. + But to resume his argument was this: + God is or God is not, but if God is + Why pestilence and war, earthquake and famine? + He either wills them, or cannot prevent them, + But if he wills them God is evil, if + He can't prevent them, he is limited. + + But God, you say, is good, omnipotent, + And here I prove Him evil, or too weak + To stay the evil. Having shown your God + Lacking in what makes God, the proposition + Which I oppose to this, that God is not + Stands proven. For as evil is most clear + In sickness, pain and death, it cannot be + There is a Power with strength to overcome them, + Yet suffers them to be. + + And so this man + Went through the years of life, and stripped the fields + Of beauty and of thought with mandibles + Insatiable as the locust's, which devours + A season's care and labor in an hour. + He stripped these fields and ate them, but they made + No meat or fat for him. And so he lived + On his own thought, as starving men may live + On stored up fat. And so in time he starved. + The thought in him no longer fed his life, + And he had withered up the outer world + Of man and nature, stripped it to the bone, + Nothing but skull and cross-bones greeted him + Wherever he turned--the world became a bottle + Filled with a bitter essence he could drink + From long accustomed doses--labeled poison + And marked with skull and cross-bones. Could he laugh + As mother laughed? No more! He tried to find + The mother's laugh and secret for the laugh + Which kept her to the end--but did she laugh? + Or if she laughed, was it so hollow, forced + As all his laughter now was. He had proved + Too much for laughter. Nothing but himself + Remained to keep himself, he lived alone + Upon his stored up fat, now daily growing + To dangerous thinness. + + So with love of woman. + He had found "thou" the jug of wine as well, + "Thou" "thou" had come and gone too many times. + For what is sex but touch of flesh, the hand + Is flesh and hands may touch, if so, the loins-- + Reductio ad absurdum, O you fools, + Who see a wrong in touch of loins, no wrong + In clasp of hands. And so again, again + With his own tools of thought he bruised his hands + Until they grew too callous to perceive + When they were touched. + + So by analysis + He turned on everything he once believed. + Let's make an end! + + Men thought Excluded Middle + Was born for great things. Why that bulging brow + And analytic keen if not for greatness? + + In those old days they thought so when he fought + For lofty things, a youthful radical + Come here to change the world! But now at last + He lectures in back halls to youths who are + What he was in his youth, to acid souls + Who must have bitterness, can take enough + To kill a healthy soul, as fiends for dope + Must have enough to kill a body clean. + And so upon a night Excluded Middle + Is lecturing to prove that life is evil, + Not worth the living--when his auditors + Behold him pale and sway and take his seat, + And later quit the hall, the lecture left + Half finished. + + This had happened in a twinkling: + He had made life a punching bag, with fists, + Excluded Middle and Reductio, + Had whacked it back and forth. But just as often + As he had struck it with an argument + That it is not worth living, snap, the bag + Would fly back for another punch. For life + Just like a punching bag will stand your whacks + Of hatred and denial, let you punch + Almost at will. But sometime, like the bag, + The strap gives way, the bag flies up and falls + And lies upon the floor, you've knocked it out. + And this is what Excluded Middle does + This night, the strap breaks with his blows. He proves + His strength, his case and for the first he sees + Life is not worth the living. Life gives up, + Resists no more, flys back no more to him, + But hits the ceiling, snap the strap gives way! + The bag falls to the floor, and lies there still-- + Who now shall pick it up, re-fasten it? + And so his color fades, it well may be + The crisis of a long neurosis, well + What caused it? But his eyes are wondrous clear + Perceiving life knocked out. His heart is sick, + He takes his seat, admiring friends swarm round him, + Conduct him to a carriage, he goes home + And sitting by the fire (O what is fire? + The miracle of fire dawns on his thought, + Fire has been near him all these years unseen, + How wonderful is fire!) which warms and soothes + Neuritic pains, he takes the rubber case + Which locks the images of father, mother. + And as he stares upon the oval brow, + The eyes of blue which flash the light of faith, + Preserved like dendrites in this silver shimmer, + Some spectral speculations fill his brain, + Float like a storm above the sorry wreck + Of all his logic tools, machines; for now + Since pains in back and shoulder like to father's + Fall to him at the age that father had them, + Father has entered him, has settled down + To live with him with those neuritic pangs. + Thus are his speculations. Over all + How comes it that a sudden feel of life, + Its wonder, terror, beauty is like father's? + As if the soul of father entered in him + And made the field of consciousness his own, + Emotions, powers of thought his instruments. + That is a horrible atavism, when + You find yourself reverting to a soul + You have not loved, despite yourself becoming + That other soul, and with an out-worn self + Crying for burial on your hands, a life + Not yours till now that waits your new found powers-- + Live now or die indeed! + + + + +SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. + + + Let me consider your emergence + From the milieu of our youth: + We have played all the afternoon, grown hungry. + No meal has been prepared, where have you been? + Toward sun's decline we see you down the path, + And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile, + Or take us in your arms. Perhaps again + You look at us, say nothing, are absorbed, + Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces. + Of running wild without our meals + You do not speak. + + Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy, + After removing gloves and hat, you run, + As with a winged descending flight, and cry, + Half song, half exclamation, + Seize one of us, + Crush one of us with mad embraces, bite + Ears of us in a rapture of affection. + "You shall have supper," then you say. + The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire, + The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock + We sit down to a meal of hodge-podge stuff. + I understand now how your youth and spirits + Fought back the drabness of the village, + And wonder not you spent the afternoons + With such bright company as Eugenia Turner-- + And I forgive you hunger, loneliness. + + But when we asked you where you'd been, + Complained of loneliness and hunger, spoke of children + Who lived in order, sat down thrice a day + To cream and porridge, bread and meat. + We think to corner you--alas for us! + Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out + Like anvil sparks to justify your way: + "Your father's always gone--you selfish children, + You'd have me in the house from morn till night." + You put us in the wrong--our cause is routed. + We turn to bed unsatisfied in mind, + You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us. + Our sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution + To whip you out when minds grow strong. + + Up in the moon-lit room without a light, + (The lamps have not been filled,) + We crawl in unmade beds. + We leave you pouring over paper backs. + We peek above your shoulder. + It is "The Lady in White" you read. + Next morning you are dead for sleep, + You've sat up more than half the night. + We have been playing hours when you arise, + It's nine o'clock when breakfast's served at last, + When school days come I'm always late to school. + + Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door, + Eye through the crack, maybe, at nine o'clock, + Find father has returned during the night. + You are all happiness, his idlest word + Provokes your laughter. + He shows us rolls of precious money earned; + He's given you a silk dress, money too + For suits and shoes for us--all is forgiven. + You run about the house, + As with a winged descending flight and cry + Half song, half exclamation. + + We're sick so much. But then no human soul + Could be more sweet when one of us is sick. + We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our throats + Are weak, the doctor says. If rooms were warmer, + And clothes were warmer, food more regular, + And sleep more regular, it might be different. + Then there's the well. You fear the water. + He laughs at you, we children drink the water, + Though it tastes bitter, shows white particles: + It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well. + The village has no drainage, blights and mildews + Get in our throats. I spend a certain spring + Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times, + Sick to somnambulistic sense of things. + You blame him for the well, that's just one thing. + You seem to differ about everything-- + You seem to hate each other--when you quarrel + We cry, take sides, sometimes are whipped + For taking sides. + + Our broken school days lose us clues, + Some lesson has been missed, the final meaning + And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed-- + That shall not be made up in all our life. + The children, save a few, are not our friends, + Some taunt us with your quarrels. + We learn great secrets scrawled in signs or words + Of foulness on the fences. So it is + An American village, in a great Republic, + Where men are free, where therefore goodness, wisdom + Must have their way! + + We reach the budding age. + Sweet aches are in our breasts: + Is it spring, or God, or music, is it you? + I am all tenderness for you at times, + Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh + Crawls by an instinct from you. You repel me + Sometimes with an insidious smile, a look. + What are these phantasies I have? They breed + Strange hatred for you, even while I feel + My soul's home is with you, must be with you + To find my soul's rest. ... + + I must go back a little. At ten years + I play with Paula. + I plait her crowns of flowers, carry her books, + Defend her, watch her, choose her in the games. + You overhear us under the oak tree + Calling her doll our child. You catch my coat + And draw me in the house. + When I resist you whip me cruelly. + To think of whipping me at such time, + And mix the shame of smarting legs and back + With love of Paula! + So I lose Paula. + + I am a man at last. + I now can master what you are and see + What you have been. You cannot rout me now, + Or put me in the wrong. Out of old wounds, + Remembrance of your baffling days, + I take great strength and show you + Where you have been untruthful, where a hater, + Where narrow, bitter, growing in on self, + Where you neglected us, + Where you heaped fast destruction on our father-- + For now I know that you devoured his soul, + And that no soul that you could not devour + Could have its peace with you. + You've dwindled to a quiet word like this: + "You are unfilial." Which means at last + That I have conquered you, at least it means + That you could not devour me. + + Yet am I blind to you? Let me confess + You are the world's whole cycle in yourself: + You can be summer rich and luminous; + You can be autumn, mellow, mystical; + You can be winter with a cheerful hearth; + You can be March, bitter, bright and hard, + Pouring sharp sleet, and showering cutting hail; + You can be April of the flying cloud, + And intermittent sun and musical air. + I am not you while being you, + While finding in myself so much of you. + It tears my other self, which is not you. + My tragedy is this: I do not love you. + Your tragedy is this: my other self + Which triumphs over you, you hate at heart. + Your solace is you have no faith in me. + + All quiet now, no March days with you now, + Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, + I saw you totter over a ravine! + Your eyes averted, watching steps, + A light of resignation on your brow. + Your thin-spun hair all gray, blown by the wind + Which swayed the blossomed cherry trees, + Bent last year's reeds, + Shook early dandelions, and tossed a bird + That left a branch with song-- + I saw you totter over a ravine! + + What were you at the start? + What soul dissatisfaction, sense of wrong, + Of being thwarted, stung you? + What was your shrinking of the flesh; + What fear of being soiled, misunderstood, + What wrath for loneliness which constant hope + Saw turned to fine companionship; + What in your marriage, what in seeing me, + The fruit of marriage, recreated traits + Of face or spirit which you loathed; + What in your father and your mother, + And in the chromosomes from which you grew, + By what mitosis could result at last + In you, in issues of such moment, + In our dissevered beings, + In what the world will take from me + In children, in events? + All quiet now, no March days with you now, + Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, + I saw you totter over a ravine, + And back of you the Furies! + + + + +JOHNNY APPLESEED + + When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples + Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River, + I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander + From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Crossing. + + I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the orchards, + Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and planted, + Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing, + Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit and smoke. + + For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones + That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some orchards around here, + When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and the beeches, + And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the river. + + Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me: + My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side, + There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him + Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard. + + Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the people + For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards + All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here, + Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois. + + Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me: + I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and be here + For children to come, who will gather and eat hereafter. + And few will know who planted, and none will understand. + + I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed: Some fellow buys this timber + Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for barley. + And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple orchard. + How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before me? + + Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of worship, + Labor and laughter and gain in the late October. + Why did I do it, eh? Some folks say I am crazy. + Where do my labors end? Far west, God only knows! + + Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen! + Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the apple. + Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the raising. + You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for sweet. + + No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as bitter: + The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and fails, + Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever. + Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil. + + And after that is the fight: the foe curled up at the root, + The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the blossoms + Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of beauty: + You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue! + + And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen. + So many things love an apple as well as ourselves. + A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it: + Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen. + + + + +THE LOOM + + + My brother, the god, and I grow sick + Of heaven's heights. + We plunge to the valley to hear the tick + Of days and nights. + We walk and loiter around the Loom + To see, if we may, + The Hand that smashes the beam in the gloon + To the shuttle's play; + Who grows the wool, who cards and spins, + Who clips and ties; + For the storied weave of the Gobelins, + Who draughts and dyes. + + But whether you stand or walk around + You shall but hear + A murmuring life, as it were the sound + Of bees or a sphere. + No Hand is seen, but still you may feel + A pulse in the thread, + And thought in every lever and wheel + Where the shuttle sped, + Dripping the colors, as crushed and urged-- + Is it cochineal?-- + Shot from the shuttle, woven and merged + A tale to reveal. + Woven and wound in a bolt and dried + As it were a plan. + Closer I looked at the thread and cried + The thread is man! + + Then my brother curious, strong and bold, + Tugged hard at the bolt + Of the woven life; for a length unrolled + The cryptic cloth. + He gasped for labor, blind for the moult + Of the up-winged moth. + While I saw a growth and a mad crusade + That the Loom had made; + Land and water and living things, + Till I grew afraid + For mouths and claws and devil wings, + And fangs and stings, + And tiger faces with eyes of hell + In caves and holes. + And eyes in terror and terrible + For awakened souls. + + I stood above my brother, the god + Unwinding the roll. + And a tale came forth of the woven slain + Sequent and whole, + Of flint and bronze, trowel and hod, + The wheel and the plane, + The carven stone and the graven clod + Painted and baked. + And cromlechs, proving the human heart + Has always ached; + Till it puffed with blood and gave to art + The dream of the dome; + Till it broke and the blood shot up like fire + In tower and spire. + + And here was the Persian, Jew and Goth + In the weave of the cloth; + Greek and Roman, Ghibelline, Guelph, + Angel and elf. + They were dyed in blood, tangled in dreams + Like a comet's streams. + And here were surfaces red and rough + In the finished stuff, + Where the knotted thread was proud and rebelled + As the shuttle proved + The fated warp and woof that held + When the shuttle moved; + And pressed the dye which ran to loss + In a deep maroon + Around an altar, oracle, cross + Or a crescent moon. + Around a face, a thought, a star + In a riot of war! + + Then I said to my brother, the god, let be, + Though the thread be crushed, + And the living things in the tapestry + Be woven and hushed; + The Loom has a tale, you can see, to tell, + And a tale has told. + I love this Gobelin epical + Of scarlet and gold. + If the heart of a god may look in pride + At the wondrous weave + It is something better to Hands which guide-- + I see and believe. + + + + +DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S + + + Look here, Jack: + You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh. + You haven't told me any stories. You + Just lie there half asleep. What's on your mind? + + JACK + + What time is it? Where is my watch? + + FLORENCE + + Your watch + Under your pillow! You don't think I'd take it. + Why, Jack, what talk for you. + + JACK + + Well, never mind, + Let's pack no ice. + + FLORENCE + + What's that? + + JACK + + No quarreling-- + What is the time? + + FLORENCE + + Look over towards my dresser-- + My clock says half-past eleven. + + JACK + + Listen to that-- + That hurdy-gurdy's playing Holy Night, + And on this street. + + FLORENCE + + And why not on this street? + + JACK + + You may be right. It may as well be played + Where you live as in front of where I work, + Some twenty stories up. I think you're right. + + FLORENCE + + Say, Jack, what is the matter? Come! be gay. + Tell me some stories. Buy another bottle. + Just think you make a lot of money, Jack. + You're young and prominent. They all know you. + I hear your name all over town. I see + Your picture in the papers. What's the matter? + + JACK + + I've lost my job for one thing. + + FLORENCE + + You don't mean it! + + JACK + + They used me and then fired me, same as you. + If you don't make the money, out you go. + + FLORENCE + + Yes, out I go. But, there are other places. + + JACK + + On further down the street. + + FLORENCE + + Not yet a while. + + JACK + + Not yet for me, but still the question is + Whether to fight it out for up or down, + Or run from everything, be free. + + FLORENCE + + You can't do that. + + JACK + + Why not? + + FLORENCE + + No more than I. + Oh well perhaps, if a nice man came by + To marry me then I could get away. + It happens all the time. Last week in fact + Christ Perko married Rachel who lived here. + He's rich as cream. + + JACK + + What corresponds to marriage + To take me from slavery? + + FLORENCE + + Money is everything. + + JACK + + Yes, everything and nothing. + Christ Perko's rich, Christ Perko runs this house, + The madam merely acts as figure-head; + Keeps check upon the girls and on the wine. + She's just the editor, and yet I'd rather + Be editor than owner. I was editor. + My Perko was the owner of a pulp mill, + Incorporate through some multi-millionaires, + And all our lesser writers were the girls, + Like you and Rachel. + + FLORENCE + + But you know before + He married Rachel, he was lover to + The madam here. + + JACK + + The stories tally, for + The pulp mill took my first assistant editor + To wife by making him the editor. + And I was fired just as the madam here + Lost out with Perko. + + FLORENCE + + This is growing funny... + Ahem! I'll ask you something-- + As if I were a youth and you a girl-- + How were you ruined first? + + JACK + + The same as you: + You ran away from school. It was romance. + You thought you loved this flashy travelling man. + And I--I loved adventure, loved the truth. + I wanted to destroy the force called "They." + There is no "They"--we're all together here, + And everyone must live, Christ Perko too, + The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate, + The alderman, the precinct captain too, + And you the girls, myself the editor, + And all the lesser writers. Here we are + Thrown in one integrated lot. You see + There is no "They," except the terms, the thought + Which ramifies and vivifies the whole. ... + So I came to the city, went to work + Reporting for a paper. Having said + There is no "They"--I've freed myself to say + What bitter things I choose. For how they drive you, + And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you, + And call you cub and greenhorn, send you round + To courts and dirty places, make you risk + Your body and your life, and make you watch + The rules about your writing; what's tabooed, + What names are to be cursed or to be praised, + What interests, policies to be subserved, + And what to undermine. So I went through, + Until I had a desk, wrote editorials-- + Now said I to myself, I'm free at last. + But no, my manager, your madam, mark you, + Kept eye on me, for he was under watch + Of some Christ Perko. So my manager + Blue penciled me when I touched certain subjects. + But, as he was a just man, loved me too. + He gave me things to write where he could let + My conscience have full scope, as you might live + In this house where you saw the man you loved, + And no one else, though living in this hell. + For I lived in a hell, who saw around me + Such lying, hatred, malice, prostitution. + And when this offer came to be an editor + Of a great magazine, I seemed to feel + My courage and my virtue given reward. + Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories, + Creations of free souls. It was not so. + The poems and the stories one could see + Were written to be sold, to please a taste, + Placate a prejudice, keep still alive + An era dying, ready for the tomb, + Already smelling. And that was not all. + Just as the madam here must make report + To Perko, so the magazine had to run + To suit the pulp mill. As the madam here, + Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friends + With alderman, policemen, magistrates, + So I was just a wheel in a machine + To keep it running with such larger wheels, + And by them run, of policies, and politics + Of State and Nation. Here was I locked in + And given dope to keep me still lest I + Cry out and wake the copper-who's the copper + For such as I was? If he heard me cry + How could he raid the magazine? If he raided + Where was the court to take me and the rest-- + That's it, where is the court? + + FLORENCE + + It seems to me + You're bad as I am. + + JACK + + I am worse than you: + I poison minds with thoughts they take as good. + I drug an era, make it foul or dull-- + You only sicken bodies here and there. + But you know how it is. You have remorse, + You fight it down, hush it with sophistry. + You think about the world, about your fellows: + You see that everyone is selling self, + Little or much somehow. You feed your body, + Try to be hearty, take things as they come. + You take athletics, try to keep your strength, + As you hear music, laugh, drink wine, and smoke, + Are bathed and coifed to keep your beauty fresh. + And through it all the soul's and body's needs, + The pleasures, interests, passions of our life, + The cry that comes from somewhere: "Live, O Soul, + The time is passing," move and claim your strength. + Till you forget yourself, forget the boy + And man you were, forget the dreams you had, + The creed you wished to live by--yes, what's worse, + See dreams you had, grown tawdry, see your creed + Cracked through and crumbled like a falling house. + And then you say: What is the difference? + As you might ask what virtue is and why + Should woman keep it. + + I have reached this place + Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to: + As long as I have breath: The man who sees not, + Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world + From vast disintegration is a brute, + And marked for a brute's death--that is his hell. + 'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose + My place as editor. For when they came + And tried to make me pass an article + To poison millions with, I said, "I won't, + I won't by God. I'll quit before I do." + And then they said, "You quit," and so I quit. + + FLORENCE + + And so you took to drink and came to me! + And that's the same as if I came to you + And used you as an editor. I am nothing + But just a poor reporter in this house-- + But now I quit. + + JACK + + Where are you going, Florence? + + FLORENCE + + I'm going to a village or a farm + Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve, + Where I'll wear calico instead of silk, + And where there'll be no furnace in the house. + And where the carpet which has kept me here + And keeps you here as editor is not. + I'm going to economize my life + By freeing it of systems which grow rich + By using me, and for the privilege + Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed. + I hate you now, because I hate my life. + + JACK + + Wait! Wait a minute. + + FLORENCE + + Dinah, call a cab! + + + + +SIR GALAHAD + + + I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street + Who said to me: "I'm going for the train, + I want you with me." + + And it happened then + My mind was hard, as muscles of the back + Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain + And need the osteopath to be made supple, + To give the nerves and streams of life a chance. + Hosea Job was just the osteopath + To loose, relax my mood. And so I said + "All right"--and went. + + Hosea was a man + Whom nothing touched of danger, or of harm. + His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one + Seems like to fall before a truck or train-- + Instead he walks across them. Or you see + Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple, + Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners + And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles. + The buildings slant and sway like monstrous searchlights, + But never touch him. And the mad piano + Comes up to him, puts down its angry head, + Runs out a friendly tongue and licks his hand, + And lows a symphony. + + By which I mean + Hosea had some money, and would sign + A bond or note for any man who asked him. + He'd rent a house and leave it, rent another, + Then rent a farm, move out from town and in. + He'd have the leases of superfluous places + Cancelled some how, was never sued for rent. + One time he had a fancy he would see + South Africa, took ship with a load of mules, + First telegraphing home from New Orleans + He'd be back in the Spring. Likewise he went + To Klondike with the rush. I think he owned + More kinds of mining stock than there were mines. + He had more quaint, peculiar men for friends + Than one could think were living. He believed + In every doctrine in its time, that promised + Salvation for the world. He took no thought + For life or for to-morrow, or for health, + Slept with his windows closed, ate what he wished. + And if he cut his finger, let it go. + I offered him peroxide once, he laughed. + And when I asked him if his soul was saved + He only said: "I see things. I lie back + And take it easy. Nothing can go wrong + In any serious sense." + + So many thought + Hosea was a nut, and others thought, + That I was just a nut for liking him. + And what would any man of business say + If he knew that I didn't ask a question, + But simply went with him to take the train + That day he asked me. + + And the train had gone + Five miles or so when I said: "Where you going?" + Hosea answered, and it made me start-- + Hosea answered simply, "We are going + To see Sir Galahad." + + It made me start + To hear Hosea say this, for I thought + He was now really off. But, I looked at him + And saw his eyes were sane. + + "Sir Galahad? + Who is Sir Galahad?" + + Hosea answered: + "I'm going up to see Sir Galahad, + And sound him out about re-entering + The game and run for governor again." + + So then I knew he was the man our fathers + Worked with and knew and called Sir Galahad, + Now in retirement fifteen years or so. + Well, I was twenty-five when he was famous. + Sir Galahad was forty then, and now + Must be some fifty-five while I am forty. + So flashed across my thought the matter of time + And ages. So I thought of all he did: + Of how he went from faith to faith in politics + And ran for every office up to governor, + And ran for governor four times or so, + And never was elected to an office. + He drew more bills to remedy injustice, + Improve the courts, relieve the poor, reform + Administration, than the legislature + Could read, much less digest or understand. + The people beat him and the leaders flogged him. + They shut the door against his face until + He had no place to go except a farm + Among the stony hills, and there he went. + And thither we were going to see the knight, + And call him from his solitude to the fight + Against injustice, greed. + + So we got off + The train at Alden, just a little village + Of fifty houses lying beneath the sprawl + Of hills and hills. And here there was a stillness + Made lonelier by an anvil ringing, by + A plow-man's voice at intervals. + + Here Hosea + Engaged a horse and buggy, and we drove + And wound about a crooked road between + Great hills that stood together like the backs + Of elephants in a herd, where boulders lay + As thick as hail in places. Ruined pines + Stood like burnt matches. There was one which stuck + Against a single cloud so white it seemed + A bursted bale of cotton. + + We reached the summit + And drove along past orchards, past a field + Level and green, kept like a garden, rich + Against the coming harvest. Here we met + A scarecrow man, driving a scarecrow horse + Hitched to a wobbly wagon. And we stopped, + The scarecrow stopped. The scarecrow and Hosea + Talked much of people and of farming--I + Sat listening, and I gathered from the talk, + And what Hosea told me as we drove, + That once this field so level and so green + The scarecrow owned. He had cleaned out the stumps, + And tried to farm it, failed, and lost the field, + But raged to lose it, thought he might succeed + In further time. Now having lost the field + So many years ago, could be a scarecrow, + And drive a scarecrow horse, yet laugh again + And have no care, the sorrow healed. + + It seemed + The clearing of the stumps was scarce a starter + Toward a field of profit. For in truth, + The soil possessed a secret which the scarecrow + Never went deep enough to learn about. + His problem was all stumps. Not solving that, + He sold it to a farmer who out-slaved + The busiest bee, but only half succeeded. + He tried to raise potatoes, made a failure. + He planted it in beans, had half a crop. + He sowed wheat once and reaped a stack of straw. + The secret of the soil eluded him. + And here Hosea laughed: "This fellow's failure + Was just the thing that gave another man + The secret of the soil. For he had studied + The properties of soils and fertilizers. + And when he heard the field had failed to raise + Potatoes, beans and wheat, he simply said: + There are other things to raise: the question is + Whether the soil is suited to the things + He tried to raise, or whether it needs building + To raise the things he tried to raise, or whether + It must be builded up for anything. + At least he said the field is clear of stumps. + Pass on your field, he said. If I lose out + I'll pass it on. The field is his, he said + Who can make something grow. + + And so this field + Of waving wheat along which we were driving + Was just the very field the scarecrow man + Had failed to master, as that other man + Had failed to master after him. + + Hosea + Kept talking of this field as we drove on. + That field, he said, is economical + Of men compared with many fields. You see + It only used two men. To grub the stumps + Took all the scarecrow's strength. That other man + Ran off to Oklahoma from this field. + I have known fields that ate a dozen men + In country such as this. The field remains + And laughs and waits for some one who divines + The secret of the field. Some farmers live + To prove what can't be done, and narrow down + The guess of what is possible. It's right + A certain crop should prosper and another + Should fail, and when a farmer tries to raise + A crop before it's time, he wastes himself + And wastes the field to try. + + We now were climbing + To higher hills and rockier fields. Hosea + Had fallen into silence. I was thinking + About Sir Galahad, was wondering + Which man he was, the scarecrow, or the farmer + Who didn't know the seed to sow, or whether + He might still prove the farmer raising wheat, + Now we were come to give him back the field + With all the stumps grubbed out, the secret lying + Revealed and ready for the appointed hands. + + We passed an orchard growing on a knoll + And saw a barn perked on a rocky hill, + And near the barn a house. Hosea said: + "This is Sir Galahad's." We tied the horse. + And we were in the silence of the country + At mid-day on a day in June. No bird + Was singing, fowl was cackling, cow was lowing, + No dog was barking. All was summer stillness. + We crossed a back-yard past a windlass well, + Dodged under clothes lines through a place of chips, + Walked in a path along the house. I said: + "Sir Galahad is ploughing, or perhaps + Is mending fences, cutting weeds." It seemed + Too bad to come so far and not to find him. + "We'll find him," said Hosea. "Let us sit + Under that tree and wait for him." + + And then + We turned the corner of the house and there + Under a tree an old man sat, his head + Bowed down upon his breast, locked fast in sleep. + And by his feet a dog half blind and fat + Lay dozing, too inert to rise and bark. + + Hosea gripped my arm. "Be still" he said. + "Let's ask him where Sir Galahad is," said I. + And then Hosea whispered, "God forgive me, + I had forgotten, you too have forgotten. + The man is old, he's very old. The years + Go by unnoticed. Come! Sir Galahad + Should sleep and not be waked." + + We tip-toed off + And hurried back to Alden for the train. + + + + +ST. DESERET + + You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips + Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette. + Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch, + And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice. + But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds + Your vision not at all, and you have passion + For me and what I am. How can you be so? + Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours, + Bury your face in these my russet tresses, + And yet not lose your vision? So I love you, + And fear you too. How idle to deny it + To you who know I fear you. + + Here am I + Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask. + You stride about my rooms and open books, + And say when did he give you this? You pick + His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl + Out of ironic strength, and smile the while: + "You did not love this man." You probe my soul + About his courtship, how I ran away, + How he pursued with gifts from city to city, + Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood + + Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard, + Watchful and waiting at the green-room door. + So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks, + One little question at a time, you've inked + The story in my flesh. And now at last + You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true. + But what a death he had! Envy him that. + Your frigid soul can never win the death + I gave him. + + Listen since you know already + All but the subtlest matters. How you laugh! + You know these too? Well, only I can tell them. + + First 'twas a piteous thing to see a man + So love a woman, see a living thing + So love another. Why he could not touch + My hand but that his heart went up ten beats. + His eyes would grow as bright as flames, his breath + Come short when speaking. When he felt my breast + Crush soft around him he would reel and walk + Away from me, while I stood like a snake + Poised for the strike, as quiet and possessed + As a dead breeze. And you can have me wholly, + And pet and pat me like a favored child, + And let me go my way, while you turn back + To what you left for me. + + Not so with him: + I was all through his blood, had made his flesh + My flesh, his nerves, brain, soul all mine at last, + Dreams, thoughts, emotions, hungers all my own. + So that he lived two lives, his own and mine, + With one poor body, which he gave to me. + Save that he could not give what I pushed back + Into his hands to use for me and live + My pities, hatreds, loves and passions with. + I loved all this and thrived upon it, still + I did not love him. Then why marry him? + Why don't you see? It meant so much to him. + And 'twas a little thing for me to do. + His loneliness, his hunger, his great passion + That showed in his poor eyes, his broken breath, + His chivalry, his gifts, his poignant letters, + His failing health, why even woman's cruelty + Cannot deny such passion. Woman's cruelty + Takes other means for finding its expression. + And mine found its expression--you have guessed + And so I tell you all. + + We were married then. + He made a sacrament of our nuptials, + Knelt with closed eyes beside the bed, my lips + Pressed to his brow and throat. Unveiled my breast + And looked, then closed his eyes. He did not take me + As man takes his possession, nature's way, + In triumph of life, in lightning, no, he came + A suppliant, a worshipper, and whispered: + "What angel child may lie upon the breast + Of this it's angel mother." + + Well, you see + The tears came in my eyes, for pity of him, + Who made so much of what I had to give, + And could give easily whether 'twas my rapture + To give or to withhold. And in that moment + Contempt of which I had been scarcely conscious + Lying diffused like dew around my heart + Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup + To one bright drop of vital power, where + He could not see it, scarcely knew that something + Gradually drugged the potion that he drank + In life with me. + + So we were wed a year, + And he was with me hourly, till at last + I could not breathe for him, while he could breathe + No where but where I was. Then the bazaar + Was coming on where I was to dance, and he + Had long postponed a trip to England where + Great interests waited for him, and with kisses + I pushed him to his duty, and he went + Shame stricken for a duty long postponed, + Unable to retort against my words + When I said "You must go;" for well he knew + He should have gone before. And as for going + I pleaded the bazaar and hate of travel, + And got him off, and freed myself to breathe. + + His life had been too fast, his years too many + To stand the strain that came. There was the worry + About the business, and the labor over it. + There was the war, and all the fear and turmoil + In London for the war. But most of all + There was the separation. And his letters! + You've read them, wretch. Such letters never were + Of aching loneliness and pining love + And hope that lives across three thousand miles, + And waits the day to travel them, and fear + Of something which may bar the way forever: + A storm, a wreck, a submarine and no day + Without a letter or a cablegram. + And look at the endearments--oh you fiend + To pick their words to pieces like a botanist + Who cuts a flower up for his microscope. + And oh myself who let you see these letters. + Why did I do it? Rather why is it + You master me, even as I mastered him? + + At last he finished, got his passage back. + He had been gone three months. And all these letters + Showed how he starved for me, and scarce could wait + To take me in his arms again, would choke + With fast and heavy feeding. + + Well, you see + The contempt I spoke of which lay long diffused + Like dew around my heart, and which at once + Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup + Grew brighter, bitterer, for this obvious hunger, + This thirst which could not wait, the piteous trembling. + And all the while it seemed he thought his love + Grew sacreder as it grew uncontrolled, + And marked by trembling, choking, tears and sighs. + This is not love which should be, has no use + In this or any world. And as for me + I could not stand it longer. And I thought + Of what was best to do: if 'twas not best + To kill him as the queen bee kills the mate + In rapture's own excess. + + Then he arrived. + I went to meet him in the car, pretended + The feed pipe broke while I was on the way. + I was not at the station when he came. + I got back to the house and found him gone. + He had run through the rooms calling my name, + So Mary told me. Then he went around + From place to place, wherever in the village + He thought to find me. + + Soon I heard his steps, + The key in the door, his winded breath, his call, + His running, stumbling up the stairs, while I + Stood silent as a shadow in our room, + My round bright eyes grown brighter for the light + His life was feeding them. And then he stood + Breathless and trembling in the door-way, stood + Transfixed with ecstacy, then rushed and caught me + And broke into loud tears. + + It had to end. + One or the other of us had to die. + I could not die but by a violence, + And he could die by love alone, and love + I gave him to his death. + + Why tell you details + And ways with which I maddened him, and whipped + The energies of love? You have extracted + The secret in the main, that 'twas from love + He came to death. His life had been too fast, + His years too many for the daily rapture + I gave him after three months' separation. + And so he died one morning, made me free + Of nothing but his presence in the flesh. + His love is on me yet, and its effect. + And now you're here to slave me differently-- + No soul is ever free. + + + + +HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR + + + Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain, + Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold. + And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold + The guarded heart against excess of rain. + Hands spirit tipped through which a genius plays + With paints and clays, + And strings in many keys-- + Clothed in an aura of thought as soundless as a flood + Of sun-shine where there is no breeze. + So is it light in spite of rhythm of blood, + Or turn of head, or hands that move, unite-- + Wind cannot dim or agitate the light. + From Plato's idea stepping, wholly wrought + From Plato's dream, made manifest in hair, + Eyes, lips and hands and voice, + As if the stored up thought + From the earth sphere + Had given down the being of your choice + Conjured by the dream long sought. + + * * * * * + + For you have moved in madness, rapture, wrath + In and out of the path + Drawn by the dream of a face. + You have been watched, as star-men watch a star + That leaves its way, returns and leaves its way, + Until the exploring watchers find, can trace + A hidden star beyond their sight, whose sway + Draws the erratic star so long observed-- + So have you wandered, swerved. + + * * * * * + + Always pursued and lost, + Sometimes half found, half-faced, + Such years we waste + With the almost: + The lips flower pressed like buds to hold + Guarded the heart of the flower, + But over them eyes not hued as the Dream foretold. + Or to find the lips too rich and the dower + Of eyes all gaiety + Where wisdom scarce can be. + Or to find the eyes, but to find offence + In fingers where the sense + Falters with colors, strings, + Not touching with closed eyes, out of an immanence + Of flame and wings. + Or to find the light, but to find it set behind + An eye which is not your dream, nor the shadow thereof, + As it were your lamp in a stranger's window. + And so almost to find + In the great weariness of love. + + * * * * * + + Now this is the tragedy: + If the Idea did not move + Somewhere in the realm of Love, + Clothing itself in flesh at last for you to see, + You could scarcely follow the gleam. + And the tragedy is when Life has made you over, + And denied you, and dulled your dream, + And you no longer count the cost, + Nor the past lament, + You are sitting oblivious of your discontent + Beside the Almost-- + And then the face appears + Evoked from the Idea by your dead desire, + And blinds and burns you like fire. + And you sit there without tears, + Though thinking it has come to kill you, or mock your youth + With its half of the truth. + + * * * * * + + A beach as yellow as gold + Daisied with tents for a lovely mile. + And a sea that edges and walls the sand with blue, + Matching the heaven without a seam, + Save for the threads of foam that hold + With stitches the canopy rare as the tile + Of old Damascus. And O the wind + Which roars to the roaring water brightened + By the beating wings of the sun! + And here I walk, not seeking the Dream, + As men walk absent of heart or mind + Who have no wish for a sorrow lightened + Since all things now seem lost or won. + And here it is that your face appears! + Like a star brushed out from leaves by a breeze + When day's in the sky, though evening nears. + You are here by a tent with your little brood, + And I approach in a quiet mood + And see you, know that the Destinies + Have surrendered you at last. + Voice, lips and hands and the light of the eyes. + + * * * * * + + And I who have asked so much discover + That you find in me the man and lover + You have divined and visualized, + In quiet day dreams. And what is strange + Your boy of eight is subtly guised + In fleeting looks that half resemble + Something in me. Two souls may range + Mid this earth's billion souls for life, + And hide their hunger or dissemble. + For there are two at least created, + Endowed with alien powers that draw, + And kindred powers that by some law + Bind souls as like as sister, brother. + There are two at least who are for each other. + If we are such, it is not fated + You are for him, howe'er belated + The time's for us. + + * * * * * + + And yet is not the time gone by? + Your garden has been planted, dear. + And mine with weeds is over-grown. + Oh yes! 'tis only late July! + We can replant, ere frosts appear, + Gather the blossoms we have sown. + And I have preached that hearts should seize + The hour that brings realities. ... + + Yes, I admit it all, we crush + Under our feet the world's contempt. + But when I raise the cup, it's blush + Reveals the snake's eyes, there's a hush + While a hand writes upon the wall: + Life cannot be re-made, exempt + From life that has been, something's gone + Out of the soil, in life updrawn + To growths that vine, and tangle, crawl, + Withered in part, or gone to seed. + 'Tis not the same, though you have freed + The soil from what was grown. ... + + * * * * * + + Heaven is but the hour + Of the planting of the flower. + But heaven is the blossom to be, + Of the one Reality. + And heaven cannot undo the once sown ground. + But heaven is love in the pursuing, + And in the memory of having found. ... + + The rocks in the river make light and sound + And show that the waters search and move. + And what is time but an infinite whole + Revealed by the breaks in thought, desire? + To put it away is to know one's soul. + Love is music unheard and fire + Too rare for eyes; between hurt beats + The heart detects it, sees how pure + Its essence is, through heart defeats.-- + You are the silence making sure + The sound with which it has to cope, + My sorrow and as well my hope. + + + + +VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART + + + You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue, + Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh, + Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset, + Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare, + I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts. + Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be. + I'll tell you more than you can think to ask me. + I love this woman, but what is love to you? + What is it to your laws or courts? I love her. + She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room-- + She stood before me naked, shrank a little, + Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry + When she saw amiable passion in my eyes-- + She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes + More in those moments than whole hours of talk + From witness stands exculpate could make clear + My innocence. + + But if I did a crime + My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life. + Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love + Are walled in and locked up like coal or food + And only may be had by purchasers + From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold. + Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste, + While power and freedom skulk with famished lips + Too tightly pressed for curses. + + So do men, + Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves + And live in meagreness to make sure a life + Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale; + And live in ways, companionships as fixed + As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock. + You wonder at war? Why war lets loose desires, + Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war? + Then let men live. The moral equivalent + Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice-- + Religion is not life, but life is living. + And painted cherries to the hungry thrush + Is art to life. The artist lived his work. + You cannot live his life who love his work. + You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries + Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths, + The story's coming of her nakedness + Be patient for a time. + + All this I learned + While painting pictures no one ever bought, + Till hunger drove me to this servile work + As butler in her father's house, with time + On certain days to walk the galleries + And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw + I was not living while I painted pictures. + I was not living working for a crust, + I was not living walking galleries: + All this was but vicarious life which felt + Through gazing at the thing the artist made, + In memory of the life he lived himself: + As we preserve the fragrance of a flower + By drawing off its essence in a bottle, + Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away + To get the inner passion of the flower + Extracted to a bottle that a queen + May act the flower's part. + + Say what you will, + Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits, + Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches + Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite, + You call the State, has fashioned life aright-- + The secret is abroad, from eye to eye + The secret passes from poor eyes that wink + In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength + Roped down or barred, that what the human heart + Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame + Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out, + Is love for body and for spirit, love + To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it, + This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow + Where spirits are left free a little while + Within a little space, so long as strength, + Flesh, blood increases to the day of use + As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast, + Society may feed himself and keep + His olden shape and power? + + Fools go crop + The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself + For what you want, and count it righteousness, + No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing, + Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls + Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries, + Inhaling from a bottle what was lived + These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny + That what we men desire are horses, dogs, + Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change, + Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change, + And re-adjusted order. + + As I turned + From painting and from art, yet found myself + Full of all lusts while bound to menial work + Where my eyes daily rested on this woman + A thought came to me like a little spark + One sees far down the darkness of a cave, + Which grows into a flame, a blinding light + As one approaches it, so did this thought + Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman, + I wanted her, why should I lose this woman? + What was there to oppose possession? Will? + Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then + Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will + Deserves achievement? Which has rights above + The other? I desire her, her desire + Is not toward me, which of these two desires + Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers + For her, at least the stronger must prevail, + And wreck itself or bend all else before it. + That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain + To overwhelm her will with gold, and I + With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it, + And what's the difference? + + But as I said + I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard + Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came + And gazed upon me from her window. I + Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes. + Then in a concentration which was blindness + To all else, so bewilderment of mind, + I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope + Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back + The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness. + There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr + Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele, + Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning + Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames + Consumed her ravished beauty. + + So I looked, + And trembled, then returned perhaps to find + Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate, + And radiate with lashes of surprise, + Delight as when a star is still but shines. + And on this night somehow our natures worked + To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner + To show more back and bosom than before. + And as I served her, her down-looking eyes + Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin. + Before I could begin to bend she leaned + And let me see--oh yes, she let me see + The white foam of her little breasts caressing + The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore + Of bright carnations. It was from such foam + That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave + The napkin to her she pushed out a foot, + And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she + Concealed a smile--and you, you jailers laugh + Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger. + + I go on, + Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps! + At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir. + I finding errands in the hallway hear + The desultory taking up of books, + And through her open door, see her at last + Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath + Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps + The light on where the onyx tub and walls + Dazzle the air. I enter then her room + And stand against the closed door, do not pry + Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance + To fly me, fight me standing face to face. + I hear her flounder in the water, hear + Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms; + Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness + Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute + She stands with back toward me in the doorway, + A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair + Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold. + She turned toward her dresser then and shook + White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked + So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts, + Touching them under with soft tapering hands + To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame + Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these, + The thought ran through me, for her joy alone + And not for mine? + + So I stood there like Zeus + Coming in thunder to Semele, like + The diety of Watteau. Correggio + Had never painted me a satyr there + Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful, + My will subdued in worship of her beauty + To obey her will. + + And then she turned and saw me, + And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried + To hide it from me, faced me immovable + A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips. + And let me plead my cause, make known my love, + Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile. + Let me approach her till I almost touched + The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed + That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped + Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid-- + Oh no, it cannot be--what would they say?" + Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed + The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go--you beast." + My dream went up like paper charred and whirled + Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone + Amid her room and saw my life, our life + Embodied in this woman lately there + Lying and cowardly. And as I turned + To leave the room, her father and the gardener + Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs + And turned me over, stunned, to you the law + Here with these others who have stolen coal + To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty + To keep from freezing in this arid country + Of winter winds on which the dust of custom + Rides like a fog. + + Now do your worst to me! + + + + +THE LANDSCAPE + + + You and your landscape! There it lies + Stripped, resuming its disguise, + Clothed in dreams, made bare again, + Symbol infinite of pain, + Rapture, magic, mystery + Of vanished days and days to be. + There's its sea of tidal grass + Over which the south winds pass, + And the sun-set's Tuscan gold + Which the distant windows hold + For an instant like a sphere + Bursting ere it disappear. + There's the dark green woods which throve + In the spell of Leese's Grove. + And the winding of the road; + And the hill o'er which the sky + Stretched its pallied vacancy + Ere the dawn or evening glowed. + And the wonder of the town + Somewhere from the hill-top down + Nestling under hills and woods + And the meadow's solitudes. + + * * * * * + + And your paper knight of old + Secrets of the landscape told. + And the hedge-rows where the pond + Took the blue of heavens beyond + The hastening clouds of gusty March. + There you saw their wrinkled arch + Where the East wind cracks his whips + Round the little pond and clips + Main-sails from your toppled ships. ... + + Landscape that in youth you knew + Past and present, earth and you! + All the legends and the tales + Of the uplands, of the vales; + Sounds of cattle and the cries + Of ploughmen and of travelers + Were its soul's interpreters. + And here the lame were always lame. + Always gray the gray of head. + And the dead were always dead + Ere the landscape had become + Your cradle, as it was their tomb. + + * * * * * + + And when the thunder storms would waken + Of the dream your soul was not forsaken: + In the room where the dormer windows look-- + There were your knight and the tattered book. + With colors of the forest green + Gabled roofs and the demesne + Of faery kingdoms and faery time + Storied in pre-natal rhyme. ... + Past the orchards, in the plain + The cattle fed on in the rain. + And the storm-beaten horseman sped + Rain blinded and with bended head. + And John the ploughman comes and goes + In labor wet, with steaming clothes. + This is your landscape, but you see + Not terror and not destiny + Behind its loved, maternal face, + Its power to change, or fade, replace + Its wonder with a deeper dream, + Unfolding to a vaster theme. + From time eternal was this earth? + No less this landscape with your birth + Arose, nor leaves you, nor decay + Finds till the twilight of your day. + It bore you, moulds you to its plan. + It ends with you as it began, + But bears the seed of future years + Of higher raptures, dumber tears. + + * * * * * + + For soon you lose the landscape through + Absence, sorrow, eyes grown true + To the naked limbs which show + Buds that never more may blow. + Now you know the lame were straight + Ere you knew them, and the fate + Of the old is yet to die. + Now you know the dead who lie + In the graves you saw where first + The landscape on your vision burst, + Were not always dead, and now + Shadows rest upon the brow + Of the souls as young as you. + Some are gone, though years are few + Since you roamed with them the hills. + So the landscape changes, wills + All the changes, did it try + Its promises to justify?... + + * * * * * + + For you return and find it bare: + There is no heaven of golden air. + Your eyes around the horizon rove, + A clump of trees is Leese's Grove. + And what's the hedgerow, what's the pond? + A wallow where the vagabond + Beast will not drink, and where the arch + Of heaven in the days of March + Refrains to look. A blinding rain + Beats the once gilded window pane. + John, the poor wretch, is gone, but bread + Tempts other feet that path to tread + Between the barn and house, and brave + The March rain and the winds that rave. ... + O, landscape I am one who stands + Returned with pale and broken hands + Glad for the day that I have known, + And finds the deserted doorway strown + With shoulder blade and spinal bone. + And you who nourished me and bred + I find the spirit from you fled. + You gave me dreams,'twas at your breast + My soul's beginning rose and pressed + My steps afar at last and shaped + A world elusive, which escaped + Whatever love or thought could find + Beyond the tireless wings of mind. + Yet grown by you, and feeding on + Your strength as mother, you are gone + When I return from living, trace + My steps to see how I began, + And deeply search your mother face + To know your inner self, the place + For which you bore me, sent me forth + To wander, south or east or north. ... + Now the familiar landscape lies + With breathless breast and hollow eyes. + It knows me not, as I know not + Its secret, spirit, all forgot + Its kindred look is, as I stand + A stranger in an unknown land. + + * * * * * + + Are we not earth-born, formed of dust + Which seeks again its love and trust + In an old landscape, after change + In hearts grown weary, wrecked and strange? + What though we struggled to emerge + Dividual, footed for the urge + Of further self-discoveries, though + In the mid-years we cease to know, + Through disenchanted eyes, the spell + That clothed it like a miracle-- + Yet at the last our steps return + Its deeper mysteries to learn. + It has been always us, it must + Clasp to itself our kindred dust. + We cannot free ourselves from it. + Near or afar we must submit + To what is in us, what was grown + Out of the landscape's soil, the known + And unknown powers of soil and soul. + As bodies yield to the control + Of the earth's center, and so bend + In age, so hearts toward the end + Bend down with lips so long athirst + To waters which were known at first-- + The little spring at Leese's Grove + Was your first love, is your last love! + + * * * * * + + When those we knew in youth have crept + Under the landscape, which has kept + Nothing we saw with youthful eyes; + Ere God is formed in the empty skies, + I wonder not our steps are pressed + Toward the mystery of their rest. + That is the hope at bud which kneels + Where ancestors the tomb conceals. + Age no less than youth would lean + Upon some love. For what is seen + No more of father, mother, friend, + For hands of flesh lost, eyes grown blind + In death, a something which assures, + Comforts, allays our fears, endures. + Just as the landscape and our home + In childhood made of heaven's dome, + And all the farthest ways of earth + A place as sheltered as the hearth. + + * * * * * + + Is it not written at the last day + Heaven and earth shall roll away? + Yes, as my landscape passed through death, + Lay like a corpse, and with new breath + Became instinct with fire and light-- + So shall it roll up in my sight, + Pass from the realm of finite sense, + Become a thing of spirit, whence + I shall pass too, its child in faith + Of dreams it gave me, which nor death + Nor change can wreck, but still reveal + In change a Something vast, more real + Than sunsets, meadows, green-wood trees, + Or even faery presences. + A Something which the earth and air + Transmutes but keeps them what they were; + Clear films of beauty grown more thin + As we approach and enter in. + Until we reach the scene that made + Our landscape just a thing of shade. + + + + +TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY + + + Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows, + So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow + I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye, + To-morrow lacks two days of being a month-- + Here is a secret--since I made my will. + Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it? + That I should make a will! Yet it may be + That then and jump at this most crescent hour + Heaven inspired the deed. + + As a mad younker + I knew an aged man in Warwickshire + Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness + Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts. + If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall, + With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain + And with doleful suspiration kept + This habit of his grief. And on a time + As he stood looking at the flying clouds, + I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it, + Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me,' + Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off + And left me empty there. + + Now here am I! + Oh, it is strange to find myself this age, + And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled, + And, like this aged man of Warwickshire, + Slaved by a mood which must have breath--"Tra-la! + That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me." + For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la" + The moment I break sleep to see the day. + At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad + I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table + I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne + Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la' + Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so?" + Then I bethought me of that aged man + Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered: + "Perhaps I am so happy when awake + The song crops out in slumber--who can say?" + And Anne arose, began to keel the pot, + But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman? + + To-morrow is my birthday. If I die, + Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide, + What soul would interdict the poppied way? + Heroes may look the Monster down, a child + Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see + Such bland unreckoning of his strength--but I, + Having so greatly lived, would sink away + Unknowing my departure. I have died + A thousand times, and with a valiant soul + Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death + To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean. + But in this death that has no bottom to it, + No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul + Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink + From that inane which gulfs us, without place + For us to stand and see it. + + Yet, dear Ben, + This thing must be; that's what we live to know + Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it. + As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens + Spout learnedly of war, who never saw + A cannon aimed. You drink too much to-day, + Or get a scratch while turning Lucy's stile, + And like a beast you sicken. Like a beast + They cart you off. What matter if your thought + Outsoared the Phoenix? Like a beast you rot. + Methinks that something wants our flesh, as we + Hunger for flesh of beasts. But still to-morrow, + To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow + Creeps in this petty pace--O, Michael Drayton, + Some end must be. But 'twixt the fear of ceasing + And weariness of going on we lie + Upon these thorns! + + These several springs I find + No new birth in the Spring. And yet in London + I used to cry, "O, would I were in Stratford; + It's April and the larks are singing now. + The flags are green along the Avon river; + O, would I were a rambler in the fields. + This poor machine is racing to its wreck. + This grist of thought is endless, this old sorrow + Sprouts, winds and crawls in London's darkness. Come + Back to your landscape! Peradventure waits + Some woman there who will make new the earth, + And crown the spring with fire." + + So back I come. + And the springs march before me, say, "Behold + Here are we, and what would you, can you use us? + What good is air if lungs are out, or springs + When the mind's flown so far away no spring, + Nor loveliness of earth can call it back? + I tell you what it is: in early youth + The life is in the loins; by thirty years + It travels through the stomach to the lungs, + And then we strut and crow. By forty years + The fruit is swelling while the leaves are fresh. + By fifty years you're ripe, begin to rot. + At fifty-two, or fifty-five or sixty + The life is in the seed--what's spring to you? + Puff! Puff! You are so winged and light you fly. + For every passing zephyr, are blown off, + And drifting, God knows where, cry out "tra-la," + "Ah, mercy me," as it may happen you. + Puff! Puff! away you go! + + Another drink? + Why, you may drown the earth with ale and I + Will drain it like a sea. The more I drink + The better I see that this is April time. ... + + Ben! There is one Voice which says to everything: + "Dream what you will, I'll make you bear your seed. + And, having borne, the sickle comes among ye + And takes your stalk." The rich and sappy greens + Of spring or June show life within the loins, + And all the world is fair, for now the plant + Can drink the level cup of flame where heaven + Is poured full by the sun. But when the blossom + Flutters its colors, then it takes the cup + And waves the stalk aside. And having drunk + The stalk to penury, then slumber comes + With dreams of spring stored in the imprisoned germ, + An old life and a new life all in one, + A thing of memory and of prophecy, + Of reminiscence, longing, hope and fear. + What has been ours is taken, what was ours + Becomes entailed on our seed in the spring, + Fees in possession and enjoyment too. ... + + The thing is sex, Ben. It is that which lives + And dies in us, makes April and unmakes, + And leaves a man like me at fifty-two, + Finished but living, on the pinnacle + Betwixt a death and birth, the earth consumed + And heaven rolled up to eyes whose troubled glances + Would shape again to something better--what? + Give me a woman, Ben, and I will pick + Out of this April, by this larger art + Of fifty-two, such songs as we have heard, + Both you and I, when weltering in the clouds + Of that eternity which comes in sleep, + Or in the viewless spinning of the soul + When most intense. The woman is somewhere, + And that's what tortures, when I think this field + So often gleaned could blossom once again + If I could find her. + + Well, as to my plays: + I have not written out what I would write. + They have a thousand buds of finer flowering. + And over "Hamlet" hangs a teasing spirit + As fine to that as sense is fine to flesh. + Good friends, my soul beats up its prisoned wings + Against the ceiling of a vaster whorl + And would break through and enter. But, fair friends, + What strength in place of sex shall steady me? + What is the motive of this higher mount? + What process in the making of myself-- + The very fire, as it were, of my growth-- + Shall furnish forth these writings by the way, + As incident, expression of the nature + Relumed for adding branches, twigs and leaves?... + + Suppose I'd make a tragedy of this, + Focus my fancied "Dante" to this theme, + And leave my halfwrit "Sappho," which at best + Is just another delving in the mine + That gave me "Cleopatra" and the Sonnets? + If you have genius, write my tragedy, + And call it "Shakespeare, Gentleman of Stratford," + Who lost his soul amid a thousand souls, + And had to live without it, yet live with it + As wretched as the souls whose lives he lived. + Here is a play for you: Poor William Shakespeare, + This moment growing drunk, the famous author + Of certain sugared sonnets and some plays, + With this machine too much to him, which started + Some years ago, now cries him nay and runs + Even when the house shakes and complains, "I fall, + You shake me down, my timbers break apart. + Why, if an engine must go on like this + The building should be stronger." + + Or to mix, + And by the mixing, unmix metaphors, + No mortal man has blood enough for brains + And stomach too, when the brain is never done + With thinking and creating. + + For you see, + I pluck a flower, cut off a dragon's head-- + Choose twixt these figures--lo, a dozen buds, + A dozen heads out-crop. For every fancy, + Play, sonnet, what you will, I write me out + With thinking "Now I'm done," a hundred others + Crowd up for voices, and, like twins unborn + Kick and turn o'er for entrance to the world. + And I, poor fecund creature, who would rest, + As 'twere from an importunate husband, fly + To money-lending, farming, mulberry trees, + Enclosing Welcombe fields, or idling hours + In common talk with people like the Combes. + All this to get a heartiness, a hold + On earth again, lest Heaven Hercules, + Finding me strayed to mid-air, kicking heels + Above the mountain tops, seize on my scruff + And bear me off or strangle. + + Good, my friends, + The "Tempest" is as nothing to the voice + That calls me to performance--what I know not. + I've planned an epic of the Asian wash + Which slopped the star of Athens and put out, + Which should all history analyze, and present + A thousand notables in the guise of life, + And show the ancient world and worlds to come + To the last blade of thought and tiniest seed + Of growth to be. With visions such as these + My spirit turns in restless ecstacy, + And this enslaved brain is master sponge, + And sucks the blood of body, hands and feet. + While my poor spirit, like a butterfly + Gummed in its shell, beats its bedraggled wings, + And cannot rise. + + I'm cold, both hands and feet. + These three days past I have been cold, this hour + I am warm in three days. God bless the ale. + God did do well to give us anodynes. ... + So now you know why I am much alone, + And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips, + John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, + And do not have them here, dear ancient friends, + Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love. + Love is not love which alters when it finds + A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only + I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme: + I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch + Of hands of flesh. + + I am most passionate, + And long am used perplexities of love + To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder, + Seeing what I am, what my fate has been? + Well, hark you; Anne is sixty now, and I, + A crater which erupts, look where she stands + In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am, + As years go, but I am a youth afire + While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury + Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out + For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy! + I want them not, I want the love which springs + Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body + Is piled in reckless generosity. ... + You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know, + And think me nature's child, scarce understand + How much of physic, law, and ancient annals + I have stored up by means of studious zeal. + But pass this by, and for the braggart breath + Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups, + Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated, + Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth. + Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman, + According to the phrase or the addition + Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare + At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April, + Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry-- + Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I?-- + Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it: + I believe and say it as I would lightly speak + Of the most common thing to sense, outside + Myself to touch or analyze, this mind + Which has been used by Something, as I use + A quill for writing, never in this world + In the most high and palmy days of Greece, + Or in this roaring age, has known its peer. + No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed, + Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails + Of passions curious, countless lives explored + As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin, + The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this? + Since I know them by what I am, the essence + From which their utterance came, myself a flower + Of every graft and being in myself + The recapitulation and the complex + Of all the great. Were not brains before books? + And even geometries in some brain + Before old Gutenberg? O fie, Ben Jonson, + If I am nature's child am I not all? + Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale, + And say that reason in me was a fume. + But if you honor me, as you have said, + As much as any, this side idolatry, + Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be + In your regard, have come to fifty-two, + Defeated in my love, who knew too well + That poets through the love of women turn + To satyrs or to gods, even as women + By the first touch of passion bloom or rot + As angels or as bawds. + + Bethink you also + How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process + Working in man's soul from the woman soul + As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh, + Even as a malady may be, while this thing + Is health and growth, and growing draws all life, + All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment. + Till it become a vision paradisic, + And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost + Rung a place for stepping into heaven. ... + + This I have know, but had not. Nor have I + Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used + Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven + Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay + What grew within me, while I saw the blood + Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child + Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel + With my own blood stained. + + As a virgin shamed + By the swelling life unlicensed needles it, + But empties not her womb of some last shred + Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body, + And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep, + And weakness to the last of life, so I + For some shame not unlike, some need of life + To rid me of this life I had conceived + Did up and choke it too, and thence begot + A fever and a fixed debility + For killing that begot. + + Now you see that I + Have not grown from a central dream, but grown + Despite a wound, and over the wound and used + My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever + Which longed for that which nursed the malady, + And fed on that which still preserved the ill, + The uncertain, sickly appetite to please. + My reason, the physician to my love, + Angry that his prescriptions are not kept + Has left me. And as reason is past care + I am past cure, with ever more unrest + Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are, + And my discourse at random from the truth, + Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair + And thought her bright, who is as black as hell + And dark as night. + + But list, good gentlemen, + This love I speak of is not as a cloak + Which one may put away to wear a coat, + And doff that for a jacket, like the loves + We men are wont to have as loves or wives. + She is the very one, the soul of souls, + And when you put her on you put on light, + Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire, + Which if you tear away you tear your life, + And if you wear you fall to ashes. So + 'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine, + That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost, + And broken hope that we could find each other, + And that mean more to me and less to her. + 'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me + Without a sense of loss, without a tear, + And make me fool and perjured for the oath + That swore her fair and true. I feel myself + As like a virgin who her body gives + For love of one whose love she dreams is hers, + But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, + And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite + For other conquests. For I gave myself, + And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss + Of myself never to myself restored. + The urtication of this shame made plays + And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds + That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, + But, better, love. + + To hell with punks and wenches, + Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, + Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. + And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers, + All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, + Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. + I think I have a fever--hell and furies! + Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. + Ben, if I die before you, let me waste + Richly and freely in the good brown earth, + Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. + What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see + What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets? + Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil + I take the veil and hide, and like great Cæsar + Who drew his toga round him, I depart. + + Good friends, let's to the fields--I have a fever. + After a little walk, and by your pardon, + I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, + Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, + I pass you like an orange to a child: + I can no more with you. Do what you will. + What should my care be when I have no power + To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me + As little as I need you: go your way! + Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, + But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars + The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek + And clap their gushing wounds--but I shall sleep, + Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon + Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators + Shall fulmine over London or America + Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters + And cut each others' throats when reason fails-- + But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed + The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" + But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. + I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep-- + Let's walk and hear the lark. + + + + +SWEET CLOVER + + + Only a few plants up--and not a blossom + My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? + Old John comes by. I show him my result. + Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure, + I wanted you to sow it. Now you see + What comes of letting Hunter do your work. + The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps, + Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed + Was sown. + + But John, who knows a clover field, + Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil + And studies them. + + He says, Look at the roots! + Hunter neglected to inoculate + The seed, for clover seed must always have + Clover bacteria to make it grow, + And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover + The roots are studded thick with tubercles, + Like little warts, made by bacteria. + And somehow these bacteria lay hold + Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil, + And make the plants grow, make them blossom too. + When Hunter sowed this field he was not well: + He should have hauled some top-soil to this field + From some old clover field, or made a culture + Of these bacteria and soaked the seed + In it before he sowed it. + + As I said, + Hunter was sick when he was working here. + And then he ran away to Indiana + And left his wife and children. Now he's back. + His cough was just as bad in Indiana + As it is here. A cough is pretty hard + To run away from. Wife and children too + Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them + Stays with a fellow and cannot be left. + Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you. + He's straightening out his little farm and making + Provision for his family. Hunter's changed. + He is a better man. It almost seems + That Hunter's blossomed. ... + + I am sorry for him. + The doctor says he has tuberculosis. + + + + +SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL + + + To a western breeze + A row of golden tulips is nodding. + They flutter their golden wings + In a sudden ecstasy and say: + Something comes to us from beyond, + Out of the sky, beyond the hill + We give it to you. + + * * * * * + + And I walk through rows of jonquils + To a beloved door, + Which you open. + And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head + Nodding to me, and saying: + Something comes to me + Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty-- + I give it to you. + + * * * * * + + There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes, + And the freshness of June iris in your hands, + And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom. + But your voice is the voice of the robin + Singing at dawn amid new leaves. + It is like sun-light on blue water + Where the south-wind is on the water + And the buds of the flags are green. + It is like the wild bird of the sedges + With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed + Showering lyrics over the sun-light + Between rhythmical pauses + When his heart has stopped, + Making light and water + Into song. + + * * * * * + + Let me hear your voice, + And the voice of Eternal Beauty + Through the music of your voice. + Let me gather the iris of your hands. + Against my face. + And close my eyes with your eyes. + Let me listen with you + For the Voice. + + + + +FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE + + + How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed + In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told, + Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you + From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work, + Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose, + The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands, + The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene. + How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless, + You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here + Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you, + And think of your work--how nothing could balk you + Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned, + Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh, + Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear + For your eighty-four years! + + And they say of you still + You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn, + And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always. + Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived + In your day and your place? It was never their due! + Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be-- + A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes + Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places. + Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God gave you. + And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe-- + Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light? + But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric. + Did France bar her door? Geneva remained--good enough! + Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know. + Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing, + You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path; + You stand at your door and step by another to France-- + Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies + Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman. + And here you have printers to print what you write and a house + For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin. + O busy Voltaire, never resting. ... + + So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke, + The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State, + The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire: + The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you essayed + To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil. + It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter, + A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast + Was thrown on the handles. + + And yet to this day, O Voltaire, + They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did + Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the roots to the sun, + And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light, + And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it. + But listen + The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still + But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others, + That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides. + The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment + To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French? + + Did you give up three years of your life + To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas? + Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well, + Six lines in an article written in English are plenty + To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture, + Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them + Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble, + But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature, + Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record + Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, while batting + At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ... + + How well did you know that life to a genius, a god, + Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes + As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show: + Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp. + Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds. + Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying. + Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake + Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs, + Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships. + You saw through and laughed at--you saw above all + That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a laugh. + + So you smiled till the lines of your mouth + A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing + To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me, + I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing + Through eighty-four years for realities--O let them pass, + Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god? + Front the ages with a smile! + + + + +POOR PIERROT + + + Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes + I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons. + For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate? + Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate? + + Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor? + Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door? + Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie + Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye. + + I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and deep: + The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep. + They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or strife-- + When life fills full the soul then life kills life. + + I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune, + Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon. + And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee + Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea. + + + + +MIRAGE OF THE DESERT + + + Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door: + Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through. + There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds-- + But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue? + + * * * * * + + And there's the harp on which great fingers play + Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things; + And there's a soul that wanders out when called + By a voice afar from the answering strings. + + * * * * * + + And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears, + Till the vision, the mad music are wept away. + One cannot have them and live, but if one die + It might be better than living--who can say? + + * * * * * + + Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know + How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough? + Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul-- + But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love! + + * * * * * + + + + +DAHLIAS + + + The mad wind is the warden, + And the smiling dahlias nod + To the dahlias across the garden, + And the wastes of the golden rod. + + They never pray for pardon, + Nor ask his way nor forego, + Nor close their hearts nor harden + Nor stay his hand, nor bestow + + Their hearts filched out of their bosoms, + Nor plan for dahlias to be. + For the wind blows over the garden + And sets the dahlias free. + + They drift to the song of the warden, + Heedless they give him heed. + And he walks and blows through the garden + Blossom and leaf and seed. + + + + +THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES + + + Silvers and purples breathing in a sky + Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger, + Of the restrained but passionate July + Upon the marshes of the river lie, + Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly. + + * * * * * + + A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend + Under the flapping of the breeze's wing, + Departing and revisiting + The haunts of the river twisting without end. + + * * * * * + + The torsions of the river make long miles + Of the waters of the river which remain + Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles + Of water between the rushes, which restrain + The bewildered currents in returning files, + Twisting between the greens like a blue racer, + Too hurt to leap with body or uplift + Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift + + * * * * * + + Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes + The iron bridge's reticules + Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons. + But from the bridge, watching the little steamer + Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville, + The river loosened from the abandoned spools + Of earth and heaven wanders without will, + Between the rushes, like a silken streamer. + And two old men who turn the bridge + For passing boats sit in the sun all day, + Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs, + And smoke and talk of a glory passed away. + And of the ruthless sacrilege + Which mowed away the pines, + And cast them in the current here as logs, + To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver, + Making for a little hour heroes and heroines, + Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven, + When the great saws sent screeches up and whines, + And cries for more and more + Slaughter of forests up and down the river + And along the lake's shore. + + * * * * * + + But all is quiet on the river now + As when the snow lay windless in the wood, + And the last Indian stood + And looked to find the broken bough + That told the path under the snow. + All is as silent as the spiral lights + Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise, + Like the wings of swarming dragon flies, + Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies + Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights + Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare + Of dunes and purple air, + There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies. + + * * * * * + + The forests and the mills are gone! + All is as silent as the voice I heard + On a summer dawn + When we two fished among the river reeds. + As silent as the pain + In a heart that feeds + A sorrow, but does not complain. + As silent as above the bridge in this July, + Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky + Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane: + A man-bestridden dragon fly! + + + + +DELILAH + + + Because thou wast most delicate, + A woman fair for men to see, + The earth did compass thy estate, + Thou didst hold life and death in fee, + And every soul did bend the knee. + + [Sidenote: (Wherein the corrupt spirit of privilege is symbolized by + Delilah and the People by Samson.)] + + Much pleasure also made thee grieve + For that the goblet had been drained. + The well spiced viand thou didst leave + To frown on want whose throat was strained, + And violence whose hands were stained. + + The purple of thy royal cloak, + Made the sea paler for its hue. + Much people bent beneath the yoke + To fetch thee jewels white and blue, + And rings to pass thy gold hair through. + + Therefore, Delilah wast thou called, + Because the choice wines nourished thee + In Sorek, by the mountains walled + Against the north wind's misery, + Where flourished every pleasant tree. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah hath a taste for ease and luxury and wantoneth + with divers lovers.)] + + Thy lovers also were as great + In numbers as the sea sands were; + Thou didst requite their love with hate; + And give them up to massacre, + Who brought thee gifts of gold and myrrh. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah conceiveth the design of ensnaring Samson.)] + + At Gaza and at Ashkelon, + The obscene Dagon worshipping, + Thy face was fair to look upon. + Yet thy tongue, sweet to talk or sing, + Was deadlier than the adder's sting. + + Wherefore, thou saidst: "I will procure + The strong man Samson for my spouse, + His death will make my ease secure. + The god has heard this people's vows + To recompense their injured house." + + Thereafter, when the giant lay + Supinely rolled against thy feet, + Him thou didst craftily betray, + With amorous vexings, low and sweet, + To tell thee that which was not meet. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah attempteth to discover the source of Samson's + strength. Samson very neatly deceiveth her.)] + + And Samson spake to thee again; + "With seven green withes I may be bound, + So shall I be as other men." + Whereat the lords the green withes found-- + The same about his limbs were bound. + + Then did the fish-god in thee cry: + "The Philistines be upon thee now." + But Samson broke the withes awry, + As when a keen fire toucheth tow; + So thou didst not the secret know. + + But thou, being full of guile, didst plead: + "My lord, thou hast but mocked my love + With lies who gave thy saying heed; + Hast thou not vexed my heart enough, + To ease me all the pain thereof?" + + Now, in the chamber with fresh hopes, + The liers in wait did list, and then + He said: "Go to, and get new ropes, + Wherewith thou shalt bind me again, + So shall I be as other men." + + [Sidenote: (Samson retaineth his intellect and the lustihood of his + body and again misleadeth the subtle craft of Delilah.)] + + Then didst thou do as he had said, + Whereat the fish-god in thee cried, + "The Philistines be upon thy head," + He shook his shoulders deep and wide, + And cast the ropes like thread aside. + + Yet thou still fast to thy conceit, + Didst chide him softly then and say: + "Beforetime thou hast shown deceit, + And mocked my quest with idle play, + Thou canst not now my wish gainsay." + + Then with the secret in his thought, + He said: "If thou wilt weave my hair, + The web withal, the deed is wrought; + Thou shalt have all my strength in snare, + And I as other men shall fare." + + Seven locks of him thou tookest and wove + The web withal and fastened it, + And then the pin thy treason drove, + With laughter making all things fit, + As did beseem thy cunning wit. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah still pursueth her designs and Samson beginning to + be somewhat wearied hinteth very close to his secret.)] + + Then the god Dagon speaking by + Thy delicate mouth made horrid din; + "Lo the Philistine lords are nigh"-- + He woke ere thou couldst scarce begin, + And took away the web and pin. + + Yet, saying not it doth suffice, + Thou in the chamber's secrecy, + Didst with thy artful words entice + Samson to give his heart to thee, + And tell thee where his strength might be. + + Pleading, "How canst thou still aver, + I love thee, being yet unkind? + How is it thou dost minister + Unto my heart with treacherous mind, + Thou art but cruelly inclined." + + From early morn to falling dusk, + At night upon the curtained bed, + Fragrant with spikenard and with musk, + For weariness he laid his head, + Whilst thou the insidious net didst spread. + + [Sidenote: (Samson being weakened by lust and overcome by Delilah's + importunities and guile telleth her wherein his great strength + consisteth.)] + + Nor wouldst not give him any rest, + But vexed with various words his soul, + Till death far more than life was blest, + Shot through and through with heavy dole, + He gave his strength to thy control. + + Saying, "I am a Nazarite, + To God alway, nor hath there yet + Razor or shears done despite + To these my locks of coarsen jet, + Therefore my strength hath known no let." + + "But, and if these be shaven close, + Whereas I once was strong as ten, + I may not meet my meanest foes + Among the hated Philistine, + I shall be weak like other men." + + He turned to sleep, the spell was done, + Thou saidst "Come up this once, I trow + The secret of his strength is known; + Hereafter sweat shall bead his brow, + Bring up the silver thou didst vow." + + [Sidenote: (Samson having trusted Delilah turneth to sleep whereat her + minions with force falleth upon him and depriveth him of his + strength.)] + + They came, and sleeping on thy knees, + The giant of his locks was shorn. + And Dagon, being now at ease, + Cried like the harbinger of morn, + To see the giant's strength forlorn. + + For he wist not the Lord was gone:-- + "I will go as I went erewhile," + He said, "and shake my mighty brawn." + Without the captains, file on file, + Did execute Delilah's guile. + + [Sidenote: (Sansculottism, as it seemeth, is overthrown.)] + + At Gaza where the mockers pass, + Midst curses and unholy sound, + They fettered him with chains of brass, + Put out his eyes, and being bound + Within the prison house he ground. + + The heathen looking on did sing; + "Behold our god into our hand, + Hath brought him for our banqueting, + Who slew us and destroyed our land, + Against whom none of us could stand." + + [Sidenote: (Samson being no longer formidable and being deprived of + his eyes is reduced to slavery and made the sport of the heathen.)] + + Now, therefore, when the festival + Waxed merrily, with one accord, + The lords and captains loud did call, + To bring him out whom they abhorred, + To make them sport who sat at board. + + [Sidenote: (After a time Samson prayeth for vengeance even though + himself should perish thereby.)] + + And Samson made them sport and stood + Betwixt the pillars of the house, + Above with scornful hardihood, + Both men and women made carouse, + And ridiculed his eyeless brows. + + Then Samson prayed "Remember me + O Lord, this once, if not again. + O God, behold my misery, + Now weaker than all other men, + Who once was mightier than ten." + + "Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes, + And for this unrequited toil, + For fraud, injustice, perjuries, + For lords whose greed devours the soil, + And kings and rulers who despoil." + + [Sidenote: (Wherein by a very nice conceit revolution is symbolized.)] + + "For all that maketh light of Thee, + And sets at naught Thy holy word, + For tongues that babble blasphemy, + And impious hands that hold the sword-- + Grant vengeance, though I perish, Lord." + + He grasped the pillars, having prayed, + And bowed himself--the building fell, + And on three thousand souls was laid, + Gone soon to death with mighty yell. + And Samson died, for it was well. + + The lords and captains greatly err, + Thinking that Samson is no more, + Blind, but with ever-growing hair, + He grinds from Tyre to Singapore, + While yet Delilah plays the whore. + + So it hath been, and yet will be, + The captains, drunken at the feast + To garnish their felicity, + Will taunt him as a captive beast, + Until their insolence hath ceased. + + [Sidenote: (Wherein it is shown that while the people like Samson have + been blinded, and have not recovered their sight still that their hair + continueth to grow.)] + + Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet, + To Dagon and to Ashtoreth; + Of bloody stripes from head to feet, + He will endure unto the death, + Being blind, he also nothing saith. + + Then 'gainst the Doric capitals, + Resting in prayer to God for power, + He will shake down your marble walls, + Abiding heaven's appointed hour, + And those that fly shall hide and cower. + + But this Delilah shall survive, + To do the sin already done, + Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive, + At Gaza and at Ashkelon, + A woman fair to look upon. + + + + +THE WORLD-SAVER + + + If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, + Play whips for fun, or snares for game, + The liar full of ease goes free, + And Socrates must bear the shame. + + With the blunt sage he stands despised, + The Pharisees salute him not; + Laughter awaits the truth he prized, + And Judas profits by his plot. + + A million angels kneel and pray, + And sue for grace that he may win-- + Eternal Jove prepares the day, + And sternly sets the fateful gin. + + Satan, who hates the light, is fain, + To back his virtuous enterprise; + The omnipotent powers alone refrain, + Only the Lord of hosts denies. + + Whatever of woven argument, + Lacks warp to hold the woof in place, + Smothers his honest discontent, + But leaves to view his woeful face. + + Fling forth the flag, devour the land, + Grasp destiny and use the law; + But dodge the epigram's keen brand, + And fall not by the ass's jaw. + + The idiot snicker strikes more down, + Than fell at Troy or Waterloo; + Still, still he meets it with a frown, + And argues loudly for "the True." + + Injustice lengthens out her chain, + Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more; + But while the eons wax and wane, + He storms the barricaded door. + + Wisdom and peace and fair intent, + Are tedious as a tale twice told; + One thing increases being spent-- + Perennial youth belongs to gold. + + At Weehawken the soul set free, + Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill, + Drink life from that philosophy, + And flourish by the age's will. + + If he shall toil to clear the field, + Fate's children seize the prosperous year; + Boldly he fashions some new shield, + And naked feels the victor's spear. + + He rolls the world up into day, + He finds the grain, and gets the hull. + He sees his own mind in the sway, + And Progress tiptoes on his skull. + + Angels and fiends behold the wrong, + And execrate his losing fight; + While Jove amidst the choral song + Smiles, and the heavens glow with light! + + --_Trueblood_ + + * * * * * + + Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama-- + Only one drama, then to die. Enough + To win the heights but once! He writes me letters, + These later days marked "Opened by the Censor," + About his drama, asks me what I think + About this point of view, and that approach, + And whether to etch in his hero's soul + By etching in his hero's enemies, + Or luminate his hero by enshadowing + His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him + Which is the actual and the larger theme, + His hero or his hero's enemies? + And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind + Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan + The god misunderstood, the lover of man + Destroyed by heaven for his love of man. + In July, 1914, while in London + He took me to his house to dine and showed me + The verses as above. And while I read + He left the room, returned, I heard him move + The ash trays on the table where we sat + And set some object on the table. + + Then + As I looked up from reading I discovered + A skull and bony hand upon the table. + And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow! + And what a hand was this! A right hand too. + Those fingers in the flesh did miracles. + And when I have my hero's skull before me, + His hand that moulded peoples, I should write + The drama that possesses all my thought. + You'd think the spirit of the man would come + And show me how to find the key that fits + The story of his life, reveal its secret. + I know the secrets, but I want the secret. + You'd think his spirit out of gratitude + Would start me off. It's something, I insist, + To find a haven with a dramatist + After your bones have crossed the sea, and after + Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, + And reverent housing. + + Dying in New York + He lay for ten years in a lonely grave + Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe. + No grave yard in the city would receive him. + Neither a banker nor a friend of banks, + Nor falling in a duel to awake + Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity + Was not so much as offered. He was poor, + And never had a tomb like Washington. + Of course he wasn't Washington--but still, + Study that skull a little! In ten years + A mad admirer living here in England + Went to America and dug him up, + And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then + Our country was in turmoil over France-- + (The details are so rich I lose my head, + And can't construct my acts.)--hell's flaming here, + And we are fighting back the roaring fire + That France had lighted. England would abort + The era she embraced. Here is a point + That vexes me in laying out the scenes, + And persons of the play. For parliament + Went into fury that these bones were here + On British soil. The city raged. They took + The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison + For crying on the streets the bones' arrival. + I'd like to put that crier in my play. + The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case + I put it on a background understood, + And showing why the fellow was arrested, + And what a high offence to heaven it was. + Then here's another thing: The monument + This zealous friend had planned was never raised. + The city wouldn't have it--you can guess + The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand + Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me! + He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets. + He had the English gift of writing pamphlets. + He stirred up peoples with his English gift + Against the mother country. How to show this + In action, not in talk, is difficult. + + Well, then here is our friend who has these bones + And cannot honor them in burial. + And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt. + And look! the bones pass to our friend's receiver. + Are they an asset? Our Lord Chancellor + Does not regard them so. I'd like to work + Some humor in my drama at this point, + And satirize his lordship just a little. + Though you can scarcely call a skull an asset + If it be of a man who helped to cost you + The loss of half the world. So the receiver + Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer + Took care of them. He sold them to a man + Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin + About this time turned up in Guilford--then + It's 1854, the man is dead + Near forty years, when just the skull and hand + Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades + All questions touching on that ownership, + And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are-- + The rest in short. + + And as for me--no matter + Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me. + Behold the good right hand, behold the skull + Of _Thomas Paine_, theo-philanthropist, + Of Quaker parents, born in England! Look, + That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote + The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied + Americans against the mother country, + With just that English gift of pamphleteering. + You see I'd have to bring George Washington, + And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson + Upon the stage, and put into their mouths + The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine, + To get before the audience that they thought + He did as much as any man to win + Your independence; that your Declaration + Was founded on his writings, even inspired + A clause against your negro slavery--how-- + Look at this hand!--he was the first to write + _United States of America_--there's the hand + That was the first to write those words. Good Lord + This drama would out-last a Chinese drama + If I put all the story in. But tell me + What to omit, and what to stress? + + And still + I'd have the greatest drama in the world + If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted, + Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast, + His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery. + And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine + Because he was too great, and by this showing + Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers + For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done-- + I know that; but it puzzles me to think + That Hamilton--we'll say, is so revered, + So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied + On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs! + Great genius! and so forth--and there's the Crisis + And Common Sense which only little Shelleys + Haunting the dusty book shops read at all. + It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank + Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt-- + For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed + In money matters to another's wrong + For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know + The world cares more for chastity and temperance + Than for a faultless life in money matters. + No use to dramatize that vital contrast, + The world to-day is what it always was. + But you don't call this Hamilton an artist + And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler? + Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world + As much as any. There is Leonardo-- + The point's not here. + + I think it's more like this: + Some men are Titans and some men are gods, + And some are gods who fall while climbing back + Up to Olympus whence they came. And some + While fighting for the race fall into holes + Where to return and rescue them is death. + Why look you here! You'd think America + Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine + Of Thomas Paine, in fiery gratitude. + He's there in France's national assembly, + And votes to save King Louis with this phrase: + Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office. + They think him faithless to the revolution + For words like these--and clap! the prison door + Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter + To president--of what! to Washington + President of the United States of America, + A title which Paine coined in seventy-seven + Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state! + And Washington is silent, never answers, + And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell, + Who hears the guillotine go slash and click! + Perhaps this is the nucleus of my drama. + Or else to show that Washington was wise + Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas, + And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas, + Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas + For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense." + That may be just the story for my drama. + Old Homer satirized the human race + For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian. + But there's not stuff for satire in a war + Ensuing on the insult for the rescue + Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets, + And won a continent for the rescuer. + That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow + Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man. + This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate + Of England and her power, America's + Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama + As showing how the more you do in life + The greater shall you suffer. This is true, + If what you battered down gets hold of you. + This drama almost drives me mad at times. + I have his story at my fingers' ends. + But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands. + I think I'll have to give it up. What's that? + Well, if an audience of to-day would turn + From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage + What is the use to write it, if they'd turn + No matter how you wrote it? I believe + They wouldn't like it in America, + Nor England either, maybe--you are right! + A drama with no audience is a failure. + But here's this skull. What shall I do with it? + If I should have it cased in solid silver + There is no shrine to take it--no Cologne + For skulls like this. + + Well, I must die sometime, + And who will get it then? Look at this skull! + This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend: + A man who has a theme the world despises! + + + + +RECESSIONAL + + + IN TIME OF WAR + + MEDICAL UNIT-- + + Even as I see, and share with you in seeing, + The altar flame of your love's sacrifice; + And even as I bear before the hour the vision, + Your little hands in hospital and prison + Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes, + So do I suffer for splendor of your being + Which leads you from me, and in separation + Lays on my breast the pain of memory. + Over your hands I bend + In silent adoration, + Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end, + Asking for consolation + Out of the sacrament of our separation, + And for some faithful word acceptable and true, + That I may know and keep the mystery: + That in this separation I go forth with you + And you to the world's end remain with me. + + * * * * * + + How may I justify the hope that rises + That I am giving you to a world of pain, + And am a part of your love's sacrifices? + Is it so little if I see you not again? + You will croon soldier lads to sleep, + Even to the last sleep of all. + But in this absence, as your love will keep + Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall, + So I, though far away, shall kneel by you + If the last hour approaches, to bedew + Your lips that from their infant wondering + Lisped of a heaven lost. + I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost + As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving. + Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living + Bearing a solace in death. + God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,-- + You are transfigured + Before me, and I bow my head, + And leave you in the light that lights your way, + And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped, + And the hour we must obey-- + Look you, I will go pray! + + * * * * * + + + + +THE AWAKENING + + + When you lie sleeping; golden hair + Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink + Ears that nestle, I forbear + A moment while I look and think + How you are mine, and if I dare + To bend and kiss you lying there. + + * * * * * + + A Raphael in the flesh! Resist + I cannot, though to break your sleep + Is thoughtless of me--you are kissed + And roused from slumber dreamless, deep-- + You rub away the slumber's mist, + You scold and almost weep. + + * * * * * + + It is too bad to wake you so, + Just for a kiss. But when awake + You sing and dance, nor seem to know + You slept a sleep too deep to break + From which I roused you long ago + For nothing but my passion's sake-- + What though your heart should ache! + + * * * * * + + + + +IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR + + + I arise in the silence of the dawn hour. + And softly steal out to the garden + Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning. + And a wind moves out of the south-land, + Like a film of silver, + And thrills with a far borne message + The flowers of the garden. + Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them + To the south wind as he passes. + But the zinnias and calendulas, + In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly + As the south wind whispers the secret + Of the dawn hour! + + I stand in the silence of the dawn hour + In the garden, + As the star of morning fades. + Flying from scythes of air + The hare-bells, purples and golden glow + On the sand-hill back of the orchard + Race before the feet of the wind. + But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim + Begin to flutter and glisten. + And in a moment, in a twinkled passion, + The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed, + As he fences the lilac lights of the sky, + And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon + Is drowned in the waste of morning! + + * * * * * + + In the silence of the garden, + At the dawn hour + I turn and see you-- + You who knew and followed, + You who knew the dawn hour, + And its sky like a Favrile goblet. + You who knew the south-wind + Bearing the secret of the morning + To waking gardens, fields and forests. + You in a gown of green, O footed Iris, + With eyes of dryad gray, + And the blown glory of unawakened tresses-- + A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment, + In the silence of the dawn hour! + + * * * * * + + And here I behold you + Amid a trance of color, silent music, + The embodied spirit of the morning: + Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun + Caught in the twinkling oak leaves: + Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind; + And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas; + The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac + Turned white for the woe of the moon; + And the silence of the dawn hour! + + * * * * * + + And there to take you in my arms and feel you + In the glory of the dawn hour, + Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh! + To know your spirit by that oneness + Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion + Of life re-lit and visioned. + In dryad eyes beholding + The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing + Rapturous moment of the arisen sun; + And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile. + There to behold you, + Our spirits lost together + In the silence of the dawn hour! + + * * * * * + + + + +FRANCE + + + France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave! + France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal! + Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel + Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave. + Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave + Which Germany and England joined to seal, + And undismayed didst seek the human weal, + Through which thou couldst thyself and others save-- + The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise! + When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours. + Freedom remembers, and I can forget:-- + Great are we by the faith our past betrays, + And noble now the great Republic flowers + Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette. + + + + +BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES + + + Gourgaud, these tears are tears--but look, this laugh, + How hearty and serene--you see a laugh + Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes + Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves + When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend, + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me + Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy. + Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed, + Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves, + Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world. + And here we sit grown old, of memories + Top-full--your hand--my breast is all afire + With happiness that warms, makes young again. + + You see it is not what we saw to-day + That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:-- + But all that I remember, we remember + Of what the world was, what it is to-day, + Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see + Not in the rise of this man or of that, + Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow + That lifts or fells a nation--no, my friend, + God is not there, but in the living stream + Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows, + Cross-currents, what you will, to that result + Where stillness shows the star that fits the star + Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept + Through sorrow, blood and death,--God moves in that + And there I find Him. + + But these tears--for whom + Or what are tears? The Old Guard--oh, my friend + That melancholy remnant! And the horse, + White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing + The saddle and the bridle which he used. + My tears take quality for these pitiful things, + But other quality for the purple robe + Over the coffin lettered in pure gold + "Napoleon"--ah, the emperor at last + Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks + Over the land he loved, with what result? + Does just the army that acclaimed him rise + Which rose to hail him back from Elba?--no + All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, + And notables uncover! At the door + A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled + Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, + He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, + The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, + I place it on the coffin--dear Gourgaud, + Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh + For thinking that the Emperor is home; + For thinking I have laid upon his bed + The sword that makes inviolable his bed, + Since History stepped to where I stood and stands + To say forever: Here he rests, be still, + Bow down, pass by in reverence--the Ages + Like giant caryatides that look + With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold + With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, + Command your reverence. + + What have we seen? + Why this, that every man, himself achieving + Exhausts the life that drives him to the work + Of self-expression, of the vision in him, + His reason for existence, as he sees it. + He may or may not mould the epic stuff + As he would wish, as lookers on have hope + His hands shall mould it, and by failing take-- + For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye, + A cinder for that moment in the eye-- + A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise + Have all his work misvalued for the time, + And pump his heart up harder to subdue + Envy, or fear or greed, in any case + He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes + His soul's endowment in the vision of life. + And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau + He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps, + Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican, + Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists, + Conspirators, and clericals may shout + Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours + Kicking the gravel with his little heel, + Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud. + Well, what was he at Waterloo?--you know: + That piercing spirit which at mid-day power + Knew all the maps of Europe--could unfold + A map and say here is the place, the way, + The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here. + Why, all his memory of maps was blurred + The night before he failed at Waterloo. + The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it. + He could not ride a horse at Waterloo. + His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested? + The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris, + Now that our giant democrat was sick. + Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris + Helped by the Duke and Blücher, damn their souls. + + What is a man to do whose work is done + And does not feel so well, has cancer, say? + You know he could have reached America + After his fall at Waterloo. Good God! + If only he had done it! For they say + New Orleans is a city good to live in. + And he had ceded to America + Louisiana, which in time would curb + The English lion. But he didn't go there. + His mind was weakened else he had foreseen + The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged + Would claw him if it got him, play with him + Before it killed him. Who was England then?-- + + An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king + Who lost a continent for the lust that slew + The Emperor--the world will say at last + It was no other. Who was England then? + A regent bad as husband, father, son, + Monarch and friend. But who was England then? + Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who + Had cut his country's long before. The duke-- + Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept-- + The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows + With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury, + To see the Duke waylay democracy. + The world's great conqueror's conqueror!--Eh bien! + Grips England after Waterloo, but when + The people see the duke for what he is: + A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry, + A spotless knight of ancient privilege, + They up and stone him, by the very deed + Stone him for wronging the democracy + The Emperor erected with the sword. + The world's great conqueror's conqueror--Oh, I sicken! + Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves + Are guarded and kept up, but falling down + To ruin and erasure when the graves + Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets, + Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk + Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor, + Melt up true metal at your peril, poets, + Sweet moralists, monopolists of God. + But who was England? Byron driven out, + And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct, + Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey, + The turn-coat panegyrist of King George, + An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last; + A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop + The progress of democracy and chanting + To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo, + Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped. + For England of to-day is freer--why? + The revolution and the Emperor! + They quench the revolution, send Napoleon + To St. Helena--but the ashes soar + Grown finer, grown invisible at last. + And all the time a wind is blowing ashes, + And sifting them upon the spotless linen + Of kings and dukes in England till at last + They find themselves mistaken for the people. + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me--_tiens_! + The Emperor is home again in France, + And Europe for democracy is thrilling. + Now don't you see the Emperor was sick, + The shadows falling slant across his mind + To write to such an England: "My career + Is ended and I come to sit me down + Before the fireside of the British people, + And claim protection from your Royal Highness"-- + This to the regent--"as a generous foe + Most constant and most powerful"--I weep. + They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship, + He thinks he's bound for England, and why not? + They dine him, treat him like an Emperor. + And then they tack and sail to St. Helena, + Give him a cow shed for a residence. + Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him, + Spy on his torture, intercept his letters, + Step on his broken wings, and mock the film + Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ... + + One day the packet brought to him a book + Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor." + Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned + Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed, + The Emperor said--I stood near by--"Who gave you + The right to slur my title? In a few years + Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself + Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered + For your indignities to me, that's all. + England expended millions on her libels + To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose + Obscure or bloody--how have they availed? + You have me here upon this scarp of rock, + But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun + And like the sun it cannot be destroyed. + Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam + The liberal stream, but only to make stronger + The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true? + That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend + And trust God as I have not trusted yet. + And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed? + A portion of the royal blood of Europe? + A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood + Is dated from the field of Montenotte, + And from my mother there in Corsica, + And from the revolution. I'm a man + Who made himself because the people made me. + You understand as little as she did + When I had brought her back from Austria, + And riding through the streets of Paris pointed + Up to the window of the little room + Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne, + A poor boy with my way to make--as poor + As Andrew Jackson in America, + No more a despot than he is a despot. + Your England understands. I was a menace + Not as a despot, but as head and front, + Eyes, brain and leader of democracy, + Which like the messenger of God was marking + The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies. + Your England understands I had to hold + By rule compact a people drunk with rapture, + And torn by counter forces, had to fight + The royalists of Europe who beheld + Their peoples feverish from the great infection, + Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop + Its spread to them. Your England understands. + Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey. + But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors, + My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures + Arts, sciences I builded, democratic + Triumphs which I won will live for ages-- + These are my witnesses, will testify + Forever what I was and meant to do. + The ideas which I brought to power will stifle + All royalty, all feudalism--look + They live in England, they illuminate + America, they will be faith, religion + For every people--these I kindled, carried + Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief + Torch bearer, soldier, representative." + + You were not there, Gourgaud--but wait a minute, + I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now: + Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor + Contemptuous but not the less bewitched. + And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled + "You make me smile." Why that is memorable: + It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone. + He was a prophet, founder of the sect + Of smilers and of laughers through the world, + Smilers and laughers that the Emperor + Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe, + What were it in this day except for France, + Napoleon's France, the revolution's France? + What will it be as time goes on but peoples + Made free through France? + + I take the good and ill, + Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed, + Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours, + Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched, + His child torn from him, Josephine and wife + Silent or separate, waiting long for death, + Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings + Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain + A little sun, and crying to the sea + With broken voice--I weep when I remember + Such things which you and I from day to day + Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then + There is that night of thunder, and the dawning + And all that day of storm and toward the evening + He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well, + I leave the room and say to Steward there: + "The Emperor is dead." That very moment + A crash of thunder deafened us. You see + A great age boomed in thunder its renewal-- + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend. + + + + +DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC! + + + By the blue sky of a clear vision, + And by the white light of a great illumination, + And by the blood-red of brotherhood, + Draw the sword, O Republic! + Draw the sword! + + For the light which is England, + And the resurrection which is Russia, + And the sorrow which is France, + And for peoples everywhere + Crying in bondage, + And in poverty! + + You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic! + And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks; + And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory: + Now the leaven must be stirred, + And the brands themselves carried and touched + To the jungles and the black-forests. + Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling, + They are crying to each other from the peaks-- + They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight, + Eager for battle! + + As a strong man nurses his youth + To the day of trial; + But as a strong man nurses it no more + On the day of trial, + But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength! + And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth! + You shall neither save your youth, + Nor hoard your strength + Beyond this hour, O Republic! + + For you have sworn + By the passion of the Gaul, + And the strength of the Teuton, + And the will of the Saxon, + And the hunger of the Poor, + That the white man shall lie down by the black man, + And by the yellow man, + And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh, + Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy. + And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold + Aught beside them, + You have dedicated the earth, O Republic, + To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy! + + By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom, + And by the Power that makes us love our fellows, + And by the Power that comforts us in death, + Dying for great races to come-- + Draw the sword, O Republic! + Draw the Sword! + + + + +DEAR OLD DICK + + (Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke) + + + Said dear old Dick + To the colored waiter: + "Here, George! be quick + Roast beef and a potato. + I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one, + You black old scoundrel, get a move on you! + I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun. + This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you, + You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon--" + "Yas sah! Yas sah,"answered the coon. + "Now don't you talk back," said dear old Dick, + "Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick + With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor, + Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick." + And the nigger all the time was moving round the table, + Rattling the silver things faster and faster-- + "Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able + I'll bring yo' dinnah as shore as yo's bawn." + "Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone, + You low-down nigger," said dear old Dick. + + Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick + A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard; + Or how would you relish some spit in your broth? + Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard? + Or something in your coffee to make your stomach froth? + Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie? + That's a gentlemanly nigger or he'd black your eye/' + + Then dear old Dick made this long reply: + "You know, I love a nigger, + And I love this nigger. + I met him first on the train from California + Out of Kansas City; in the morning early + I walked through the diner, feeling upset + For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly. + And there sat this nigger by a table all dressed, + Waiting for the time to serve the omelet, + Buttered toast and coffee to the passengers. + And this is what he said in a fine southern way: + 'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest, + I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.' + Now think! here's a human who has no other cares + Except to please the white man, serve him when he's starving, + And who has as much fun when he sees you carving + The sirloin as you do, does this black man. + Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel, + Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan? + There's music in their soul as original + As any breed of people in the whole wide earth; + They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth. + There are only two things real American: + One is Christian Science, the other is the nigger. + Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure + Anything beside that is not imitation + Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation. + Return to this globe five hundred years hence-- + You'll see how the fundamental color of the coon + In art, in music, has altered our tune; + We are destined to bow to their influence; + There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone, + And that is America put into tone." + + And dear old Dick gathered speed and said: + "Sometimes through Dvorák a vision arises + To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red: + 'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow, + I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow + Of the life of Temu, the god who prizes + Favorite souls and the souls of kings.' + Now these are the words, and here is the dream, + No wonder you think I am seeing things: + The desert of Egypt shimmers in the gleam + Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight. + And a giant negro as black as night + Is walking by a camel in a caravan. + His great back glistens with the streaming sweat. + The camel is ridden by a light-faced man, + A Greek perhaps, or Arabian. + And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying + With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down. + He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing; + His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening + To the negro keeping time like a tabouret. + And what cares he for Memphis town, + Merneptah the bloody, or Books of the Dead, + Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread? + A tune is in his heart, a reality: + The camel, the desert are things that be, + He's a negro slave, but his heart is free." + + Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner. + "Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner," + Said dear old Dick to the colored waiter. + "Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato. + I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do; + Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo', + And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took + From a dish set by, by the git-away cook. + I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do." + "Well, George," Dick said, "if Gabriel blew + His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend + To wait on St. Peter world without end." + + + + +THE ROOM OF MIRRORS + + + I saw a room where many feet were dancing. + The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing + Both flames of candles and the heaven's light, + Though windows there were none for air or flight. + The room was in a form polygonal + Reached by a little door and narrow hall. + One could behold them enter for the dance, + And waken as it were out of a trance, + And either singly or with some one whirl: + The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl. + And every panel of the room was just + A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust + Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize + Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease + Of music or of dancing, save by him + Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim + And unknown space behind the flashing mirrors, + And by his partner struck through by the terrors + Of sudden loss. + + And looking I could see + That scarcely any dancer here could free + His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze + Upon himself or others, till a craze + Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate + The hand that took each dancer soon or late. + Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced, + Some stared and paled and then more madly danced. + One dancer only never looked at all. + He seemed soul captured by the carnival. + There were so many dancers there he loved, + He was so greatly by the music moved, + He had no time to study his own face + There in the mirrors as from place to place + He quickly danced. + + Until I saw at last + This dancer by the whirling dancers cast + Face full against a mirrored panel where + Before he could look at himself or stare + He plunged through to the other side--and quick, + As water closes when you lift the stick, + The mirrored panel swung in place and left + No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick. + But all his partners thus so soon bereft + Went dancing to the music as before. + But I saw faces in that mirrored door + Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching + Their faces over shoulders, even matching + Their terror with each other's to repress + A growing fear in seeing it was less + Than some one else's, or to ease despair + By looking in a face who did not care, + While watching for the hand that through some door + Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor + With every time-beat of the orchestra. + What is this room of mirrors? Who can say? + + + + +THE LETTER + + + What does one gain by living? What by dying + Is lost worth having? What the daily things + Lived through together make them worth the while + For their sakes or for life's? Where's the denying + Of souls through separation? There's your smile! + And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings + Half uttered nothings of delight! But then + Now that I see you not, and shall again + Touch you no more--memory can possess + Your soul's essential self, and none the less + You live with me. I therefore write to you + This letter just as if you were away + Upon a journey, or a holiday; + And so I'll put down everything that's new + In this secluded village, since you left. ... + Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember, + After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom. + We had spring all at once--the long December + Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room, + And laid your things away. And then one morning + I saw the mother robin giving warning + To little bills stuck just above the rim + Of that nest which you watched while being built, + Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb, + With folded wings against an April rain. + On June the tenth Edward and Julia married, + I did not go for fear of an old pain. + I was out on the porch as they drove by, + Coming from church. I think I never scanned + A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it + Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet-- + I went into the house to have a cry. + A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife. + Between housework and hoeing in the garden + I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life. + My heart was numb and still I had to harden + All memory or die. And just the same + As when you sat beside the window, passed + Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed. + He did not die till late November came. + Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast, + 'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child. + Her husband was in Monmouth at the time. + She had no milk, the baby is not well. + The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell. + And after harvest Joseph Clifford tiled + His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime + Has shocked the village, for the monster killed + Glendora Wilson's father at his door-- + A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled. + I could go on, but wherefore tell you more? + The world of men has gone its olden way + With war in Europe and the same routine + Of life among us that you knew when here. + This gossip is not idle, since I say + By means of it what I would tell you, dear: + I have been near you, dear, for I have been + Not with you through these things, but in despite + Of living them without you, therefore near + In spirit and in memory with you. + + * * * * * + + Do you remember that delightful Inn + At Chester and the Roman wall, and how + We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth? + And afterward when you and I came down + To London, I forsook the murky town, + And left you to quaint ways and crowded places, + While I went on to Putney just to see + Old Swinburne and to look into his face's + Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on + A finer thing than any verse he wrote? + (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!) + He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason + To England's greatness. What was Camden like? + Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink? + And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think. + His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh! + Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half + My visit, so I left. + + The thing was this: + None of this talk was Swinburne any more + Than some child of his loins would take his hair, + Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,-- + His flesh was nothing but a poor affair, + A channel for the eternal stream--his flesh + Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book, + But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look + Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh + And liquid meaning. So I knew at last + His real immortal self is in his verse. + + * * * * * + + Since you have gone I've thought of this so much. + I cannot lose you in this universe-- + I first must lose myself. The essential touch + Of soul possession lies not in the walk + Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk + Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes + Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread + Broken together, nor the hour of love + When flesh surrenders depths of things divine + Beyond all vision, as they were the dream + Of other planets, but without these even + In death and separation, there is heaven: + By just that unison and its memory + Which brought our lips together. To be free + From accidents of being, to be freeing + The soul from trammels on essential being, + Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed + Into the only heaven God has made: + That's where we know each other as we are, + In the bright ether of some quiet star, + Communing as two memories with each other. + + + + +CANTICLE OF THE RACE + + + SONG OF MEN + + How beautiful are the bodies of men-- + The agonists! + Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong + For their strength's behests. + Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong + In games or tests + When they run or box or swim the long + Sea-waves crests + With their slender legs, and their hips so strong, + And their rounded chests. + + I know a youth who raises his arms + Over his head. + He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms + Of flood or fire. + He springs renewed from a lusty bed + To his youth's desire. + He drowses, for April flames outspread + In his soul's attire. + + The strength of men is for husbandry + Of woman's flesh: + Worker, soldier, magistrate + Of city or realm; + Artist, builder, wrestling Fate + Lest it overwhelm + The brood or the race, or the cherished state. + They sing at the helm + When the waters roar and the waves are great, + And the gale is fresh. + + There are two miracles, women and men-- + Yea, four there be: + A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man, + And God's decree. + And a babe from the womb in a little span + Ere the month be ten. + Their rapturous arms entwine and cling + In the depths of night; + He hunts for her face for his wondering, + And her eyes are bright. + A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring + Is man's delight. + + + SONG OF WOMEN + + How beautiful is the flesh of women-- + Their throats, their breasts! + My wonder is a flame which burns, + A flame which rests; + It is a flame which no wind turns, + And a flame which quests. + + I know a woman who has red lips, + Like coals which are fanned. + Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips + From her white-rose chin. + Her throat curves like a cloud to the land + Where her breasts begin. + I close my eyes when I put my hand + On her breast's white skin. + + The flesh of women is like the sky + When bare is the moon: + Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks, + And sea-shell loins. + I know a woman whose splendors vex + Where the flesh joins-- + A slope of light and a circumflex + Of clefts and coigns. + She thrills like the air when silence wrecks + An ended tune. + + These are the things not made by hands in the earth: + Water and fire, + The air of heaven, and springs afresh, + And love's desire. + And a thing not made is a woman's flesh, + Sorrow and mirth! + She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre, + And she drips the wine. + Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh + As buds on the vine: + For fire and water and air are flesh, + And love is the shrine. + + + SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT + + How beautiful is the human spirit + In its vase of clay! + It takes no thought of the chary dole + Of the light of day. + It labors and loves, as it were a soul + Whom the gods repay + With length of life, and a golden goal + At the end of the way. + + There are souls I know who arch a dome, + And tunnel a hill. + They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome, + And measure the sky. + They find the good and destroy the ill, + And they bend and ply + The laws of nature out of a will + While the fates deny. + + I wonder and worship the human spirit + When I behold + Numbers and symbols, and how they reach + Through steel and gold; + A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech, + And an hour foretold. + It ponders its nature to turn and teach, + And itself to mould. + + The human spirit is God, no doubt, + Is flesh made the word: + Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael, + And the souls who heard + Beyond the rim of the world the swell + Of an ocean stirred + By a Power on the waters inscrutable. + There are souls who gird + Their loins in faith that the world is well, + In a faith unblurred. + How beautiful is the human spirit-- + The flesh made the word! + + + + +BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE + + + This way and that way measuring, + Sighting from tree to tree, + And from the bend of the river. + This must be the place where Black Eagle + Twelve hundred moons ago + Stood with folded arms, + While a Pottawatomie father + Plunged a knife in his heart, + For the murder of a son. + Black Eagle stood with folded arms, + Slim, erect, firm, unafraid, + Looking into the distance, across the river. + Then the knife flashed, + Then the knife crashed through his ribs + And into his heart. + And like a wounded eagle's wings + His arms fell, slowly unfolding, + And he sank to death without a groan! + + And my name is Black Eagle too. + And I am of the spirit, + And perhaps of the blood + Of that Black Eagle of old. + I am naked and alone, + But very happy; + Being rich in spirit and in memories. + I am very strong. + I am very proud, + Brave, revengeful, passionate. + No longer deceived, keen of eye, + Wise in the ways of the tribes: + A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes. + A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains. + A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries. + A knower of harmless snakes, + And the livid copperhead. + Lastly a knower of the spirits, + For there are many spirits: + Spirits of hidden lakes, + And of pine forests. + Spirits of the dunes, + And of forested valleys. + Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields, + And great distances. + There are many spirits + Under the Great Spirit. + Him I know not. + Him I only feel + With closed eyes. + Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river + At a sky of stars, + When the leaves of the oak are asleep. + I will fill this birch bark full of writing + And hide it in the cleft of an oak, + Here where Black Eagle fell. + Decipher my story who can: + + When I was a boy of fourteen + Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs, + Rose from the door of his tent + And came to where we were running, + Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox, + And said to me in their hearing: + "You are the fastest of all. + Now run again, and let me see. + And if you can run + I will make you my runner, + I will care for you, + And you shall have pockets of gold." ... + + And then we ran. + And the others lagged behind me, + Like smoke behind the wind. + But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox + Grew dark. + They nudged each other. + They looked side-ways, + Toeing the earth in shame. ... + Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me. + And he went here and there + To find a match. + And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper, + And nuggets of gold. + And at last the match was made. + + It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell, + It was by a red and yellow mountain, + It was by a great river + That we ran. + Hundreds of Indians came to the race. + They babbled, smoked and quarreled. + And everyone carried a knife, + And everyone carried a gun. + And we runners-- + How young we were and unknowing + What the race meant to them! + For we saw nothing but the track, + We saw nothing but our trainers + And the starters. + And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim. + But the Indians and the squaws saw much else, + They thought of the race in such different ways + From the way we thought of it. + For with me it was honor, + It was triumph, + It was fame. + It was the tender looks of Indian maidens + Wherever I went. + But now I know that to Tobacco Jim, + And the old fathers and young bucks + The race meant jugs of whiskey, + And new guns. + It meant a squaw, + A pony, + Or some rise in the life of the tribe. + + So the shot of the starter rang at last, + And we were off. + I wore a band of yellow around my brow + With an eagle's feather in it, + And a red strap for my loins. + And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang: + "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle, + They are all behind you." + And they were all behind me, + As the cloud's shadow is behind + The bend of the grass under the wind. + But as we neared the end of the race + The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians, + And the young bucks, + Crowded close to the track-- + I fell and lost. + + Next day Tobacco Jim went about + Lamenting his losses. + And when I told him they tripped me + He cursed them. + But later he went about asking in whispers + If I was wise enough to throw the race. + Then suddenly he disappeared. + And we heard rumors of his riches, + Of his dogs and ponies, + And of the joyous life he was leading. + + Then my father took me to New Mexico, + And here my life changed. + I was no longer the runner, + I had forgotten it all. + I had become a wise Indian. + I could do many things. + I could read the white man's writing + And write it. + + And Indians flocked to me: + Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel, + Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet, + And many others. + They flocked to me, for I could help them. + For the Great Spirit may pick a chief, + Or a leader. + But sometimes the chief rises + By using wise Indians like me + Who are rich in gifts and powers ... + But at least it is true: + All little great Indians + Who are after ponies, + Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets + Gain their ends through the gifts and powers + Of wise Indians like me. + They come to you and ask you to do this, + And to do that. + And you do it, because it would be small + Not to do it. + And until all the cards are laid on the table + You do not see what they were after, + And then you see: + They have won your friend away; + They have stolen your hill; + They have taken your place at the feast; + They are wearing your feathers; + They have much gold. + And you are tired, and without laughter. + And they drift away from you, + As Tobacco Jim went away from me. + And you hear of them as rich and great. + And then you move on to another place, + And another life. + + Billy the Pelican has built him a board house + And lives in Guthrie. + Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace. + Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News; + He is helping the government + To reclaim stolen lands. + (Many have told me it was Hungry Mole + Who tripped me in the race.) + Big Jawed Prophet is very rich. + He has disappeared as an eagle + With a rabbit. + And I have come back here + Where twelve hundred moons ago + Black Eagle before me + Had the knife run through his ribs + And through his heart. ... + + I will hide this writing + In the cleft of the oak + By this bend in the river. + Let him read who can: + I was a swift runner whom they tripped. + + + + +MY LIGHT WITH YOURS + + + I + + When the sea has devoured the ships, + And the spires and the towers + Have gone back to the hills. + And all the cities + Are one with the plains again. + And the beauty of bronze, + And the strength of steel + Are blown over silent continents, + As the desert sand is blown-- + My dust with yours forever. + + + II + + When folly and wisdom are no more, + And fire is no more, + Because man is no more; + When the dead world slowly spinning + Drifts and falls through the void-- + My light with yours + In the Light of Lights forever! + + + + +THE BLIND + + Amid the din of cars and automobiles, + At the corner of a towering pile of granite, + Under the city's soaring brick and stone, + Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand + With eyeless sockets playing on a flute. + And an old woman holds the cup for you, + Wherein a curious passer by at times + Casts a poor coin. + + You are so blind you cannot see us men + As walking trees! + I fancy from the tune + You play upon the flute, you have a vision + Of leafy trees along a country road-side, + Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks + Rise singing in the sun-shine! + In your darkness + You may see such things playing on your flute + Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago! + + And here's another on a farther corner, + With head thrown back as if he searched the skies, + He's selling evening papers, what's to him + The flaring headlines? Yet he calls the news. + That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call, + Or play the flute in blindness. + + Yet I think + It's neither news nor music with these blind ones-- + Rather the hope of re-created eyes, + And a light out of death! + "How can it be," I hear them over and over, + "There never shall be eyes for me again?" + + + + +"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU" + + + --_His Own Words_ + + IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL + + * * * * * + + Eagle, whose fearless + Flight in vast spaces + Clove the inane, + While we stood tearless, + White with rapt faces + In wonder and pain. ... + + Heights could not awe you, + Depths could not stay you. + Anguished we saw you, + Saw Death way-lay you + Where the storm flings + Black clouds to thicken + Round France's defender! + Archangel stricken + From ramparts of splendor-- + Shattered your wings! ... + + But Lafayette called you, + Rochambeau beckoned. + Duty enthralled you. + For France you had reckoned + Her gift and your debt. + Dull hearts could harden + Half-gods could palter. + For you never pardon + If Liberty's altar + You chanced to forget. ... + + Stricken archangel! + Ramparts of splendor + Keep you, evangel + Of souls who surrender + No banner unfurled + For ties ever living, + Where Freedom has bound them. + Praise and thanksgiving + For love which has crowned them-- + Love frees the world! ... + + + + +CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT + + + Who is that calling through the night, + A wail that dies when the wind roars? + We heard it first on Shipley's Hill, + It faded out at Comingoer's. + + Along five miles of wintry road + A horseman galloped with a cry, + "'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer, + "When I heard clattering hoofs go by." + + "I flung the winder up to listen; + I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge; + I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle + When he went over Houghton's Bridge." + + Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin' + A heifer in the barn, and then + My boy says: 'Pap, that's Billy Paris.' + 'There,' says my boy, it is again." + + "Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris, + We seed 'im at the Christmas tree. + It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy + I seed go home with Emily.' + + "'He is too old for galavantin' + Upon a night like this,' says I. + 'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty, + Good-natured huskiness in that cry.' + + "'It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin' + The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine, + 'I never thought--it makes me shiver, + And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'" + + Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it + I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns. + Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse + Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's." + + Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle + And held it up to the winder pane. + But when I heerd again the holler + 'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane." + + Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed + I thought he'd thump the door away. + I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?' + 'O, Emily,' I heard him say. + + "And there stood Billy Paris tremblin', + His face so white, he looked so queer. + 'O Andy'--and his voice went broken. + 'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.' + + "'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, + 'What brings you here?--I would be told.' + Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers, + It teched her hand ... and it war cold. + + "'We got back from the Christmas doin's + And went to bed, and she was sayin', + (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin' + To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.' + + "'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, + And then I thought I heerd her moan. + It war the wind, I guess, for Emily + War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.' + + "I left him then to call my woman + To tell her that her mother died. + When we come back his voice was steady, + The big tears in his eyes was dried. + + "He just sot there and quiet like + Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had, + And said for her to die on Christmas + Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad. + + "He grew so cam he almost skeered us. + Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.' + Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman + That ever walked this Vale of Care.' + + "Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang, + I never heerd her once complain.' + Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas + When she can go and have no pain.' + + "Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.' + Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.' + He hid his face then in his muffler + And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'" + + + + +WIDOW LA RUE + + + I + + What will happen, Widow La Rue? + For last night at three o'clock + You woke and saw by your window again + Amid the shadowy locust grove + The phantom of the old soldier: + A shadow of blue, like mercury light-- + What will happen, Widow La Rue? + + * * * * * + + What may not happen + In this place of summer loneliness? + For neither the sunlight of July, + Nor the blue of the lake, + Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, + Nor the song of larks and thrushes, + Nor the bravuras of bobolinks, + Nor scents of hay new mown, + Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, + Nor the snow of nodding yarrow, + Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest + Of the bluff by the lake + Can take away the loneliness + Of this July by the lake! + + * * * * * + + Last night you saw the old soldier + By your window, Widow La Rue! + Or was it your husband you saw, + As he lay by the gate so long ago? + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue, + And specks of blood on his face, + Like a wall specked by a shake a brush; + And something like blubber or pinkish wax, + Hiding the gash in his throat---- + The serum and blood blown up by the breath + From emptied lungs. + + + II + + So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend + For the afternoon and the night, + Where the phantom will not come, + Where the phantom may be forgotten. + And scarcely has she turned the road, + Round the water-mill by the creek, + When the telephone rings and daughter Flora + Springs up from a drowsy chair + And the ennui of a book, + And runs to answer the call. + And her heart gives a bound, + And her heart stops still, + As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses + Quick as poison through all her frame. + And something like bees swarming in her breast + Comes to her throat in a surge of fear, + Rapture, passion, for what is the voice + But the voice of her lover? + And just because she is here alone + In this desolate summer-house by the lake; + And just because this man is forbidden + To cross her way, for a taint in his blood + Of drink, from a father who died of drink; + And just because he is in her thought + By night and day, + The voice of him heats her through like fire. + She sways from dizziness, + The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ... + He is in the village, is walking out, + He will be at the door in an hour. + + + III + + The sun is half a hand above the lake + In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness. + On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover + Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow + Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters + Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end. + A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire + Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet. + Over the olive green of the darkening forest + A thin moon slits the sky and down the road + Two lovers walk. + + It is night when they reappear + From the forest, walking the hay-field over. + And the sky is so full of stars it seems + Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, + Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, + And in the silence of the scented hay-field + Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water + A hundred feet below. + And at last they sit by a cock of hay, + As warm as the nest of a bird, + Hand clasped in hand and silent, + Large-eyed and silent. + + * * * * * + + O, daughter Flora! + Delicious weakness is on you now, + With your lover's face above you. + You can scarcely lift your hand, + Or turn your head + Pillowed upon the fragrant hay. + You dare not open your moistened eyes + For fear of this sky of stars, + For fear of your lover's eyes. + The trance of nature has taken you + Rocked on creation's tide. + And the kinship you feel for this man, + Confessed this night--so often confessed + And wondered at-- + Has coiled its final sorcery about you. + You do not know what it is, + Nor care what it is, + Nor care what fate is to come,-- + The night has you. + You only move white, fainting hands + Against his strength, then let them fall. + Your lips are parted over set teeth; + A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body + Maddens your lover, + And in a swift and terrible moment + The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ... + + Then your lover sits up with a sigh. + But you lie there so still with closed eyes. + So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars. + A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr + Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, + But you do not move. + And the sun comes up at last + Finding you asleep in his arms, + There by the hay cock. + And he kisses your tears away, + And redeems his word of last night, + For down to the village you go + And take your vows before the Pastor there, + And then return to the summer house. ... + All is well. + + + IV + + Widow La Rue has returned + And is rocking on the porch-- + What is about to happen? + For last night the phantom of the old soldier + Appeared to her again-- + It followed her to the house of her friend, + And appeared again. + But more than ever was it her husband, + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue. + And while she thinks of it, + And wonders what is about to happen, + She hears laughter, + And looking up, beholds her daughter + And the forbidden lover. + + * * * * * + + And then the daughter and her husband + Come to the porch and the daughter says + "We have just been married in the village, mother; + Will you forgive us? + This is your son; you must kiss your son." + And Widow La Rue from her chair arises + And calmly takes her child in her arms, + And clasps his hand. + And after gazing upon him + Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked + Upon returning Agamemnon, + With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed, + She kissed him, + And in a calm voice blessed them. + Then sent her daughter, singing, + On an errand back to the village + To market for dinner, saying: + "We'll talk over plans, my dear." + + + V + + And the young husband + Rocks on the porch without a thought + Of the lightning about to strike. + And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue + Enters the house. + And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic rapture, + The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room + By a window back of the chair where he rocks, + And drawing the shade + She speaks: + + "These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the old soldier + Who haunts the midnights + Of this summer loneliness. + And I knew that a doom was at hand. ... + You have married my daughter, and this is the doom. ... + O, God in heaven!" + Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness + Winds out of the July glare + And stops the flow of his blood, + As he hears from the re-echoing room + The voice of Widow La Rue + Moving darkly between banks + Of delirious fear and woe! + + "Be calm till you hear me through. ... + Do not move, or enter here, + I am hiding my face from you. ... + Hear me through, and then fly. + I warned her against you, but how could I tell her + Why you were not for her? + But tell me now, have you come together? + No? Thank God for that. ... + For you must not come together. ... + Now listen while I whisper to you: + My daughter was born of a lawless love + For a man I loved before I married, + And when, for five years, no child came + I went to this man + And begged him to give me a child. ... + Well then ... the child was born, your wife as it seems. ... + And when my husband saw her, + And saw the likeness of this man in her face + He went out of the house, where they found him later + By the entrance gate + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue, + And specks of blood on his face, + Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush. + And something like blubber or pinkish wax + Hiding the gash in his throat-- + The serum and blood blown up by the breath + From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God! + Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand? + Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go! + Leap from the bluff to the rocks on the shore! + Take down the sickle and end yourself! + You don't care, you say, for all I've told you? + Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. ... + And her father died when she was a baby. ... + And you were four when your father died. ... + And her father died on the very day + That your father died, + At the verv same moment. ... + On the very same bed. ... + Don't you understand?" + + + VI + + He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch, + He runs and stumbles to reach the road. + He yells and curses and tears his hair. + He staggers and falls and rises and runs. + And Widow La Rue + With the eyes of Clytemnestra + Stands at the window and watches him + Running and tearing his hair. + + VII + + She seems so calm when the daughter returns. + She only says: "He has gone to the meadow, + He will soon be back. ..." + But he never came back. + + And the years went on till the daughter's hair + Was white as her mother's there in the grave. + She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left + And didn't say good-bye. + + + + +DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE + + + I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, + Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old + In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed + To deities or devils. To resume + We find it caused by morphological + Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes, + More times, indeed, the anatomical + Basis, if one be, escapes detection. + For many functions of the cortex are + Unknown, as I have said. + + And now remember + Mercier's analysis of heredity: + Besides direct transmission of unstable + Nervous systems, there remains the law + Hereditary of sanguinity. + Then here's another matter: Parents may + Have normal nervous systems, yet produce + Children of abnormal nerves and minds, + Caused by unsuitable sexual germs. + Let me repeat before I leave the matter + The factors in a perfect organization: + First quality in the germ producing matter; + Then quality in the sperm producing force, + And lastly relative fitness of the two. + We are but plants, however high we rise, + Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream + We are but plants, and all we are and do + Depends upon the seed and on the soil. + What Mendel found in raising peas may lead + To perfect knowledge of the human mind. + There is one law for men and peas, the law + Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men + And mind of certain matter, all depends + Not on a varying law, but on a law + Varied in its course by matter, as + The arm, which is a lever and which works + By lever principle cannot make use + And form cement with trowel to the forms + It makes of paint or marble. + + To resume: + A child may take the qualities of one parent + In some respects, and of the other parent + In some respects. A child may have the traits + Of father at one period of his life, + The mother at one period of his life. + And if the parents' traits are similar + Their traits may be prepotent in a child, + Thus giving rise to qualities convergent. + So if you take a circle and draw off + A line which would become another circle + If drawn enough, completed, but is left + Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind + Of cumulative heredity. Take John, + My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect, + John has a mind which is a perfect circle. + A perfect circle can be small, you know. + And so John has good sense within his sphere. + But if some force began to work like yeast + In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line + To make a larger thinking circle, say + About a great invention, heaven or God, + Then John would be abnormal, till this line + Shot round and joined, became a larger circle. + This is the secret of eccentric genius, + The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space + Does not enclose co-ordinated thought. + He's like a plant mutating, half himself + Half something new and greater. If we looked + To John's heredity we'd find this change + Was manifest in mother or in father + About the self-same period of life, + Most likely in his father. Attributes + Of fathers are inherited by sons, + Of mothers by the daughters. + + Now this morning + I take up paranoia. Paranoics + Are often noted for great gifts of mind. + Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics, + Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown, + Cellini, many others. All who think + Themselves inspired of God, and all who see + Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects + Of prophecies are paranoics. All + Who visions have of God or archangels, + Hear voices or celestial music, these + Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise + Enough above the earth to look along + A longer arc and see realities, + Or see strange things through atmospheric strata + Which build up or distort the things they see + Remains the question. Let us wait the proof. + + Last week I told you I would have to-day + The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here, + And lecture on his case. Here is the brain: + Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look + After the lecture at the brain and skull. + There's nothing anatomical at fault + With this fine brain, so far as I can find. + You'll note how deep the convolutions are, + Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull + Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note, + The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical. + But this is scarce significant. Let me tell + How Jacob Groesbell looked: + + The man was tall, + Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs. + His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high, + And ran back at an angle, temples full. + His nose was long and fleshy at the point, + Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray, + The iris flecked. They looked as if a light + As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears + Were very large, projected at right angles. + His neck was slender, womanish. His skin + Of finest texture, white and very smooth. + His voice was quiet, musical. His manner + Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable. + His parents, as I learned through inquiry, + Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved. + The mother healthy both in mind and body. + The father was eccentric, perhaps insane. + They were first cousins. + + I knew Jacob Groesbell + Ten years before he died. I knew him first + When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman + With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then + As time went on I saw him when he came + At my request to do my carpentry. + I grew to know him, and by slow degrees + He told me of his readings in the Bible, + And gave me his interpretations. At last + Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach, + Which took him off. He sent for me, and said + He wished me to attend him, which I did. + He told me I could have his body and brain + To lecture on, dissect, since some had said + He was insane, he told me, and if so + I should find something wrong with brain or body. + And if I found a wrong then all his visions + Of God and archangels were just the fancies + That come to madmen. So he made provision + To give his brain and body for this cause, + And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing + On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic. + + As I have said before, in making tests + And observations of the patient, have + His conversation taken stenographically, + In order to preserve his speech exactly, + And catch the flow if he becomes excited. + So we determine if he makes new words, + If he be incoherent, or repeats. + I took my secretary once to make + A stenographic record. Strange enough + He would not talk while she was writing down. + And when I asked him why, he would not tell. + So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel, + And put in it a dictaphone, and when + A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put + My hand among my bottles in the satchel, + As if I was compounding medicine, + Instead I'd put another cylinder on. + And thus I got his story in his voice, + Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all, + Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone + The students in the farthest gallery + Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me, + And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain + Here in this jar beside me. Listen now + To Jacob Groesbell's voice: + + "Will you repeat + From the beginning connectedly the story + Of your religious life, illumination, + Vhat you have called your soul's escape?" + + "I will, + Since I shall never tell it again." + + "I grew up + Timid and sensitive, not very strong, + Not understood of father or of mother. + They did not love me, and I never felt + A tenderness for them. I used to quote: + 'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?' + At school I was not liked. I had a chum + From time to time, that's all. And I remember + My mother on a day put with my luncheon + A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came + I missed it, found some boys had taken it, + And when I asked for it, they made the cry: + 'Bottle of milk, bottle of milk,' and I + Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour + It hurts me to remember it. Such days, + All misery! For all my clothes were patched. + They hooted at me. So I lived alone. + At twelve years old I had great fears of death, + And hell, heard devils in my room. One night + During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains, + And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day + As I was walking on the village street + Close to the church I heard a voice which said + 'Behold, my son'--and falling on my knees + I prayed in ecstacy--but as I prayed + Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me. + A heat ran through me, I arose and fled. + Well, then I joined the church and was baptized. + But something left me in the ceremony, + I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back + Into the trap. I took to wandering + In solitary places, could not bear + To see a human face. I slept for nights + In still ravines, or meadows. But one time + Returning to my home, I found the room + Filled up with visitors--my heart stopped short, + And glancing at the faces of my parents + I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak, + Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So + I tell this just to illustrate my shyness, + Which cursed my youth and made me miserable, + Something I fought but could not overcome. + And pondering on the Scriptures I could see + How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even, + How even as my brothers called me mad + They called our Saviour so. + + "At fourteen years + My father taught me carpentry, his trade, + And made me work with him. I seemed to be + The butt for jokes and laughter with the men-- + I know not why. For now and then they'd drop + A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew + I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts + Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years, + God was not with me though I sought Him ever + And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain + Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights, + Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves, + Clouds, trunks of trees,--illusions of the devil. + I was turned twenty years when on an evening + Calm, beautiful in June, after a day + Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch, + The sun just sinking, at my left I heard + A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ." + My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil + Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought, + So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy. + I ran into my room and seized a pistol + To end my life. God willed it otherwise. + I fainted and awoke upon the floor + After some hours. To heap my suffering full + A few days after this while in the village + I went into a store. The friendly clerk-- + I knew him always--said 'What will you have? + I wait first always on the little boys.' + I laughed and went my way. But in an hour + His saying rankled, I began to brood + On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last + His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin, + So devil tangled, tortured--which not prayer + Nor watching could deliver. So I thought + To save my soul from murder I must fly-- + I felt an urging as one does in sleep + Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly + From terror, death, from blankness on the scene, + From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world + Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps + Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme + Impels all steps. So packing up my kit, + My Bible in my pocket, secretly + I disappeared. Next day took up my life + In Barrington, a village thirty miles + From all I knew, besides a lovely lake, + Reached by a road that crossed a bridge + Over a little bay, the bridge's ends + Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here + Night after night I fished, or stood and watched + The star-light on the water. + + I grew calmer + Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived + Under a widow's roof, who was devout + And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor, + To every word: I was now twenty-five, + In perfect health, no longer persecuted, + At peace with all the world, if not my soul + Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell + It had an ache which sometimes I could feel, + And yet I had this soul awakening. + I know I have been counted mad, so watch + Each detail here and judge. + + At four o'clock + The thirtieth day of June, my work being done, + My kit upon my back I walked this road + Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon + Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle + Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence + Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot + I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy + The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats + Along the bay, the blueness of the lake, + The ripple of the water at my feet, + The rythmic babble of the little boats + Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing, + Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds + Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down + Over the waters gloriously to rest. + So as I stared upon the sun on the water, + Some minutes, though I know not for how long, + Out of the splendor of the shining sun + Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth + Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow, + His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view, + And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise + And come with me.' + + "And in an instant there + Something fell from me, I became a cloud, + A soul with wings. A glory burned about me. + And in that glory I perceived all things: + I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets + Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns + And I knew God, and knew all things as God: + The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom, + Truth, love and purity. And in that instant + Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces, + And how they are arranged order to order, + With no break in the order, one harmonious + Whole of universal life all blended + And interfused with universal love. + And as it was with Shelley so I cried, + And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose + And started back to climb the hill again, + Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did, + Nor where I went, and thinking if this be + A fancy only of the Saviour then + He will not follow me, and if it be + Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall + After the revelation. As I reached + The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me + And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son, + Who knowest me, when they who walked with me + Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told + All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses, + Who knew me not till I brake bread and then, + As after thought could say, Did not our heart + Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell, + Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed + With visions and my Father's love, this walk + Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked, + Expounding all the scriptures, telling me + About the race of men who live and move + Along a life of meat and drink and sleep + And comforts of the flesh, while here and there + A hungering soul is chosen to lift up + And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet + Must seek and must find God to keep the race + Awake to the divine and to the orders + Of universal and harmonious life, + All interfused with Universal love, + Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism, + Which sees no order, reason, no intent + Beat down the race to welter in the mire + When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God, + The leaders of the race from age to age + Are chosen for their separate work, each work + Fits in the given order. All who suffer + The martyrdom of thought, whether they think + Themselves as servants of my Father, or even + Mock at the images and rituals + Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize + The mystery they sensed, or whether they be + Spirits of laughter, logic, divination + Of human life, the human soul, all men + Who give their essence, blindly or in vision + In faith that life is worth their utmost love, + They are my brothers and my Father's sons.' + So Jesus told me as we took my walk + Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned + And walked through heading rye and purple vetch + Into an orchard where great rows of pears + Sloped up a hill. It was now evening: + Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west, + And a half moon was hanging just above + The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening! + We came back to the boats at last and loosed + One of them and rowed out into the bay, + And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said + 'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.' + A haziness came on me now. I seem + To find myself alone there in that boat. + At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk, + The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home + Back to the village in a silence, peace, + A happiness profound. + + "And the next morning + I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet + With spiritual vision so intense I looked + Through things material as if they were + But shadows--old things passed away or grew + A lovelier order. And my heart was full. + Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved. + My landlady looked at me sharply, asked + What hour I entered, where I was so late. + I only answered fishing. For I told + No person of my vision, went my way + At carpentry in silence, in great joy. + For archangels and powers were at my side, + They led me, bore me up, instructed me + In mysteries, and voices said to me + 'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John. + I wrote and printed and the village read, + And called me mad. And so I grew to see + The deepest truths of God, and God Himself, + The geniture of all things, of the Word + Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages, + Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness + Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained, + And how the search for something (it is God) + Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts + Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries + Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth + At harvest time have praise or reverence. + I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God + Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains + Are but the wires in the bulb which stays, + Resists the current and makes human thought. + As the electric current is not light + But heat and power as well. Our little brains + Resist God and make thought and love as well. + But God is more than these. Oh I heard much + Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels, + Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still. + That is the axis of profoundest life + Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry + And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages, + The epochs of this earth as it were the feet + Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew + The agony of genius and the woe + Of prophets and the great. + + "From that next morning + I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal + Than I had ever done. I could not open + Its pages anywhere but I could find + Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to. + I could not doubt my destiny was bound + With man's salvation. Jeremiah said + 'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words + To me were spoken, and to no one else. + And so I searched the scriptures. And I found + I never had a thought, experience, pang, + A state in human life our Saviour had not. + He was a carpenter, and so was I. + He had his soul's illumination, so had I. + His brethren called him mad, they called me mad. + He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph. + For I could, I can feel my way along + Death's stages as a man can reach and feel + Ahead of him along a wall. I know + This body is a shell, a butterfly's + Excreta pushed away with rising wings. + + "I searched the scriptures. How should I believe + Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see + At mid-day in the way a light from heaven + Above the brightness of the sun and hear + The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,' + Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus, + Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself, + Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake + Such words as none but men inspired can speak, + As well as words of truth and soberness, + Such as myself speak now. + + "And from the scriptures + I passed to studies of the men who came + To great illuminations. You will see + There are two kinds: One's of the intellect, + The understanding, one is of the soul. + The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh + To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men + In their illumination see the frame-work + Of life or see its spirit, so align + Themselves with Science, Satire, or align + Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy. + So being Aristotle, Rabelais, + Paul, Swedenborg. + + "And as the years + Went on, as I had time, was fortunate + In finding books I read of many men + Who had illumination, as I had it. Read + Of Dante's vision, how he found himself + Saw immortality, lost fear of death. + Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect + At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven + Before he quitted life and saw behind + The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth. + Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest + My manhood's visionary meditations + Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge. + Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable + Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.' + Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth + Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused, + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean and the living air, + And the blue skies, and in the mind of man-- + A motion and a spirit that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought + And rolls through all things.' + + "And at last they called me + The mad, and learned carpenter. And then-- + I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold ..." + + At this point + He fainted, sank into a stupor. There + I watched him, to discover if 'twas death. + But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke. + There was some other talk, but not of moment. + I had to change the cylinder--the talk + Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things, + Throws no light on the case, being sane enough. + He died next morning. + + Students who desire + To examine the skull and brain may do so now + At their convenience in the laboratory. + + + + +FRIAR YVES + + + Said Friar Yves: "God will bless + Saint Louis' other-worldliness. + Whatever the fate be, still I fare + To fight for the Holy Sepulcher. + If I survive, I shall return + With precious things from Palestine-- + Gold for my purse, spices and wine, + Glory to wear among my kin. + Fame as a warrior I shall win. + But, otherwise, if I am slain + In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn + Immortal life washed white from sin." + + Said Friar Yves: "Come what will-- + Riches and glory, death and woe-- + At dawn to Palestine I go. + Whether I live or die, I gain + To fly the tepid good and ill + Of daily living in Champagne, + Where those who reach salvation lose + The treasures, raptures of the earth, + Captured, possessed, and made to serve + The gospel love of Jesus' birth, + Sacrifice, death; where even those + Passing from pious works and prayer + To paradise are not received + As those who battled, strove, and lived, + And periled bodies, as I choose + To peril mine, and thus to use + Body and soul to build the throne + Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care + Lay Jesus under a granite stone." + + Then Friar Yves buckled on + His breastplate, and, at break of dawn, + With crossboy, halberd took his way, + Walked without resting, without pause, + Till the sun hovered at midday + Over a tree of glistening leaves, + Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws + My stomach," whispered Friar Yves. + "If I," he sighed, "could only gain, + Like yonder spring, an inner source + Of life, and need not dew or rain + Of human love, or human friends, + And thus accomplish my soul's ends + Within myself! No," said the friar; + "There is one water and one fire; + There is one Spirit, which is God. + And what are we but streams and springs + Through which He takes His wanderings? + Lord, I am weak, I am afraid; + Show me the way!" the friar prayed. + "Where do I flow and to what end? + Am I of Thee, or do I blend + Hereafter with Thee?" + + Yves heard, + While praying, sounds as when the sod + Teems with a swarm of insect things. + He dropped his halberd to look down, + And then his waking vision blurred, + As one before a light will frown. + His inner ear was caught and stirred + By voices; then the chestnut tree + Became a step beside a throne. + Breathless he lay and fearfully, + While on his brain a vision shone. + Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone: + "The time has come when I must take + The form of man for mankind's sake. + This drama is played long enough + By creatures who have naught of me, + Save what comes up from foam of the sea + To crawling moss or swimming weeds, + At last to man. From heaven in flame, + Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly, + And take a mortal's form and name, + And labor for the race's needs." + Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky + Flushed like a bride's face rosily, + And shot to lightning from its bloom. + The world leaped like a babe in the womb, + And choral voices from heaven's cope + Circled the earth like singing stars: + "O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope, + O passion realized at last; + O end of hunger, fear, and wars, + O victory over the bottomless, vast + Valley of Death!" + + A silence fell, + Broke by the voice of Gabriel: + "Music may follow this, O Lord! + Music I hear; I hear discord + Through ages yet to be, as well. + There will be wars because of this, + And wars will come in its despite. + It's noon on the world now; blackest night + Will follow soon. And men will miss + The meaning, Lord! There will be strife + 'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, + Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, + 'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. + There will be war to win the place + Where you bend death to sovereign life. + Armed kings will battle for the grace + Of rulership, for power and gold + In the name of Jesus. Men will hold + Conclaves of swords to win surcease + Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. + The seed is good, Lord, make the ground + Good for the seed you scatter round!" + + Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: + "The gardener sprays his plants and trees + To drive out lice and stop disease. + After the spraying, fruit is grown + Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes + Of men can see this end, although + Leaves wither or a whole tree dies + From what the gardener does to grow + Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. + The gardener lives outside the tree; + The gardener knows the tree can see + What cure is needed, plans afresh + An end foreseen, and there's the will + Wherewith the gardener may fulfil + The orchard's destiny." + + So He spake. + And Friar Yves seemed to wake, + But did not wake, and only sunk + Into another dreaming state, + Wherein he saw a woman's form + Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. + Her body was virginal, white, and straight, + And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, + Behind a robe of writhing green: + As when a rock's wall makes a screen + Whereon the crisscross reflect moves + Of circling water under the rays + Of April sunlight through the sprays + Of budding branches in willow groves-- + A liquid mosaic of green and gold-- + Thus was her robe. + + But to behold + Her face was to forget the youth + Of her white bosom. All her hair + Was tangled serpents; she did wear + A single eye in the middle brow. + Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth + Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough + O'ershadowed her the while she gripped + A pail in either hand. One dripped + Clear water; one, ethereal fire. + Then to the Graia spoke the friar: + "Have mercy! Tell me your desire + And what you are?" + + Then the Graia said: + "My body is Nature and my head + Is Man, and God has given me + A seeing spirit, strong and free, + Though by a single eye, as even + Man has one vision at a time. + I lift my pails up; mark them well. + With this fire I will burn up heaven, + And with this water I will quench + The flames of hell's remotest trench, + That men may work in righteousness. + Not for the fears of an after hell, + Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless + The soul with when the mountains nod + And the sun darkens, but for love + Of Man and Life, and love of God. + Now look!" + + She dashed the pail of fire + Against the vault of heaven. It fell + As would a canopy of blue + Burned by a soldier's careless torch. + She dashed the water into hell, + And a great steam rose up with the smell + Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch + All things which on the good earth grew. + "Now," said the Graia, "loiterer, + Awake from slumber, rise and speed + To fight for the Holy Sepulcher-- + Nothing is left but Life, indeed-- + I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell." + + Friar Yves no longer slept; + Friar Yves awoke and wept. + + + + +THE EIGHTH CRUSADE + + + June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, + And every day it rained. And every morning + I heard the wind and rain among the leaves. + Try as I would my spirits grew no better. + What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind? + I spent the whole day working with my hands, + For there was brush to clear and corn to plant + Between the gusts of rain; and there at night + I sat about the room and hugged the fire. + And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered + For cold and it was June. I ached all through + For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not + To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body, + Or soul if it were soul? + + But there at night + As I sat aching, worn, before the hour + Of sleep, and restless in this interval + Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors, + Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap + Of cards upon a table by a boarder + Who passed the time in playing solitaire, + Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe, + And scrape away the dust of long past years + To show me what had happened in his life. + And as he smoked and talked his aged wife + Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches + Formed by a slender island, flow together. + Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch, + An episode or version. And sometimes + He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend + While she went on to what she wished to finish, + When he'd resume. They talked together thus. + He found the story and began to tell it, + And she hung on his story, told it too. + + This night the rain came down in buckets full, + And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath + Between the opening of the outer door + And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air. + And my host who had hoed the whole day long, + Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe + Reading the organ of the Adventists, + His wife beside him knitting. + + On the table + Are several magazines with their monthly grist + Of stories and of pictures. O such stories! + Who writes these stories? How does it happen people + Are born into the world to read these stories? + But anyway the lamp is very bad, + And every bone in me aches--and why always + Must one be either reading, knitting, talking? + Why not sit quietly and think? + + At last + Between the clicking needles and the slap + Of cards upon the table and the swish + Of rain upon the window my host speaks: + "It says here when the Germans are defeated, + And that means when the Turks are beaten too, + The Christian world will take back Palestine, + And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so." + "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live + To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back + From Jaffa if the Allies win." + + To me + The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk, + At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and + It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back, + But his trunk never came." + + And then the husband: + "What are you saying, mother, you go on + As if our friend here knew the story too. + And then you talk as if our hope of the war + Was centered on recovering that trunk." + + "Oh, not at all + But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there + In Jaffa you might get it back. You know + You'll never get it back while infidels + Rule Palestine." + + The husband says to me: + "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine, + Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago, + Is in existence yet, when chances are + They kept it for awhile, and sold it off, + Or threw it away." + + "They never threw it away. + Why I made him a dozen shirts or more, + And knitted him a lot of lovely socks, + And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained + Everything that a man might need in absence + A year from home. And yet they threw it away!" + + "They might have done so." + + "But they never did, + Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?" + "They were too valuable." + + "Too valuable, + Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes." + + "Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable." + He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools + Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this: + To work at cabinet making while observing + Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready + To drive the Turks from Palestine." + + What's this? + I rub my eyes and wake up to this story. + I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house + Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in. + And in a moment Turks and Palestine, + And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise + And show me how the world is small, and a man + Native to Illinois may travel forth + And mix his life with ancient things afar. + To-day be raising corn here and next month + Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycenæ, + Digging for Grecian relics. + + So I asked + "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick: + "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it." + And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke. + You see it was this way, myself and the bishop, + He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains, + Had planned to meet in Switzerland." + + "Montreaux" + The wife broke in. + + "Montreaux" the husband added. + "You said you two had planned it," she went on. + Now looking over specks and speaking louder: + "The bishop came to him, he planned it out. + My husband didn't plan the trip at all. + He knows the bishop planned it." + + Then the husband: + "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first, + And I acceded and we worked it out. + He was to go ahead of me, I was + To come in later, soon as I could raise + What funds my congregation could afford + To spare for this adventure." + + "Guess," she said, + "How much it was." + + I shook my head and she + Said in a lowered and a tragic voice: + "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe + It strapped his church to raise so great a sum. + And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come + Scarcely before the plan could be put through + Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum + Had never been made up and put in gold + For him to carry in a chamois belt." + + And then the husband said: "Mother, be still, + I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me." + "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that. + Go on," she said. + + And so he started over: + "The bishop came to me and said he thought + The Advent would be June of seventy-six. + This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one. + He said he had a dream; and in this dream + An angel stood beside him, told him so, + And told him to get me and go to Jaffa, + And live there, learn the people and the country, + We were to live disguised the better to learn + The people and the country. I was to work + At my trade as a cabinet maker, he + At carpentry, which was his trade, and so + No one would know us, or suspect our plan. + And thus we could live undisturbed and work, + And get all things in readiness, that in time + The Lord would send us power, and do all things. + We were the messengers to go ahead + And make the ways straight, so I told her of it." + + "You told me, yes, but my trust was as great + As yours was in the bishop, little the good + To tell me of it." + + "Well, I told you of it. + And she said, 'If the Lord commands you so + You must obey.' And so she knit the socks + And made that trunk of things, as she has said, + And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia." + + "'Twas nearer two months," said the wife. + + "Perhaps, + Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop + Left Springfield in a month from our first talk. + I knew, for I went over when he left. + And I remember how his poor wife cried, + And how the children cried. He had a family + Of some eight children." + + "Only seven then, + The son named David died the year before." + + "Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then. + The oldest was not more than twelve, I think, + And all the children cried, and at the train + His congregation almost to a man + Was there to see him off." + + "Well, one was missing. + You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly. + + "I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still. + Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks, + Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux + To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk + To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now + I must tell you my dream. The night before + I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream: + I saw the bishop on the station platform + His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing + His gold head cane. And sure enough next day + As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop + His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing + His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong, + And still I didn't act upon the thought." + + "I should say not," the wife broke in again. + + "Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought + More clearly than I did that things were wrong. + You can't uproot the confidence of years + Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms + I knew his face was red, but didn't know, + Or think just then, that brandy made it red. + And so I went up to the house he lived in-- + A mansion beautiful, and we sat down. + And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker, + Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger + Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me + Silently for a moment, when he said: + 'What money did you bring?' And so I told him. + And he said quickly 'let me have it.' So + I took my belt off, counted out the gold + And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it + With this hand in this pocket, that in that, + And sat there and said nothing more, just looked! + And then before a word was spoke again + I heard a step upon the stair, the stair + Came down into this room where we were sitting. + And I looked up, and there--I rubbed my eyes-- + I looked again, rose from my chair to see, + And saw descending the most lovely woman, + Who was"-- + + "A lovely woman," sneered the wife + "Well, she was just affinity to the bishop, + That's what she was." + + "Affinity is right-- + You see she was the leader in the choir, + And she had run away with him, or rather + Had gone abroad upon another boat + And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time + For forty hours or so all is a blank. + I just remember trying to speak and choking, + And flying from the room, the bishop clutching + At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that + I can't recall a thing until I saw + A little cottage way up in the Alps. + I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick, + The door was opened and they took me in, + And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me + In a good bed where I slept half a week. + It seems in my bewilderment I wandered, + Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so + By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes." + + "He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed. + + "These were the kindest people in the world, + A French family. They gave me splendid food, + And when I left two francs to reach the place + Where lived the English Consul, who arranged + After some days for money for my passage + Back to America, and in six weeks + I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains." + + "Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said. + + And I who heard this story through spoke up: + "The thing about this that I fail to get + Concerns this woman, the affinity. + If, as seems evident, she and the bishop + Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith, + And you, the congregation to get money + To do it with, or used you in particular + To get the money for themselves to live on + After they had arrived there in Montreaux, + If all this be" I said, "why did this woman + Descend just at the moment when he asked you + For the money that you had. You might have seen her + Before you gave the money, if you had + You might have held it back." + + "I would indeed, + You can be sure I should have held it back." + + And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting. + + "Now, James, you let me answer that, I know. + She was done with the bishop, that's the reason. + Be still and let me answer. Here's the story: + We found out later that the bishop's trunk + And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa + There to Montreaux, were there that very day, + Which means the bishop never meant to go + To Palestine at all, but meant to meet + This woman in Montreaux and live with her. + Well, that takes money. So he used my husband + To get that money. Now you wonder I see + Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme, + Descend into the room before my husband + Had given up this money, and this money, + You see, was treated as a common fund + Belonging to the church and to be used + To get back Palestine, and so the bishop + As head of the church, superior to my husband, + Could say 'give me the money'--that was natural, + My husband could not be surprised at that, + Or question it. Well, why did she descend + And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat! + I know what she did, as well as I had seen + Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing. + And when she heard my husband tell the sum + Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her, + And Satan entered in her heart, and she + Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets + Clink with the double eagles, then descended + To expose the bishop and disgrace him there + And everywhere in all the world. Now listen: + She got that money or the most of it + In spite of what she did. For in six weeks + After my husband had returned, she walked, + The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield + As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon + The bishop died and all the papers printed + The story of his shame." + + She had scarce finished + When the man at solitaire threw down the deck + And make a whacking noise and rose and came + Around in front of us and stood and looked + The old man and old woman over, me + He studied too. Then in an organ voice: + "Is there a single verse in the New Testament + That hasn't sprouted one church anyway, + Letting alone the verses that have sprouted + Two, three or four or five? I know of one: + Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"? + Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept." + With that he went out in the rain and slammed + The door behind him. + + The old clergyman + Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said, + "That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid." + + + + +THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE + + + A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner + And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns + Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle. + I stand a moment listening, then my friend + Who studies all religions, finds a wonder + In orphic spectacles like this, lays hold + Upon my arm and draws me to a door + Through which we look and see a room of seats, + A platform at the end, a table on it, + And signs upon the wall, "Jesus is Waiting," + And "God is Love." + + We enter, take a seat. + The band comes in and fills the room to bursting + With horns and drums. They cease and feet are heard, + The crowd has followed, half the seats are full. + After a prayer, a song, the captain mounts + The platform by the table and begins: + "Praise God so many girls are here to-night, + And Sister Trickey, by the grace of God + Saved from the wrath to come, will speak to you." + So Sister Trickey steps upon the platform, + A woman nearing forty, one would say. + Blue-eyed, fair skinned, and yellow haired, a figure + Once trim enough, no doubt, grown stout at last. + She was a pretty woman in her time, + 'Twas plain to see. A shrewd intelligence + From living in the world shines in her face. + We settle down to hear from Sister Trickey + And in a moment she begins: + + "Young girls: + I thank the Lord for Jesus, for he saved me, + I thank the Lord for Jesus every hour. + No woman ever stained with redder sins. + Had greater grace than mine. Praise God for Jesus! + Praise God for blood that washes sins away! + I was a woman fallen till Lord Jesus + Forgave me, helped me up and made me clean. + My name is Lilah Trickey. Let me tell you + How music was my tempter. Oh, you girls, + If there be one before me who can sing + Beware the devil and beware your voice + That it be used for Jesus, not for Satan." + + "I had a voice, was leader of the choir, + But Satan entered in my voice to tempt + The bishop of the church, and in my heart + To tempt and use the bishop; in the bishop + Old Satan slipped to lure me from the path. + He fell from grace for listening. And I + Whose voice had turned him over to the devil + Fell as he fell. He dragged me down with him. + No use to make it long, one word's enough: + Old Satan is the first word and the last, + And all between is nothing. It's enough + To say the bishop and myself eloped + Went to Montreaux. He left a wife and children. + And I poor silly thing with promises + Of culture of my voice in Paris, lost + Good name and all. And he lost all as well. + Good name, his soul I fear, because he took + The church's money saying he would use it + To win the Holy Sepulchre, in fact + Intending all the while to use the money + For travel and for keeping up a house + With me as soul-mate. For he never meant + To let me go to Paris for my voice, + He never got enough to pay for that. + On that point he betrayed me, now I see + 'Twas God who used him to deceive me there, + And leave me to return to Springfield broken, + An out-cast, fallen woman, shamed and scorned." + + "We took a house in Montreaux, plain enough + As we looked at it passing, but within + 'Twas sweet and fair as Satan could desire: + Engravings on the wall and marble mantels, + Gilt clocks upon the mantels, lovely rugs, + Chests full of linen, silver, pewter, china, + Soft beds with canopies of figured satin, + The scent of apple blossoms through the rooms. + A little garden, vines against the wall. + There were the lake and mountains. Oh, but Satan + Baited the hook with beauty. But the bishop + Seemed self-absorbed, depressed and never smiled. + And every time his face came close to mine + I smelled the brandy on him. Conscience whipped + Its venomed tail against his peace of mind. + And so he took the brandy to benumb + The sting of conscience and to dull the pain. + He told me he had business in Montreaux + Which would require some weeks, would there be met + By people who had money for him. I + Was twenty-three and green, besides I walked + In dreamland thinking of the promised schooling + In Paris--oh 'twas music, as I said.". ... + + "At last one day he said a friend was coming, + And he went to the station. Very soon + I heard their steps, the bishop and his friend. + They entered. I was curious and sat + Upon the stair-way's landing just to hear. + And this is what I heard. The bishop asked: + 'You've brought some money, how much have you brought?' + + The man replied 'four hundred dollars.' Then + The bishop said: 'I'll take it.' In a moment + I heard the clinking gold and heard the bishop + Putting it in his pocket.' + + "God forgive me, + I never was so angry in my life. + The bishop had been talking in big figures, + We would have thousands for my voice and Paris, + And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing + Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see + The American who brought the money--well, + No matter what it was, I walked in view + Upon the landing, stood there for a moment + And saw our visitor, a clergyman + From all appearances. He stared, grew red, + Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose, + Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door, + Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked + The door ajar, with open mouth backed out + Upon the street and ran. I heard him run + A square at least." + + "The bishop looked at me, + His face all brandy blossoms, left the room, + Came back at once with brandy on his breath. + And all that day was tippling, went to bed + So drunk I had to take his clothing off + And help him in." + + "Young girls, beware of music, + Save only hymns and sacred oratorios. + Beware the theatre and dancing hall. + Take lesson from my fate. + + "The morning came. + The bishop called me, he was very ill + And pale with fear. He had a dream that night. + Satan had used him and abandoned him. + And Death, whom only Jesus can put down, + Was standing by the bed. He called to me, + And said to me: + + "'That money's in that drawer. + Use it to reach America, but use it + To send my body back. Death's in the corner + Behind that cabinet--there--see him look! + I had a dream--go get a pen and paper, + And write down what I tell you. God forgive me-- + Oh what a blasphemer am I. O, woman, + To lie here dying and to know that God + Has left me--hell awaits me--horrible! + Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money, + This man and I were walking from Damascus, + And in a trice came down to Olivet. + Just then great troops of men sprang up around us + And hailed us as expecting our approach. + And there I saw the faces--hundreds maybe, + Of congregations who had trusted me + In all the long past years--Oh, sinful woman, + Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times, + 'And wreck my ministry.' + + "'And so these crowds + Armed as it seemed, exulted, called me general, + And shouted forward. So we ran like mad + And came before a building with a dome-- + You know--I've seen a picture of it somewhere. + And so the crowds yelled: let the bishop enter + And see the sepulchre, while we keep guard. + They pushed me in. But when I was inside + There was no dome, above us was the sky, + And what seemed walls was nothing but a fence. + Before us was a stable with a stall + Where two cows munched the hay. There was a farmer + Who with a pitchfork bedded down the stall. + "Where is the holy sepulchre?" I asked-- + "My army's at the door." He kept at work + And never raised his eyes and only said: + "Don't know; I haven't time for things like that. + You're 'bout the hundredth man who's asked me that. + We don't know where it is, nor do we care. + We live here and we knew him, so we feel + Less interest than you. But have you thought + If you should find it it would only be + A tomb like other tombs? Why look at this: + Here is the very manger where he lay-- + What is it? Just a manger filled with straw. + These cows are not the very cows you know-- + But cows are cows in every age and place. + I think that board there has been nailed on since. + Outside of that the place is just the same. + Now what's the good of seeing it? His mother + Lay in that corner there, what if she did? + That lantern on the wall's the very one + They came to see the child with from the inn-- + What of it? Take your army and go on, + And leave me with my barn and with my cows." + + "'So all the glory vanished! Devil magic + Stripped all the glory off. No angels singing, + No star of Bethlehem, no magi kneeling, + No Mary crowned, no Jesus King, no mystic + Blood for sins' remission--just a barn, + A stall, two cows, a lantern--all the glory-- + Swept from the gospel. That's my punishment: + My poor weak brain filled full of all this dream, + Which seems as real as life--to lie here dying + Too weak to shake the dream! To see Death there + Behind that cabinet--there--see him look-- + By God forsaken--all theology, + All mystery, all wonder, all delight + Of spiritual vision swept away as clean + As winds sweep up the clouds, and thus to see + While dying, just a manger, and two cows, + A lantern on the wall. + + "'And thus to see, + For blasphemy that duped an honest heart, + And took the pitiful dollars of the flock + To win you with--oh, woman, woman, woman, + A barn, a stall, a lantern limned so clear + In such a daylight of clear seeing senses + That all the splendor, the miraculous + Wonder of the virgin, nimbused child, + The star that followed till it rested over + The manger (such a manger) all are wrecked, + All blotted from belief, all snatched away + From hands pushed off by God, no longer holding + The robes of God.' + + "And so the bishop raved + While I stood terrified, since I could feel + Death in the room, and almost see the monster + Behind the cabinet. + + "Then the bishop said: + "'My dream went on. I crossed the stable yard + And passed into a place of tombs. And look! + Before I knew I stepped into a hole, + A sunken grave with just a slab at head, + And "Jesus" carven on it, nothing else, + No date, no birth, no parentage.'" + + "'I lie + Tormented by the pictures of this dream. + Woman, take to your death bed with clear mind + Of gospel faith, clean conscience, sins forgiven. + The thoughts that we must suffer with and die with + Are worth the care of all the days of life. + All life should be directed to this end, + Lest when the mind lies fallen, vultures swoop, + And with their wings blot out the sun of faith, + And with their croakings drown the voice of God.' + + "He ceased, became delirious. So he died, + And I still unrepentant buried him + There in Montreaux, and with what gold remained + Went on to Paris. + + "See how I was marked + For God's salvation. + + "There I went to see + The celebrated teacher Jean Strakosch, + Who looked at me with insolent, calm eyes, + And face impassive, let me sing a scale, + Then shook his head. A diva, as I thought, + Came in just then. They talked in French, and I, + Prickling from head to foot with shame, ignored, + Left standing like a fool, passed from the room. + So music turned on me, but God received me, + And I came back to Springfield. But the Lord + Made life too hard for me without the fold. + I was so shunned and scorned, I had no place + Save with the fallen, with the mockers, drinkers. + Thus being in conviction, after struggles, + And many prayers I found salvation, found + My work in life: which is to talk to girls + And stand upon this platform and relate + My story for their good." + + She ceased. Amens + Went up about the room. The big drum boomed, + And the raucous brass horns mingled with the cymbals, + The silver triangle and the singing voices. + + My friend and I arose and left the room. + + + + +NEANDERTHAL + + + "Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry + I woke from deeper slumber--was it sleep?-- + And saw a hooded figure standing by + The bed whereon I lay. + + "Why do you keep, + O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard + About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep + Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard, + As that unearthly shape was veiled to you + At Casa Magni?" + + Then the room was starred + With light as I was speaking, and I knew + The god, my brother, from whose face the veil + Melted as mist. + + "What mission fair and true, + While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale + Amid this solemn stillness, for your face + Unutterably majestic." + + As when the dale + At midnight echoes for a little space, + The night-bird's cry, the god responded "Come," + And nothing more. I left my bed apace, + And followed him with wings above the gloom + Of clouds like chariots driven on to war, + Between whose wheels the swift moon raced and swum. + + A mile beneath us lay the earth, afar + Were mountains which as swift as thought drew near + As we passed over pines, where many a star + And heaven's light made every frond as clear + As through a glass or in the lightning's flash. ... + Yet I seemed flying from an olden fear, + A bulk of black that sought to sting or gnash + My breast or side--which was myself, it seemed, + The flesh or thinking part of me grown rash + And violent, a brain soul unredeemed, + Which sometime earlier in the grip of Death + Forgot its terror when my soul which streamed + Like ribbons of silk fire, with quiet breath + Said to the body, as it were a thing + Separate and indifferent: "How uneath + That fellow turns, while I am safe yet cling + Close to him, both another and the same." + Now was this mood reversed: That self must wing + Its fastest flight to fly him, lest he maim + With fleshly hands my better, stronger part, + As dragon wings my flap and quench a flame. ... + But as we passed o'er empires and athwart + A bellowing strait, beholding bergs and floes + And running tides which made the sinking heart + Rise up again for breath, I felt how close + The god, my brother, was, who would sustain + My wings whatever dangers might oppose, + And knowing him beside me, like a strain + Of music were his thoughts, though nothing yet + Was spoken by him. + + When as out of rain + Suddenly lights may break, the earth was set + Beneath us, and we stood and paused to see + The Düssel river from a parapet + Of earth and rock. Then bending curiously, + As reaching, in a moment with his hand + He scraped the turf and stones, pried up a key + Of harder granite, and at his command, + When he had made an opening, I slid + And sank, down, down through the Devonian land + Until with him I reached a cavern hid + From every eye but ours, and where no light + But from our faces was, a pyramid + Of hills that walled this crypt of soundless night. + Then in a mood, it seemed more fanciful, + He bent again and raked, and to my sight + Upheaved and held the remnant of a skull-- + Gorilla's or a man's, I could not guess. + Yet brutal though it was, it was a hull + Too fine and large to house the nakedness + Of a beast's mind. + + But as I looked the god + Began these words: "Before the iron stress + Of the north pole's dominion fell, he trod + The wastes of Europe, ere the Nile was made + A granary for the east, or ere the clod + In Babylon or India baked was laid + For hovels, this man lived. Ten thousand years + Before the earliest pyramid cast its shade + Upon the desolate sands this thing of fears, + Lusts, hungers, lived and hunted, woke and slept, + Mated, produced its kind, with hairy ears, + And tiger eyes sensed all that you accept + In terms of thought or vision as the proof + Of immanent Power or Love. But this skull kept + The intangible meaning out. This heavy roof + Of brutish bone above the eyes was dead + Even to lower ethers, no behoof + Of seasons, stars or skies took, though they bred + Suspicions, fears, or nervous glances, thought, + Which silent as a lizard's shadow fled + Before it graved itself, passed over, wrought + No vision, only pain, which he deemed pangs + Of hunger or of thirst." + + As you have sought + The meaning of life's riddle, since it hangs + In waking or in slumber just above + The highest reach of prophecy, and fangs + With poison of despair all moods but love, + Behold its secret lettered on this brow + Placed by your own! + + This is the word thereof: + _Change and progression from the glazed slough, + Where life creeps and is blind, ascending up + The jungled slopes for prey till spirits bow + On Calvaries with crosses, take the cup + Of martyrdom for truth's sake._ + + It may be + Men of to-day make monstrous war, sleep, sup, + Traffic, build shrines, as earliest history + Records the earliest day, and that the race + Is what it was in virtue, charity, + And nothing better. But within this face + No light shone from that realm where Hindostan, + Delving in numbers, watching stars took grace + And inspiration to explore the plan + Of heaven and earth. And of the scheme the test + Is not five thousand years, which leave the van + Just where it was, but this change manifest + In fifty thousand years between the mind + Neanderthal's and Shelley's. + + Man progressed + Along these years, found eyes where he was blind, + Put instinct under thought, crawled from the cave, + And faced the sun, till somewhere heaven's wind + Mixed with the light of Lights descending, gave + To mind a touch of divinity, making whole + An undeveloped growth. + + As ships that brave + Great storms at sea on masts a flaming coal + From heaven catch, bear on, so man was wreathed + Somewhere with lightning and became a soul. + Into his nostrils purer fire was breathed + Than breath of life itself, and by a leap, + As lightning leaps from crag to crag, what seethed + In man from the beginning broke the sleep + That lay on consciousness of self, with eyes + Awakened saw himself, out of the deep + And wonder of the self caught the surmise + Of Power beyond this world, and felt it through + The flow of living. + + And so man shall rise + From this illumination, from this clue + To perfect knowledge that this Power exists, + And what man is to this Power, even as you + Have left Neanderthal lost in the mists + And ignorance of centuries untold. + What would you say if learned geologists + Out of the rocks and caverns should unfold + The skulls of greater races, records, books + To shame us for our day, could we behold + Therein our retrogression? Wonder looks + In vain for these, discovers everywhere + Proof of the root which darkly bends and crooks + Far down and far away; a stalk more fair + Upspringing finds its proof, buds on the stalk + The eye may see, at last the flowering flare + Of man to-day! + + I see the things which balk, + Retard, divert, draw into sluices small, + But who beholds the stream turned back to mock, + Not just itself, but make equivocal + A Universal Reason, Vision? No. + You find no proof of this, but prodigal + Proof of ascending Life! + + So life shall flow + Here on this globe until the final fruit + And harvest. As it were until the glow + Of the great blossom has the attribute + In essence, color of eternal things, + And shows no rim between its hues which suit + The infinite sky's. Then if the dead earth swings + A gleaned and stricken field amid the void + What matters it to you, a soul with wings, + Whether it be replanted or destroyed? + Has it not served you?" + + Now his voice was still, + Which in such discourse had been thus employed. + And in that lonely cavern dark and chill + I heard again, "Then what is life?" And woke + To find the moonlight on the window sill + That which had seemed his presence. And a cloak, + Whose hood was perked upon the moonbeams, made + The skull of the Neanderthal. The smoke + Blown from the fireplace formed the cavern's shade. + And roaring winds blew down as they had tuned + The voice which left me calm and unafraid. + + + + +THE END OF THE SEARCH + + + _There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole, + And the tiger banner, he cries. + Pantagruel breaks into a laugh + As the monarch dries his eyes.--The Search_ + + _"The tiger banyer, that is what you call much + Bad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer. + That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you call + Nature. See! Nature!"--King Joy_ + + * * * * * + + Said Old King Cole I know the banner + Of dragon and tiger too, + But I would know the vagrant fellows + Who came to my castle with you. + + * * * * * + + And I would know why they rise in the morning + And never take bread or scrip; + And why they hasten over the mountain + In a sorrowed fellowship. + + * * * * * + + Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not? + One said he goes to Spain. + One said he goes to Elsinore, + And one to the Trojan plain. + + * * * * * + + Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole, + There is a word that's more: + Who is it goes to Spain and Troy? + And who to Elsinore? + + * * * * * + + One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel, + Out for the final joust. + One may be Hamlet, said Pantagruel + And one I think is Faust. + + * * * * * + + Whoever they be, said Pantagruel, + Why stand at the window and drool? + Let's out and catch the runaways + While the morning hour is cool. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel runs to the castle court, + And King Cole follows soon. + The cobblestones of the court yard ring + To the beat of their flying shoon. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle, + And King Cole clutches his crown. + They throw the bolt of the castle gate + And race them through the town. + + * * * * * + + They cross the river and follow the road, + They run by the willow trees, + And the tiger banner and dragon banner + Wait for the morning breeze. + + * * * * * + + They clamber the wall and part the brambles, + And tear through thicket and thorn. + And a wild dove in an olive tree + Does mourn and mourn and mourn. + + * * * * * + + A green snake starts in the tangled grass, + And springs his length at their feet. + And a condor circles the purple sky + Looking for carrion meat. + + * * * * * + + And mad black flies are over their heads, + And a wolf looks out of his hole. + Great drops of sweat break out and run + From the brow of Old King Cole. + + * * * * * + + Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, + From the holy bottle, I pray. + My breath is short, my feet run blood, + My throat is baked as clay. + + * * * * * + + Anon they reach a mountain top, + And a mile below in the plain + Are the glitter of guns and a million men + Led by an idiot brain. + + * * * * * + + They come to a field of slush and flaw + Red with a blood red dye. + And a million faces fungus pale + Stare horribly at the sky. + + * * * * * + + They come to a cross where a rotting thing + Is slipping down from the nails. + And a raven perched on the eyeless skull + Opens his beak and rails: + + * * * * * + + "If thou be the Son of man come down, + Save us and thyself save." + Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven: + "How now blaspheming knave!" + + * * * * * + + "Come down and of my bottle drink, + And cease this scurvy rune." + But the raven flapped its wings and laughed + Loud as the water loon. + + * * * * * + + Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, + I faint, a drink in haste. + But when he drinks he pales and mutters: + "The wine has lost its taste." + + * * * * * + + "You have gone mad," said Pantagruel, + "In faith 'tis the same old wine." + Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottle + But the flavor is like sea brine. + + * * * * * + + And there on a rock is a cypress tree, + And a form with a muffled face. + "I know you, Death," said Pantagruel, + "But I ask of you no grace." + + * * * * * + + "Empty my bottle, sour my wine, + Bend me, you shall not break." + "Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a time + Before I come and take." + + * * * * * + + "You have lost everything in life but the bottle, + Youth and woman and friend. + Pass on and laugh for a little space yet + The laugh that has an end." + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel passes and looks around him + Brave and merry of soul. + But there on the ground lies a dead body, + The body of Old King Cole. + + * * * * * + + And a Voice said: Take the body up + And carry the body for me + Until you come to a silent water, + By the sands of a silent sea. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel takes the body up + And the dead fat bends him down. + He climbs the mountains, runs the valleys + With body, bottle and crown. + + * * * * * + + And the wastes are strewn with skulls, + And the desert is hot and cursed. + And a phantom shape of the holy bottle + Mocks his burning thirst. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel wanders seven days, + And seven nights wanders he. + And on the seventh night he rests him + By the sands of the silent sea. + + * * * * * + + And sees a new made fire on the shore, + And on the fire is a dish. + And by the fire two travelers sleep, + And two are broiling fish. + + * * * * * + + Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping, + And Faust is stirring the fire. + But the fourth is a stranger with a face + Starred with a great desire. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts, + Pantagruel falls to his knees. + He flings down the body of Old King Cole + As a man throws off disease. + + * * * * * + + And rolls his burden away and cries: + "Take and watch, if you will. + But as for me I go to France + My bottle to refill." + + * * * * * + + "And as for me I go to France + To fill this bottle up." + He felt at his side for the holy bottle, + And found it turned a cup. + + * * * * * + + And the stranger said: Behold our friend + Has brought my cup to me. + That is the cup whereof I drank + In the garden Gethsemane. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel hands the cup to Jesus + Who dips it in sea brine. + This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth, + Whereof I make your wine. + + * * * * * + + And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth, + And his lips wear a purple stain. + And Faust hands the cup to Pantagruel + With the dregs for him to drain. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber, + And Jesus strokes his hair. + And Faust sings a song of Euphorion + To hide his heart's despair. + + * * * * * + + And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth, + And they walk by the purple deep. + Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers, + And some grow tired and sleep." + + + + +BOTANICAL GARDENS + + + He follows me no more, I said, nor stands + Beside me. And I wake these later days + In an April mood, a wonder light and free. + The vision is gone, but gone the constant pain + Of constant thought. I see dawn from my hill, + And watch the lights which fingers from the waters + Twine from the sun or moon. Or look across + The waste of bays and marshes to the woods, + Under the prism colors of the air, + Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds, + Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the sky + In terrible glory. + + And earth charmed I lie + Before the staring sphinx whose musing face + Is this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyes + Are separate clouds of gold, whose pedestal + Is earth, whose silken sheathed claws + No longer toy with me, even while I stroke them: + Since I have ceased to tease her. + + Then behold + A breeze is blown out of a world becalmed, + And as I see the multitudinous leaves + Fluttered against the water and the light, + And see this light unveil itself, reveal + An inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor, + I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels; + And I have fears of dieties shown or spun + From nothingness. But when I look again + The earth has stayed itself, I see the lake, + The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoods + Of thunder heads, yet feel upon my arm + A hand I know, and hear a voice I know-- + He has returned and brought with him the thought + And the old pain. + + The voice says: "Leave the sphinx. + The garden waits your study fully grown." + And I arise and follow down a slope + To a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone, + And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosing + An Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smile + Consciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love, + As he strokes with baby hand the slender arching + Neck of a swan. And here is a peristyle + Whose carven columns are pink as the long updrawn + Stalks of tulips bedded in April snow. + And sunk amid tiger lillies is the face + Of an Asian Aphrodite close to the seat + With feet of a Babylonian lion amid + This ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppies + And ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems, + Though here is our western moon as white and thin + As an abalone shell hung under the boughs + Of an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky between + His boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. ... + We walk to the water's edge and here he shows me + Green scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs, + That yield to trees beyond the levels, where + The beech and oak have triumph; for along + This gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses, + That builds the soil against the water's hands, + All things are fierce for place and garner life + From weaker things. + + And then he shows me root stocks, + And Alpine willow, growths that sneak and crawl + Beneath the soil. Or as we leave the lake + And walk the forest I behold lianas, + Smilax or woodbine climbing round the trunks + Of giant trees that live and out of earth, + And out of air make strength and food and ask + No other help. And in this place I see + Spiral bryony, python of the vines + That coils and crushes; and that banyan tree + Whose spreading branches drop new roots to earth, + And lives afar from where the parent trunk + Has sunk its roots, so that the healthful sun + Is darkened: as a people might be darkened + By ignorance or want or tyranny, + Or dogma of a jungle hidden faith. + Why is it, think I, though I dare not speak, + That this should be to forests or to men; + That water fails, and light decreases, heat + Of God's air lessens, and the soil goes spent, + Till plants change leaves and stalks and seeds as well, + Or migrate from the olden places, go + In search of life, or if they cannot move + Die in the ruthless marches. + + That is life, he said. + For even these, the giants scatter life + Into the maws of death. That towering tree + That for these hundred years has leafed itself, + And through its leaves out of the magic air + Drawn nutriment for annual girths, took root + Out of an acorn which good chance preserved, + While all its brother acorns cast to earth, + To make trees, by a parent tree now gone, + Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sprouted + Amid thick jealous growth wherein they fell. + All acorns but this one were lost. + + Then he reads + My questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactus + Whose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive. + And shows me leaves that must have rain, and roots + That must have water where the river flows. + And how the spirit of life, though turned or driven + This way or that beyond a course begun, + Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conforms + To soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves, + Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stem + To fashion forth itself, produce its kind. + Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not, + Is only changed or buried, re-appears + As other forms of life. + + We had walked through + A forest of sequoias, beeches, pines, + And ancient oaks where I could see the trace + Of willows, alders, ruined or devoured + By the great Titans. + + At last + We reached my hill and sat and overlooked + The garden at our feet, even to the place + Of tiger lilies and of asphodel, + By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser: + As where the wounded surface of the shell + Thickens its shimmering stuff in spiral coigns + Of the shell, so was the moon above the seat + Beside the Eros and the Aphrodite + Sunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass. + And here we sat and looked. And here my vision + Was over all we saw, but not a part + Of what we saw, for all we saw stood forth + As foreign to myself as something touched + To learn the thing it is. + + I might have asked + Who owns this garden, for the thought arose + With my surprise, who owns this garden, who + Planted this garden, why and to what end, + And why this fight for place, for soil and sun + Water and air, and why this enmity + Between the things here planted, and between + Flying or crawling life and plants, and whence + The power that falls in one place but arises + Some other place; and why the unceasing growth + Of all these forms that only come to seed, + Then disappear to enrich the insatiate soil + Where the new seed falls? But silence kept me there + For wonder of the beauty which I saw, + Even while the faculty of external vision + Kept clear the garden separate from me, + Envisioned, seen as grasses, sedges, alders, + As forestry, as fields of wheat and corn, + As the vast theatre of unceasing life, + Moving to life and blind to all but life; + As places used, tried out, as if the gardener, + For his delight or use, or for an end + Of good or beauty made experiments + With seed or soils or crossings of the seed. + Even as peoples, epochs, did the garden + Lie to my vision, or as races crowding, + Absorbing, dispossessing, killing races, + Not only for a place to grow, but under + A stimulus of doctrine: as Mahomet, + Or Jesus, like a vital change of air, + Or artifice of culture, made the garden, + Which mortals call the world, grow in a way, + And overgrow the world as neither dreamed. + Who is the Gardener then? Or is there one + Beside the life within the plant, within + The python climbers, wandering sedges, root stalks, + Thorn bushes, night-shade, deadly saprophytes, + Goths, Vandals, Tartars, striving for more life, + And praying to the urge within as God, + The Gardener who lays out the garden, sprays + For insects which devour, keeps rich the soil + For those who pray and know the Gardener + As One who is without and over-sees? ... + + But while in contemplation of the garden, + Whether from failing day or from departure + Of my own vision in the things it saw, + Bereft of penetrating thought I sank, + Became a part of what I saw and lost + The great solution. + + As we sat in silence, + And coming night, what seemed the sinking moon, + Amid the yellow sedges by the lake + Began to twinkle, as a fire were blown-- + And it was fire, the garden was afire, + As it were all the world had flamed with war. + And a wind came out of the bright heaven + And blew the flames, first through the ruined garden, + Then through the wood, the fields of wheat, at last + Nothing was left but waste and wreaths of smoke + Twisting toward the stars. And there he sat + Nor uttered aught, save when I sighed he said + "If it be comforting I promise you + Another spring shall come." + + "And after that?" + "Another spring--that's all I know myself, + There shall be springs and springs!" + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Toward the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWARD THE GULF *** + +***** This file should be named 7845-8.txt or 7845-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/4/7845/ + +Produced by Dave Maddock, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +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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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/7845-8.zip b/7845-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a417837 --- /dev/null +++ b/7845-8.zip diff --git a/7845-h.zip b/7845-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f690149 --- /dev/null +++ b/7845-h.zip diff --git a/7845-h/7845-h.htm b/7845-h/7845-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..309a237 --- /dev/null +++ b/7845-h/7845-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9710 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Toward the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre {font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Toward the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Toward the Gulf + +Author: Edgar Lee Masters + + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7845] +This file was first posted on May 22, 2003 +Last Updated: May 21, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWARD THE GULF *** + + + + +Text file produced by Dave Maddock, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TOWARD THE GULF + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edgar Lee Masters + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> TOWARD THE GULF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> LAKE BOATS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> CITIES OF THE PLAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> EXCLUDED MIDDLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> JOHNNY APPLESEED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE LOOM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> SIR GALAHAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ST. DESERET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE LANDSCAPE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> SWEET CLOVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> POOR PIERROT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> MIRAGE OF THE DESERT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> DAHLIAS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> DELILAH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE WORLD-SAVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> RECESSIONAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE AWAKENING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> FRANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> DEAR OLD DICK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> THE ROOM OF MIRRORS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> THE LETTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> CANTICLE OF THE RACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> MY LIGHT WITH YOURS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> THE BLIND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> "I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU" + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> WIDOW LA RUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> FRIAR YVES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> THE EIGHTH CRUSADE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> NEANDERTHAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> THE END OF THE SEARCH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> BOTANICAL GARDENS </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY + </h2> + <p> + It would have been fitting had I dedicated Spoon River Anthology to you. + Considerations of an intimate nature, not to mention a literary + encouragement which was before yours, crowded you from the page. Yet you + know that it was you who pressed upon my attention in June, 1909, the + Greek Anthology. It was from contemplation of its epitaphs that my hand + unconsciously strayed to the sketches of "Hod Putt," "Serepta The Scold" + ("Serepta Mason" in the book), "Amanda Barker" ("Amanda" in the book), + "Ollie McGee" and "The Unknown," the first written and the first printed + sketches of The Spoon River Anthology. The <i>Mirror</i> of May 29th, + 1914, is their record. + </p> + <p> + I take one of the epigrams of Meleager with its sad revealment and touch + of irony and turn it from its prose form to a verse form, making verses + according to the breath pauses: + </p> + <p> + "The holy night and thou, O Lamp, we took as witness of our vows; and + before thee we swore, he that would love me always and I that I would + never leave him. We swore, and thou wert witness of our double promise. + But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters. And + thou, O Lamp, thou seest him in the arms of another." + </p> + <p> + In verse this epigram is as follows: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The holy night and thou, + O Lamp, + We took as witness of our vows; + And before thee we swore, + He that would love me always + And I that I would never leave him. + We swore, + And thou wert witness of our double promise. + But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters. + And thou, O Lamp, + Thou seest him in the arms of another. +</pre> + <p> + It will be observed that iambic feet prevail in this translation. They + merely become noticeable and imperative when arranged in verses. But so it + is, even in the briefest and starkest rendering of these epigrams from the + Greek the humanism and dignity of the original transfer themselves, making + something, if less than verse, yet more than prose; as Byron said of + Sheridan's speeches, neither poetry nor oratory, but better than either. + It was no difficult matter to pass from Chase Henry: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "In life I was the town drunkard. + When I died the priest denied me burial + In holy ground, etc." +</pre> + <p> + to the use of standard measures, or rhythmical arrangements of iambics or + what not, and so to make a book, which for the first third required a + practiced voice or eye to yield the semblance of verse; and for the last + two-thirds, or nearly so, accommodated itself to the less sensitive + conception of the average reader. The prosody was allowed to take care of + itself under the emotional requirements and inspiration of the moment. But + there is nothing new in English literature for some hundreds of years in + combinations of dactyls, anapests or trochees, and without rhyme. Nor did + I discover to the world that an iambic pentameter can be lopped to a + tetrameter without the verse ceasing to be an iambic; though it be no + longer the blank verse which has so ennobled English poetry. A great deal + of unrhymed poetry is yet to be written in the various standard rhythms + and in carefully fashioned metres. + </p> + <p> + But obviously a formal resuscitation of the Greek epigrams, ironical and + tender, satirical and sympathetic, as casual experiments in unrelated + themes would scarcely make the same appeal that an epic rendition of + modern life would do, and as it turned out actually achieved. + </p> + <p> + The response of the American press to Spoon River Anthology during the + summer of 1914 while it was appearing in the <i>Mirror</i> is my warrant + for saying this. It was quoted and parodied during that time in the + country and in the metropolitan newspapers. <i>Current Opinion</i> in its + issue of September, 1914, reproduced from the <i>Mirror</i> some of the + poems. Though at this time the schematic effect of the Anthology could not + be measured, Edward J. Wheeler, that devoted patron of the art and + discriminating critic of its manifestations, was attracted, I venture to + say, by the substance of "Griffy, The Cooper," for that is one of the + poems from the Anthology which he set forth in his column "The Voice of + Living Poets" in the issue referred to. <i>Poetry, A Magazine of Verse</i>, + followed in its issue of October, 1914, with a reprinting from the <i>Mirror</i>. + In a word, the Anthology went the rounds over the country before it was + issued in book form. And a reception was thus prepared for the complete + work not often falling to the lot of a literary production. I must not + omit an expression of my gratitude for the very high praise which John + Cowper Powys bestowed on the Anthology just before it appeared in book + form and the publicity which was given his lecture by the <i>New York + Times</i>. Nathan Haskell Dole printed an article in the Boston <i>Transcript</i> + of June 30, 1915, in which he contrasted the work with the Greek + Anthology, pointing in particular to certain epitaphs by Carphylides, + Kallaischros and Pollianos. The critical testimony of Miss Harriet Monroe + in her editorial comments and in her preface to "The New Poetry" has + greatly strengthened the judgment of to-day against a reversal at the + hands of a later criticism. + </p> + <p> + This response to the Anthology while it was appearing in the <i>Mirror</i> + and afterwards when put in the book was to nothing so much as to the + substance. It was accepted as a picture of our life in America. It was + interpreted as a transcript of the state of mind of men and women here and + elsewhere. You called it a Comedy Humaine in your announcement of my + identity as the author in the <i>Mirror</i> of November 20, 1914. If the + epitaphic form gave added novelty I must confess that the idea was + suggested to me by the Greek Anthology. But it was rather because of the + Greek Anthology than from it that I evolved the less harmonious epitaphs + with which Spoon River Anthology was commenced. As to metrical epitaphs it + is needless to say that I drew upon the legitimate materials of authentic + English versification. Up to the Spring of 1914, I had never allowed a + Spring to pass without reading Homer; and I feel that this familiarity had + its influence both as to form and spirit; but I shall not take the space + now to pursue this line of confessional. + </p> + <p> + What is the substance of which I have spoken if it be not the life around + us as we view it through eyes whose vision lies in heredity, mode of life, + understanding of ourselves and of our place and time? You have lived much. + As a critic and a student of the country no one understands America better + than you do. As a denizen of the west, but as a surveyor of the east and + west you have brought to the country's interpretation a knowledge of its + political and literary life as well as a proficiency in the history of + other lands and other times. You have seen and watched the unfolding of + forces that sprang up after the Civil War. Those forces mounted in the + eighties and exploded in free silver in 1896. They began to hit through + the directed marksmanship of Theodore Roosevelt during his second term. + You knew at first hand all that went with these forces of human hope, + futile or valiant endeavor, articulate or inarticulate expression of the + new birth. You saw and lived, but in greater degree, what I have seen and + lived. And with this back-ground you inspired and instructed me in my + analysis. Standing by you confirmed or corrected my sculpturing of the + clay taken out of the soil from which we both came. You did this with an + eye familiar with the secrets of the last twenty years, familiar also with + the relation of those years to the time which preceded and bore them. + </p> + <p> + So it is, that not only because I could not dedicate Spoon River to you, + but for the larger reasons indicated, am I impelled to do you whatever + honor there may be in taking your name for this book. By this outline + confession, sometime perhaps to be filled in, do I make known what your + relation is to these interpretations of mine resulting from a spirit, + life, thought, environment which have similarly come to us and have + similarly affected us. + </p> + <p> + I call this book "Toward the Gulf," a title importing a continuation of + the attempts of Spoon River and The Great Valley to mirror the age and the + country in which we live. It does not matter which one of these books + carries your name and makes these acknowledgments; so far, anyway, as the + opportunity is concerned for expressing my appreciation of your friendship + and the great esteem and affectionate interest in which I hold you. + </p> + <h3> + EDGAR LEE MASTERS. + </h3> + <p> + The following poems were first printed in the publications indicated: + </p> + <p> + Toward the Gulf, The Lake Boats, The Loom, Tomorrow is my Birthday, Dear + Old Dick, The Letter, My Light with Yours, Widow LaRue, Neanderthal, in + Reedy's Mirror. + </p> + <p> + Draw the Sword, Oh Republic, in the Independent. + </p> + <p> + Canticle of the Race, in Poetry, a Magazine of Verse. + </p> + <p> + Friar Yves, in the Cosmopolitan Magazine. + </p> + <p> + "I pay my debt for Lafayette and Rochambeau," in Fashions of the Hour. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOWARD THE GULF + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the Cordilleran Highlands, + From the Height of Land + Far north. + From the Lake of the Woods, + From Rainy Lake, + From Itasca's springs. + From the snow and the ice + Of the mountains, + Breathed on by the sun, + And given life, + Awakened by kisses of fire, + Moving, gliding as brightest hyaline + Down the cliffs, + Down the hills, + Over the stones. + Trickling as rills; + Swiftly running as mountain brooks; + Swirling through runnels of rock; + Curving in spheréd silence + Around the long worn walls of granite gorges; + Storming through chasms; + And flowing for miles in quiet over the Titan basin + To the muddled waters of the mighty river, + Himself obeying the call of the gulf, + And the unfathomed urge of the sea! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Waters of mountain peaks, + Spirits of liberty + Leaving your pure retreats + For work in the world. + Soiling your crystal springs + With the waste that is whirled to your breast as you run, + Until you are foul as the crawling leviathan + That devours you, + And uses you to carry waste and earth + For the making of land at the gulf, + For the conquest of land for the feet of men. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + De Soto, Marquette and La Salle + Planting your cross in vain, + Gaining neither gold nor ivory, + Nor tribute + For France or Spain. + Making land alone + For liberty! + You could proclaim in the name of the cross + The dominion of kings over a world that was new. + But the river has altered its course: + There are fertile fields + For a thousand miles where the river flowed that you knew. + And there are liberty and democracy + For thousands of miles + Where in the name of kings, and for the cross + You tramped the tangles for treasure. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters + In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices, + Swirling, dancing, leaping, foaming, + Spirits of caverns, of canyons and gorges: + Waters tinctured by star-lights, sweetened by breezes + Blown over snows, out of the rosy northlands, + Through forests of pine and hemlock, + Whisperings of the Pacific grown symphonic. + Voices of freedom, restless, unconquered, + Mad with divinity, fearless and free:— + Hunters and choppers, warriors, revelers, + Laughers, dancers, fiddlers, freemen, + Climbing the crests of the Alleghenies, + Singing, chopping, hunting, fighting + Erupting into Kentucky and Tennessee, + Into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, + Sweeping away the waste of the Indians, + As the river carries mud for the making of land. + And taking the land of Illinois from kings + And handing its allegiance to the Republic. + What riflemen with Daniel Boone for leader, + And conquerors with Clark for captain + Plunge down like melted snows + The rocks and chasms of forbidden mountains, + And make more land for freemen! + Clear-eyed, hard-muscled, dauntless hunters, + Choppers of forests and tillers of fields + Meet at last in a field of snow-white clover + To make wise laws for states, + And to teach their sons of the new West + That suffrage is the right of freemen. + Until the lion of Tennessee, + Who crushes king-craft near the gulf. + Where La Salle proclaimed the crown, + And the cross, + Is made the ruler of the republic + By freeman suffragans, + And winners of the West! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Father of Waters! Ever recurring symbol of wider freedom, + Even to the ocean girdled earth, + The out-worn rule of Florida rots your domain. + But the lion of Tennessee asks: Would you take from Spain + The land she has lost but in name? + It shall be done in a month if you loose my sword. + It was done as he said. + And the sick and drunken power of Spain that clung, + And sucked at the life of Chile, Peru, Argentina, + Loosened under the blows of San Martin and Bolivar, + Breathing the lightning thrown by Napoleon the Great + On the thrones of Europe. + Father of Waters! 'twas you who made us say: + No kings this side of the earth forever! + One-half of the earth shall be free + By our word and the might that is back of our word! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters + In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices! + And the river moves in its winding channel toward the gulf, + Over the breast of De Soto, + By the swamp grave of La Salle! + The old days sleep, the lion of Tennessee sleeps + With Daniel Boone and the hunters, + The rifle men, the revelers, + The laughers and dancers and choppers + Who climbed the crests of the Alleghenies, + And poured themselves into Tennessee, Ohio, + Kentucky, Illinois, the bountiful West. + But the river never sleeps, the river flows forever, + Making land forever, reclaiming the wastes of the sea. + And the race never sleeps, the race moves on forever. + And wars must come, as the waters must sweep away + Drift-wood, dead wood, choking the strength of the river— + For Liberty never sleeps! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The lion of Tennessee sleeps! + And over the graves of the hunters and choppers + The tramp of troops is heard! + There is war again, + O, Father of Waters! + There is war, O, symbol of freedom! + They have chained your giant strength for the cause + Of trade in men. + But a man of the West, a denizen of your shore, + Wholly American, + Compact, clear-eyed, nerved like a hunter, + Who knew no faster beat of the heart, + Except in charity, forgiveness, peace; + Generous, plain, democratic, + Scarcely appraising himself at full, + A spiritual rifleman and chopper, + Of the breed of Daniel Boone— + This man, your child, O, Father of Waters, + Waked from the winter sleep of a useless day + By the rising sun of a Freedom bright and strong, + Slipped like the loosened snows of your mountain streams + Into a channel of fate as sure as your own— + A fate which said: till the thing be done + Turn not back nor stop. + Ulysses of the great Atlantis, + Wholly American, + Patient, silent, tireless, watchful, undismayed + Grant at Fort Donelson, Grant at Vicksburg, + Leading the sons of choppers and riflemen, + Pushing on as the hunters and farmers + Poured from the mountains into the West, + Freed you, Father of Waters, + To flow to the Gulf and be one + With the earth-engirdled tides of time. + And gave us states made ready for the hands + Wholly American: + Hunters, choppers, tillers, fighters + For epochs vast and new + In Truth, in Liberty, + Posters from land to land and sea to sea + Till all the earth be free! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ulysses of the great Atlantis, + Dream not of disaster, + Sleep the sleep of the brave + In your couch afar from the Father of Waters! + A new Ulysses arises, + Who turns not back, nor stops + Till the thing is done. + He cuts with one stroke of the sword + The stubborn neck that keeps the Gulf + And the Caribbean + From the luring Pacific. + Roosevelt the hunter, the pioneer, + Wholly American, + Winner of greater wests + Till all the earth be free! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And forever as long as the river flows toward the Gulf + Ulysses reincarnate shall come + To guard our places of sleep, + Till East and West shall be one in the west of heaven and earth! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In an old print + I see a thicket of masts on the river. + But in the prints to be + There will be lake boats, + With port holes, funnels, rows of decks, + Huddled like swans by the docks, + Under the shadows of cliffs of brick. + And who will know from the prints to be, + When the Albatross and the Golden Eagle, + The flying craft which shall carry the vision + Of impatient lovers wounded by Spring + To the shaded rivers of Michigan, + That it was the Missouri, the Iowa, + And the City of Benton Harbor + Which lay huddled like swans by the docks? + + You are not Lake Leman, + Walled in by Mt. Blanc. + One sees the whole world round you, + And beyond you, Lake Michigan. + And when the melodious winds of March + Wrinkle you and drive on the shore + The serpent rifts of sand and snow, + And sway the giant limbs of oaks, + Longing to bud, + The boats put forth for the ports that began to stir, + With the creak of reels unwinding the nets, + And the ring of the caulking wedge. + But in the June days— + The Alabama ploughs through liquid tons + Of sapphire waves. + She sinks from hills to valleys of water, + And rises again, + Like a swimming gull! + I wish a hundred years to come, and forever + All lovers could know the rapture + Of the lake boats sailing the first Spring days + To coverts of hepatica, + With the whole world sphering round you, + And the whole of the sky beyond you. + + I knew the captain of the City of Grand Rapids. + He had sailed the seas as a boy. + And he stood on deck against the railing + Puffing a cigar, + Showing in his eyes the cinema flash of the sun on the waves. + It was June and life was easy. ... + One could lie on deck and sleep, + Or sit in the sun and dream. + People were walking the decks and talking, + Children were singing. + And down on the purser's deck + A man was dancing by himself, + Whirling around like a dervish. + And this captain said to me: + "No life is better than this. + I could live forever, + And do nothing but run this boat + From the dock at Chicago to the dock at Holland + And back again." + + One time I went to Grand Haven + On the Alabama with Charley Shippey. + It was dawn, but white dawn only, + Under the reign of Leucothea, + As we volplaned, so it seemed, from the lake + Past the lighthouse into the river. + And afterward laughing and talking + Hurried to Van Dreezer's restaurant + For breakfast. + (Charley knew him and talked of things + Unknown to me as he cooked the breakfast.) + Then we fished the mile's length of the pier + In a gale full of warmth and moisture + Which blew the gulls about like confetti, + And flapped like a flag the linen duster + Of a fisherman who paced the pier— + (Charley called him Rip Van Winkle). + The only thing that could be better + Than this day on the pier + Would be its counterpart in heaven, + As Swedenborg would say— + Charley is fishing somewhere now, I think. + + There is a grove of oaks on a bluff by the river + At Berrien Springs. + There is a cottage that eyes the lake + Between pines and silver birches + At South Haven. + There is the inviolable wonder of wooded shore + Curving for miles at Saugatuck. + And at Holland a beach like Scheveningen's. + And at Charlevoix the sudden quaintness + Of an old-world place by the sea. + There are the hills around Elk Lake + Where the blue of the sky is so still and clear + It seems it was rubbed above them + By the swipe of a giant thumb. + And beyond these the little Traverse Bay + Where the roar of the breeze goes round + Like a roulette ball in the groove of the wheel, + Circling the bay, + And beyond these Mackinac and the Cheneaux Islands— + And beyond these a great mystery!— + + Neither ice floes, nor winter's palsy + Stays the tide in the river. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LAKE BOATS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And under the shadows of cliffs of brick + The lake boats + Huddled like swans + Turn and sigh like sleepers—— + They are longing for the Spring! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CITIES OF THE PLAIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where are the cabalists, the insidious committees, + The panders who betray the idiot cities + For miles and miles toward the prairie sprawled, + Ignorant, soul-less, rich, + Smothered in fumes of pitch? + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rooms of mahogany in tall sky scrapers + See the unfolding and the folding up + Of ring-clipped papers, + And letters which keep drugged the public cup. + The walls hear whispers and the semi-tones + Of voices in the corner, over telephones + Muffled by Persian padding, gemmed with brass spittoons. + Butts of cigars are on the glass topped table, + And through the smoke, gracing the furtive Babel, + The bishop's picture blesses the picaroons, + Who start or stop the life of millions moving + Unconscious of obedience, the plastic + Yielders to satanic and dynastic + Hands of reproaching and approving. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here come knights armed, + But with their arms concealed, + And rubber heeled. + Here priests and wavering want are charmed. + And shadows fall here like the shark's + In messages received or sent. + Signals are flying from the battlement. + And every president + Of rail, gas, coal and oil, the parks, + The receipt of custom knows, without a look, + Their meaning as the code is in no book. + The treasonous cracksmen of the city's wealth + Watch for the flags of stealth! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Acres of coal lie fenced along the tracks. + Tracks ribbon the streets, and beneath the streets + Wires for voices, fire, thwart the plebiscites, + And choke the counsels and symposiacs + Of dreamers who have pity for the backs + That bear and bleed. + All things are theirs: tracks, wires, streets and coal, + The church's creed, + The city's soul, + The city's sea girt loveliness, + The merciless and meretricious press. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Far up in a watch-tower, where the news is printed, + Gray faces and bright eyes, weary and cynical + Discuss fresh wonders of the old cabal. + But nothing of its work in type is hinted: + Taxes are high! The mentors of the town + Must keep their taxes down + On buildings, presses, stocks + In gas, oil, coal and docks. + The mahogany rooms conceal a spider man + Who holds the taxing bodies through the church, + And knights with arms concealed. The mentors search + The spider man, the master publican, + And for his friendship silence keep, + Letting him herd the populace like sheep + For self and for the insatiable desires + Of coal and tracks and wires, + Pick judges, legislators, + And tax-gatherers. + Or name his favorites, whom they name: + The slick and sinistral, + Servitors of the cabal, + For praise which seems the equivalent of fame: + Giving to the delicate handed crackers + Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers, + The flash and thunder of front pages! + And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages + Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate. + And the unilluminate, + Whose brows are brass, + Who weep on every Sabbath day + For Jesus riding on an ass, + Scarce know the ass is they, + Now ridden by his effigy, + The publican with Jesus' painted mask, + Along a way where fumes of odorless gas + First spur then fell them from the task. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle + Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle. + And the angels say to Yahveh looking down + From the alabaster railing, on the town, + O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack + We wish we had our little Sodom back! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EXCLUDED MIDDLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Out of the mercury shimmer of glass + Over these daguerreotypes + The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges + With its little figure of flowers. + And the enameled glair of parted hair + Lies over the oval brow, + From under which eyes of fiery blackness + Look through you. + And the only repose of spirit shown + Is in the hands + Lying loosely one in the other, + Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. ... + And in the companion folder of this case + Of gutta percha + Is the shape of a man. + His brow is oval too, but broader. + His nose is long, but thick at the tip. + His eyes are blue + Wherein faith burns her signal lights, + And flashes her convictions. + His mouth is tense, almost a slit. + And his face is a massive Calvinism + Resting on a stock tie. + + They were married, you see. + The clasp on this gutta percha case + Locks them together. + They were locked together in life. + And a hasp of brass + Keeps their shadows face to face in the case + Which has been handed down— + (The pictures of noble ancestors, + Showing what strains of gentle blood + Flow in the third generation)— + From Massachusetts to Illinois. ... + + Long ago it was over for them, + Massachusetts has done its part, + She raised the seed + And a wind blew it over to Illinois + Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated + Until one soul comes forth: + But a soul all striped and streaked, + And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed, + As it were a tree which on one branch + Bears northern spies, + And on another thorn apples. ... + + Come Weissmann, Von Baer and Schleiden, + And you Buffon and De Vries, + Come with your secrets of sea shore asters + Night-shade, henbanes, gloxinias, + Veronicas, snap-dragons, Danebrog, + And show us how they cross and change, + And become hybrids. + And show us what heredity is, + And how it works. + For the secret of these human beings + Locked in this gutta percha case + Is the secret of Mephistos and red Campions. + + Let us lay out the facts as far as we can. + Her eyes were black, + His eyes were blue. + She saw through shadows, walls and doors, + She knew life and hungered for more. + But he lived in the mists, and climbed to high places + To feel clouds about his face, and get the lights + Of supernal sun-sets. + She was reason, and he was faith. + She had an illumination, but of the intellect. + And he had an illumination but of the soul. + And she saw God as merciless law, + And he knew God as divine love. + And she was a man, and he in part was a woman. + He stood in a pulpit and preached the Christ, + And the remission of sins by blood, + And the literal fall of man through Adam, + And the mystical and actual salvation of man + Through the coming of Christ. + + And she sat in a pew shading her great eyes + To hide her scorn for it all. + She was crucified, + And raged to the last like the impenitent thief + Against the fate which wasted and trampled down + Her wisdom, sagacity, versatile skill, + Which would have piled up gold or honors + For a mate who knew that life is growth, + And health, and the satisfaction of wants, + And place and reputation and mansion houses, + And mahogany and silver, + And beautiful living. + She hated him, and hence she pitied him. + She was like the gardener with great pruners + Deciding to clip, sometimes not clipping + Just for the dread. + She had married him—but why? + Some inscrutable air + Wafted his pollen to her across a wide garden— + Some power had crossed them. + And here is the secret I think: + (As we would say here is electricity) + It is the vibration inhering in sex + That produces devils or angels, + And it is the sex reaction in men and women + That brings forth devils or angels, + And starts in them the germs of powers or passions, + Becoming loves, ferocities, gifts and weaknesses, + Till the stock dies out. + So now for their hybrid children:— + She gave birth to four daughters and one son. + + But first what have we for the composition of these daughters? + Reason opposed and becoming keener therefor. + Faith mocked and drawing its mantel closer. + Love thwarted and becoming acid. + Hatred mounting too high and thinning into pity. + Hunger for life unappeased and becoming a stream under-ground + Where only blind things swim. + God year by year removing himself to remoter thrones + Of inexorable law. + God coming closer even while disease + And total blindness came between him and God + And defeated the mercy of God. + And a love and a trust growing deeper in him + As she in great thirst, hanging on the cross, + Mocked his crucifixion, + And talked philosophy between the spasms of pain, + Till at last she is all satirist, + And he is all saint. + + And all the children were raised + After the strictest fashion in New England, + And made to join the church, + And attend its services. + And these were the children: + + Janet was a religious fanatic and a virago, + She debated religion with her husband for ten years, + Then he refused to talk, and for twenty years + Scarcely spoke to her. + She died a convert to Catholicism. + They had two children: + The boy became a forgerer + Of notorious skill. + The daughter married, but was barren. + + Miranda married a rich man + And spent his money so fast that he failed. + She lashed him with a scorpion tongue + And made him believe at last + With her incessant reasonings + That he was a fool, and so had failed. + In middle life he started over again, + But became tangled in a law-suit. + Because of these things he killed himself. + + Louise was a nymphomaniac. + She was married twice. + Both husbands fled from her insatiable embraces. + At thirty-two she became a woman on a telephone list, + Subject to be called, + And for two years ran through a daily orgy of sex, + When blindness came on her, as it came on her father before her, + And she became a Christian Scientist, + And led an exemplary life. + + Deborah was a Puritan of Puritans, + Her list of unmentionable things + Tabooed all the secrets of creation, + Leaving politics, religion, and human faults, + And the mistakes most people make, + And the natural depravity of man, + And his freedom to redeem himself if he chooses, + As the only subjects of conversation. + As a twister of words and meanings, + And a skilled welder of fallacies, + And a swift emerger from ineluctable traps of logic, + And a wit with an adder's tongue, + And a laugher, + And an unafraid facer of enemies, + Oppositions, hatreds, + She never knew her equal. + She was at once very cruel, and very tender, + Very selfish and very generous + Very little and very magnanimous. + Scrupulous as to the truth, and utterly disregardless of the truth. + + Of the keenest intuitions, yet gullible, + Easily used at times, of erratic judgment, + Analytic but pursuing with incredible swiftness + The falsest trails to her own undoing— + All in all the strangest mixture of colors and scent + Derived from father and mother, + But mixed by whom, and how, and why? + + Now for the son named Herman, rebel soul. + His brow was like a loaf of bread, his eyes + Turned from his father's blue to gray, his nose + Was like his mother's, skin was dark like hers. + His shapely body, hands and feet belonged + To some patrician face, not to Marat's. + And his was like Marat's, fanatical, + Materialistic, fierce, as it might guide + A reptile's crawl, but yet he crawled to peaks + Loving the hues of mists, but not the mists + His father loved. And being a rebel soul + He thought the world all wrong. A nothingness + Moving as malice marred the life of man. + 'Twas man's great work to fight this Giant Fraud, + And all who praise and serve Him. 'Tis for man + To free the world from error, suffer, die + For liberty of thought. You see his mother + Is in possession of one part of him, + Or all of him for some time. + + So he lives + Nursing the dream (like father he's a dreamer) + That genius fires him. All the while a gift + For analytics stored behind that brow, + That bulges like a loaf of bread, is all + Of which he well may boast above the man + He hates as but a slave of faith and fear. + He feeds luxurious doubt with Omar Khyam, + But for long years neglects the jug of wine. + And as for "thou" he does not wake for years, + Is a pure maiden when he weds, the grains + Run counter in him, end in knots at times. + He takes from father certain tastes and traits, + From mother certain others, one can see + His mother's sex re-actions to his father, + Not passed to him to make him celibate, + But holding back in sleeping passions which + Burst over bounds at last in lust, not love. + Not love since that great engine in the brow + Tears off the irised wings of love and bares + The poor worm's body where the wings had been: + What is it but desire? Such stuff in rhyme + In music over what is but desire, + And ends when that is satisfied! + + He's a crank. + And follows all the psychic thrills which run + To cackles o'er the world. It's Looking Backward, + Or Robert Elsmere, Spencer's Social Statics, + It's socialism, Anarchism, Peace, + It's non-resistance with a swelling heart, + As who should say how truer to the faith + Of Jesus am I, without hope or faith, + Than churchmen. He's a prohibitionist, + The poor's protagonist, the knight at arms + Of fallen women, yelling at the rich + Whose wicked greed makes all the prostitutes— + No prostitutes without the wicked rich! + But as he ages, as the bitter days + Approach with perorations: O ye vipers, + The engine in him changes all the world, + Reverses all the wheels of thought behind. + For Nietzsche comes, and makes him superman. + He dumps the truth of Jesus over—there + It lies with his youth's textual skepticism, + And laughter at the supernatural. + + Now what's the motivating principle + Of such a mind? In youth he sought for rules + Wherewith to trail and capture truths. He found it + In James McCosh's Logic, it was this: + Lex Exclusi Tertii aut Medii, + Law of Excluded Middle speaking plain: + A thing is true, or not true, never a third + Hypothesis, so God is or is not. + That's very good to start with, how to end + And how to know which of the two is false— + He hunted out the false, as mother did— + Requires a tool. He found it in this book, + Reductio ad absurdum; let us see + Excluded middle use reductio. + God is or God is not, but then what God? + Excluded Middle never sought a God + To suffer demolition at his hands + Except the God of Illinois, the God + Grown but a little with his followers + Since Moses lived and Peter fished. So now + God is or God is not. Let us assume + God is and use reductio ad absurdum, + Taking away the rotten props, the posts + That do not fit or hold, and let Him fall. + For if he falls, the other postulate + That God is not is demonstrated. See + A universe of truth pass on the way + Cleared by Excluded Middle through the stuff + Of thought and visible things, a way that lets + A greater God escape, uncaught by all + The nippers of reductio ad absurdum. + But to resume his argument was this: + God is or God is not, but if God is + Why pestilence and war, earthquake and famine? + He either wills them, or cannot prevent them, + But if he wills them God is evil, if + He can't prevent them, he is limited. + + But God, you say, is good, omnipotent, + And here I prove Him evil, or too weak + To stay the evil. Having shown your God + Lacking in what makes God, the proposition + Which I oppose to this, that God is not + Stands proven. For as evil is most clear + In sickness, pain and death, it cannot be + There is a Power with strength to overcome them, + Yet suffers them to be. + + And so this man + Went through the years of life, and stripped the fields + Of beauty and of thought with mandibles + Insatiable as the locust's, which devours + A season's care and labor in an hour. + He stripped these fields and ate them, but they made + No meat or fat for him. And so he lived + On his own thought, as starving men may live + On stored up fat. And so in time he starved. + The thought in him no longer fed his life, + And he had withered up the outer world + Of man and nature, stripped it to the bone, + Nothing but skull and cross-bones greeted him + Wherever he turned—the world became a bottle + Filled with a bitter essence he could drink + From long accustomed doses—labeled poison + And marked with skull and cross-bones. Could he laugh + As mother laughed? No more! He tried to find + The mother's laugh and secret for the laugh + Which kept her to the end—but did she laugh? + Or if she laughed, was it so hollow, forced + As all his laughter now was. He had proved + Too much for laughter. Nothing but himself + Remained to keep himself, he lived alone + Upon his stored up fat, now daily growing + To dangerous thinness. + + So with love of woman. + He had found "thou" the jug of wine as well, + "Thou" "thou" had come and gone too many times. + For what is sex but touch of flesh, the hand + Is flesh and hands may touch, if so, the loins— + Reductio ad absurdum, O you fools, + Who see a wrong in touch of loins, no wrong + In clasp of hands. And so again, again + With his own tools of thought he bruised his hands + Until they grew too callous to perceive + When they were touched. + + So by analysis + He turned on everything he once believed. + Let's make an end! + + Men thought Excluded Middle + Was born for great things. Why that bulging brow + And analytic keen if not for greatness? + + In those old days they thought so when he fought + For lofty things, a youthful radical + Come here to change the world! But now at last + He lectures in back halls to youths who are + What he was in his youth, to acid souls + Who must have bitterness, can take enough + To kill a healthy soul, as fiends for dope + Must have enough to kill a body clean. + And so upon a night Excluded Middle + Is lecturing to prove that life is evil, + Not worth the living—when his auditors + Behold him pale and sway and take his seat, + And later quit the hall, the lecture left + Half finished. + + This had happened in a twinkling: + He had made life a punching bag, with fists, + Excluded Middle and Reductio, + Had whacked it back and forth. But just as often + As he had struck it with an argument + That it is not worth living, snap, the bag + Would fly back for another punch. For life + Just like a punching bag will stand your whacks + Of hatred and denial, let you punch + Almost at will. But sometime, like the bag, + The strap gives way, the bag flies up and falls + And lies upon the floor, you've knocked it out. + And this is what Excluded Middle does + This night, the strap breaks with his blows. He proves + His strength, his case and for the first he sees + Life is not worth the living. Life gives up, + Resists no more, flys back no more to him, + But hits the ceiling, snap the strap gives way! + The bag falls to the floor, and lies there still— + Who now shall pick it up, re-fasten it? + And so his color fades, it well may be + The crisis of a long neurosis, well + What caused it? But his eyes are wondrous clear + Perceiving life knocked out. His heart is sick, + He takes his seat, admiring friends swarm round him, + Conduct him to a carriage, he goes home + And sitting by the fire (O what is fire? + The miracle of fire dawns on his thought, + Fire has been near him all these years unseen, + How wonderful is fire!) which warms and soothes + Neuritic pains, he takes the rubber case + Which locks the images of father, mother. + And as he stares upon the oval brow, + The eyes of blue which flash the light of faith, + Preserved like dendrites in this silver shimmer, + Some spectral speculations fill his brain, + Float like a storm above the sorry wreck + Of all his logic tools, machines; for now + Since pains in back and shoulder like to father's + Fall to him at the age that father had them, + Father has entered him, has settled down + To live with him with those neuritic pangs. + Thus are his speculations. Over all + How comes it that a sudden feel of life, + Its wonder, terror, beauty is like father's? + As if the soul of father entered in him + And made the field of consciousness his own, + Emotions, powers of thought his instruments. + That is a horrible atavism, when + You find yourself reverting to a soul + You have not loved, despite yourself becoming + That other soul, and with an out-worn self + Crying for burial on your hands, a life + Not yours till now that waits your new found powers— + Live now or die indeed! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let me consider your emergence + From the milieu of our youth: + We have played all the afternoon, grown hungry. + No meal has been prepared, where have you been? + Toward sun's decline we see you down the path, + And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile, + Or take us in your arms. Perhaps again + You look at us, say nothing, are absorbed, + Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces. + Of running wild without our meals + You do not speak. + + Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy, + After removing gloves and hat, you run, + As with a winged descending flight, and cry, + Half song, half exclamation, + Seize one of us, + Crush one of us with mad embraces, bite + Ears of us in a rapture of affection. + "You shall have supper," then you say. + The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire, + The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock + We sit down to a meal of hodge-podge stuff. + I understand now how your youth and spirits + Fought back the drabness of the village, + And wonder not you spent the afternoons + With such bright company as Eugenia Turner— + And I forgive you hunger, loneliness. + + But when we asked you where you'd been, + Complained of loneliness and hunger, spoke of children + Who lived in order, sat down thrice a day + To cream and porridge, bread and meat. + We think to corner you—alas for us! + Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out + Like anvil sparks to justify your way: + "Your father's always gone—you selfish children, + You'd have me in the house from morn till night." + You put us in the wrong—our cause is routed. + We turn to bed unsatisfied in mind, + You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us. + Our sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution + To whip you out when minds grow strong. + + Up in the moon-lit room without a light, + (The lamps have not been filled,) + We crawl in unmade beds. + We leave you pouring over paper backs. + We peek above your shoulder. + It is "The Lady in White" you read. + Next morning you are dead for sleep, + You've sat up more than half the night. + We have been playing hours when you arise, + It's nine o'clock when breakfast's served at last, + When school days come I'm always late to school. + + Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door, + Eye through the crack, maybe, at nine o'clock, + Find father has returned during the night. + You are all happiness, his idlest word + Provokes your laughter. + He shows us rolls of precious money earned; + He's given you a silk dress, money too + For suits and shoes for us—all is forgiven. + You run about the house, + As with a winged descending flight and cry + Half song, half exclamation. + + We're sick so much. But then no human soul + Could be more sweet when one of us is sick. + We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our throats + Are weak, the doctor says. If rooms were warmer, + And clothes were warmer, food more regular, + And sleep more regular, it might be different. + Then there's the well. You fear the water. + He laughs at you, we children drink the water, + Though it tastes bitter, shows white particles: + It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well. + The village has no drainage, blights and mildews + Get in our throats. I spend a certain spring + Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times, + Sick to somnambulistic sense of things. + You blame him for the well, that's just one thing. + You seem to differ about everything— + You seem to hate each other—when you quarrel + We cry, take sides, sometimes are whipped + For taking sides. + + Our broken school days lose us clues, + Some lesson has been missed, the final meaning + And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed— + That shall not be made up in all our life. + The children, save a few, are not our friends, + Some taunt us with your quarrels. + We learn great secrets scrawled in signs or words + Of foulness on the fences. So it is + An American village, in a great Republic, + Where men are free, where therefore goodness, wisdom + Must have their way! + + We reach the budding age. + Sweet aches are in our breasts: + Is it spring, or God, or music, is it you? + I am all tenderness for you at times, + Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh + Crawls by an instinct from you. You repel me + Sometimes with an insidious smile, a look. + What are these phantasies I have? They breed + Strange hatred for you, even while I feel + My soul's home is with you, must be with you + To find my soul's rest. ... + + I must go back a little. At ten years + I play with Paula. + I plait her crowns of flowers, carry her books, + Defend her, watch her, choose her in the games. + You overhear us under the oak tree + Calling her doll our child. You catch my coat + And draw me in the house. + When I resist you whip me cruelly. + To think of whipping me at such time, + And mix the shame of smarting legs and back + With love of Paula! + So I lose Paula. + + I am a man at last. + I now can master what you are and see + What you have been. You cannot rout me now, + Or put me in the wrong. Out of old wounds, + Remembrance of your baffling days, + I take great strength and show you + Where you have been untruthful, where a hater, + Where narrow, bitter, growing in on self, + Where you neglected us, + Where you heaped fast destruction on our father— + For now I know that you devoured his soul, + And that no soul that you could not devour + Could have its peace with you. + You've dwindled to a quiet word like this: + "You are unfilial." Which means at last + That I have conquered you, at least it means + That you could not devour me. + + Yet am I blind to you? Let me confess + You are the world's whole cycle in yourself: + You can be summer rich and luminous; + You can be autumn, mellow, mystical; + You can be winter with a cheerful hearth; + You can be March, bitter, bright and hard, + Pouring sharp sleet, and showering cutting hail; + You can be April of the flying cloud, + And intermittent sun and musical air. + I am not you while being you, + While finding in myself so much of you. + It tears my other self, which is not you. + My tragedy is this: I do not love you. + Your tragedy is this: my other self + Which triumphs over you, you hate at heart. + Your solace is you have no faith in me. + + All quiet now, no March days with you now, + Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, + I saw you totter over a ravine! + Your eyes averted, watching steps, + A light of resignation on your brow. + Your thin-spun hair all gray, blown by the wind + Which swayed the blossomed cherry trees, + Bent last year's reeds, + Shook early dandelions, and tossed a bird + That left a branch with song— + I saw you totter over a ravine! + + What were you at the start? + What soul dissatisfaction, sense of wrong, + Of being thwarted, stung you? + What was your shrinking of the flesh; + What fear of being soiled, misunderstood, + What wrath for loneliness which constant hope + Saw turned to fine companionship; + What in your marriage, what in seeing me, + The fruit of marriage, recreated traits + Of face or spirit which you loathed; + What in your father and your mother, + And in the chromosomes from which you grew, + By what mitosis could result at last + In you, in issues of such moment, + In our dissevered beings, + In what the world will take from me + In children, in events? + All quiet now, no March days with you now, + Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, + I saw you totter over a ravine, + And back of you the Furies! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOHNNY APPLESEED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples + Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River, + I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander + From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Crossing. + + I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the orchards, + Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and planted, + Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing, + Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit and smoke. + + For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones + That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some orchards around here, + When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and the beeches, + And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the river. + + Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me: + My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side, + There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him + Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard. + + Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the people + For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards + All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here, + Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois. + + Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me: + I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and be here + For children to come, who will gather and eat hereafter. + And few will know who planted, and none will understand. + + I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed: Some fellow buys this timber + Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for barley. + And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple orchard. + How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before me? + + Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of worship, + Labor and laughter and gain in the late October. + Why did I do it, eh? Some folks say I am crazy. + Where do my labors end? Far west, God only knows! + + Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen! + Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the apple. + Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the raising. + You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for sweet. + + No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as bitter: + The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and fails, + Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever. + Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil. + + And after that is the fight: the foe curled up at the root, + The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the blossoms + Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of beauty: + You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue! + + And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen. + So many things love an apple as well as ourselves. + A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it: + Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOOM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My brother, the god, and I grow sick + Of heaven's heights. + We plunge to the valley to hear the tick + Of days and nights. + We walk and loiter around the Loom + To see, if we may, + The Hand that smashes the beam in the gloon + To the shuttle's play; + Who grows the wool, who cards and spins, + Who clips and ties; + For the storied weave of the Gobelins, + Who draughts and dyes. + + But whether you stand or walk around + You shall but hear + A murmuring life, as it were the sound + Of bees or a sphere. + No Hand is seen, but still you may feel + A pulse in the thread, + And thought in every lever and wheel + Where the shuttle sped, + Dripping the colors, as crushed and urged— + Is it cochineal?— + Shot from the shuttle, woven and merged + A tale to reveal. + Woven and wound in a bolt and dried + As it were a plan. + Closer I looked at the thread and cried + The thread is man! + + Then my brother curious, strong and bold, + Tugged hard at the bolt + Of the woven life; for a length unrolled + The cryptic cloth. + He gasped for labor, blind for the moult + Of the up-winged moth. + While I saw a growth and a mad crusade + That the Loom had made; + Land and water and living things, + Till I grew afraid + For mouths and claws and devil wings, + And fangs and stings, + And tiger faces with eyes of hell + In caves and holes. + And eyes in terror and terrible + For awakened souls. + + I stood above my brother, the god + Unwinding the roll. + And a tale came forth of the woven slain + Sequent and whole, + Of flint and bronze, trowel and hod, + The wheel and the plane, + The carven stone and the graven clod + Painted and baked. + And cromlechs, proving the human heart + Has always ached; + Till it puffed with blood and gave to art + The dream of the dome; + Till it broke and the blood shot up like fire + In tower and spire. + + And here was the Persian, Jew and Goth + In the weave of the cloth; + Greek and Roman, Ghibelline, Guelph, + Angel and elf. + They were dyed in blood, tangled in dreams + Like a comet's streams. + And here were surfaces red and rough + In the finished stuff, + Where the knotted thread was proud and rebelled + As the shuttle proved + The fated warp and woof that held + When the shuttle moved; + And pressed the dye which ran to loss + In a deep maroon + Around an altar, oracle, cross + Or a crescent moon. + Around a face, a thought, a star + In a riot of war! + + Then I said to my brother, the god, let be, + Though the thread be crushed, + And the living things in the tapestry + Be woven and hushed; + The Loom has a tale, you can see, to tell, + And a tale has told. + I love this Gobelin epical + Of scarlet and gold. + If the heart of a god may look in pride + At the wondrous weave + It is something better to Hands which guide— + I see and believe. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look here, Jack: + You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh. + You haven't told me any stories. You + Just lie there half asleep. What's on your mind? + + JACK + + What time is it? Where is my watch? + + FLORENCE + + Your watch + Under your pillow! You don't think I'd take it. + Why, Jack, what talk for you. + + JACK + + Well, never mind, + Let's pack no ice. + + FLORENCE + + What's that? + + JACK + + No quarreling— + What is the time? + + FLORENCE + + Look over towards my dresser— + My clock says half-past eleven. + + JACK + + Listen to that— + That hurdy-gurdy's playing Holy Night, + And on this street. + + FLORENCE + + And why not on this street? + + JACK + + You may be right. It may as well be played + Where you live as in front of where I work, + Some twenty stories up. I think you're right. + + FLORENCE + + Say, Jack, what is the matter? Come! be gay. + Tell me some stories. Buy another bottle. + Just think you make a lot of money, Jack. + You're young and prominent. They all know you. + I hear your name all over town. I see + Your picture in the papers. What's the matter? + + JACK + + I've lost my job for one thing. + + FLORENCE + + You don't mean it! + + JACK + + They used me and then fired me, same as you. + If you don't make the money, out you go. + + FLORENCE + + Yes, out I go. But, there are other places. + + JACK + + On further down the street. + + FLORENCE + + Not yet a while. + + JACK + + Not yet for me, but still the question is + Whether to fight it out for up or down, + Or run from everything, be free. + + FLORENCE + + You can't do that. + + JACK + + Why not? + + FLORENCE + + No more than I. + Oh well perhaps, if a nice man came by + To marry me then I could get away. + It happens all the time. Last week in fact + Christ Perko married Rachel who lived here. + He's rich as cream. + + JACK + + What corresponds to marriage + To take me from slavery? + + FLORENCE + + Money is everything. + + JACK + + Yes, everything and nothing. + Christ Perko's rich, Christ Perko runs this house, + The madam merely acts as figure-head; + Keeps check upon the girls and on the wine. + She's just the editor, and yet I'd rather + Be editor than owner. I was editor. + My Perko was the owner of a pulp mill, + Incorporate through some multi-millionaires, + And all our lesser writers were the girls, + Like you and Rachel. + + FLORENCE + + But you know before + He married Rachel, he was lover to + The madam here. + + JACK + + The stories tally, for + The pulp mill took my first assistant editor + To wife by making him the editor. + And I was fired just as the madam here + Lost out with Perko. + + FLORENCE + + This is growing funny... + Ahem! I'll ask you something— + As if I were a youth and you a girl— + How were you ruined first? + + JACK + + The same as you: + You ran away from school. It was romance. + You thought you loved this flashy travelling man. + And I—I loved adventure, loved the truth. + I wanted to destroy the force called "They." + There is no "They"—we're all together here, + And everyone must live, Christ Perko too, + The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate, + The alderman, the precinct captain too, + And you the girls, myself the editor, + And all the lesser writers. Here we are + Thrown in one integrated lot. You see + There is no "They," except the terms, the thought + Which ramifies and vivifies the whole. ... + So I came to the city, went to work + Reporting for a paper. Having said + There is no "They"—I've freed myself to say + What bitter things I choose. For how they drive you, + And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you, + And call you cub and greenhorn, send you round + To courts and dirty places, make you risk + Your body and your life, and make you watch + The rules about your writing; what's tabooed, + What names are to be cursed or to be praised, + What interests, policies to be subserved, + And what to undermine. So I went through, + Until I had a desk, wrote editorials— + Now said I to myself, I'm free at last. + But no, my manager, your madam, mark you, + Kept eye on me, for he was under watch + Of some Christ Perko. So my manager + Blue penciled me when I touched certain subjects. + But, as he was a just man, loved me too. + He gave me things to write where he could let + My conscience have full scope, as you might live + In this house where you saw the man you loved, + And no one else, though living in this hell. + For I lived in a hell, who saw around me + Such lying, hatred, malice, prostitution. + And when this offer came to be an editor + Of a great magazine, I seemed to feel + My courage and my virtue given reward. + Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories, + Creations of free souls. It was not so. + The poems and the stories one could see + Were written to be sold, to please a taste, + Placate a prejudice, keep still alive + An era dying, ready for the tomb, + Already smelling. And that was not all. + Just as the madam here must make report + To Perko, so the magazine had to run + To suit the pulp mill. As the madam here, + Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friends + With alderman, policemen, magistrates, + So I was just a wheel in a machine + To keep it running with such larger wheels, + And by them run, of policies, and politics + Of State and Nation. Here was I locked in + And given dope to keep me still lest I + Cry out and wake the copper-who's the copper + For such as I was? If he heard me cry + How could he raid the magazine? If he raided + Where was the court to take me and the rest— + That's it, where is the court? + + FLORENCE + + It seems to me + You're bad as I am. + + JACK + + I am worse than you: + I poison minds with thoughts they take as good. + I drug an era, make it foul or dull— + You only sicken bodies here and there. + But you know how it is. You have remorse, + You fight it down, hush it with sophistry. + You think about the world, about your fellows: + You see that everyone is selling self, + Little or much somehow. You feed your body, + Try to be hearty, take things as they come. + You take athletics, try to keep your strength, + As you hear music, laugh, drink wine, and smoke, + Are bathed and coifed to keep your beauty fresh. + And through it all the soul's and body's needs, + The pleasures, interests, passions of our life, + The cry that comes from somewhere: "Live, O Soul, + The time is passing," move and claim your strength. + Till you forget yourself, forget the boy + And man you were, forget the dreams you had, + The creed you wished to live by—yes, what's worse, + See dreams you had, grown tawdry, see your creed + Cracked through and crumbled like a falling house. + And then you say: What is the difference? + As you might ask what virtue is and why + Should woman keep it. + + I have reached this place + Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to: + As long as I have breath: The man who sees not, + Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world + From vast disintegration is a brute, + And marked for a brute's death—that is his hell. + 'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose + My place as editor. For when they came + And tried to make me pass an article + To poison millions with, I said, "I won't, + I won't by God. I'll quit before I do." + And then they said, "You quit," and so I quit. + + FLORENCE + + And so you took to drink and came to me! + And that's the same as if I came to you + And used you as an editor. I am nothing + But just a poor reporter in this house— + But now I quit. + + JACK + + Where are you going, Florence? + + FLORENCE + + I'm going to a village or a farm + Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve, + Where I'll wear calico instead of silk, + And where there'll be no furnace in the house. + And where the carpet which has kept me here + And keeps you here as editor is not. + I'm going to economize my life + By freeing it of systems which grow rich + By using me, and for the privilege + Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed. + I hate you now, because I hate my life. + + JACK + + Wait! Wait a minute. + + FLORENCE + + Dinah, call a cab! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SIR GALAHAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street + Who said to me: "I'm going for the train, + I want you with me." + + And it happened then + My mind was hard, as muscles of the back + Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain + And need the osteopath to be made supple, + To give the nerves and streams of life a chance. + Hosea Job was just the osteopath + To loose, relax my mood. And so I said + "All right"—and went. + + Hosea was a man + Whom nothing touched of danger, or of harm. + His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one + Seems like to fall before a truck or train— + Instead he walks across them. Or you see + Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple, + Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners + And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles. + The buildings slant and sway like monstrous searchlights, + But never touch him. And the mad piano + Comes up to him, puts down its angry head, + Runs out a friendly tongue and licks his hand, + And lows a symphony. + + By which I mean + Hosea had some money, and would sign + A bond or note for any man who asked him. + He'd rent a house and leave it, rent another, + Then rent a farm, move out from town and in. + He'd have the leases of superfluous places + Cancelled some how, was never sued for rent. + One time he had a fancy he would see + South Africa, took ship with a load of mules, + First telegraphing home from New Orleans + He'd be back in the Spring. Likewise he went + To Klondike with the rush. I think he owned + More kinds of mining stock than there were mines. + He had more quaint, peculiar men for friends + Than one could think were living. He believed + In every doctrine in its time, that promised + Salvation for the world. He took no thought + For life or for to-morrow, or for health, + Slept with his windows closed, ate what he wished. + And if he cut his finger, let it go. + I offered him peroxide once, he laughed. + And when I asked him if his soul was saved + He only said: "I see things. I lie back + And take it easy. Nothing can go wrong + In any serious sense." + + So many thought + Hosea was a nut, and others thought, + That I was just a nut for liking him. + And what would any man of business say + If he knew that I didn't ask a question, + But simply went with him to take the train + That day he asked me. + + And the train had gone + Five miles or so when I said: "Where you going?" + Hosea answered, and it made me start— + Hosea answered simply, "We are going + To see Sir Galahad." + + It made me start + To hear Hosea say this, for I thought + He was now really off. But, I looked at him + And saw his eyes were sane. + + "Sir Galahad? + Who is Sir Galahad?" + + Hosea answered: + "I'm going up to see Sir Galahad, + And sound him out about re-entering + The game and run for governor again." + + So then I knew he was the man our fathers + Worked with and knew and called Sir Galahad, + Now in retirement fifteen years or so. + Well, I was twenty-five when he was famous. + Sir Galahad was forty then, and now + Must be some fifty-five while I am forty. + So flashed across my thought the matter of time + And ages. So I thought of all he did: + Of how he went from faith to faith in politics + And ran for every office up to governor, + And ran for governor four times or so, + And never was elected to an office. + He drew more bills to remedy injustice, + Improve the courts, relieve the poor, reform + Administration, than the legislature + Could read, much less digest or understand. + The people beat him and the leaders flogged him. + They shut the door against his face until + He had no place to go except a farm + Among the stony hills, and there he went. + And thither we were going to see the knight, + And call him from his solitude to the fight + Against injustice, greed. + + So we got off + The train at Alden, just a little village + Of fifty houses lying beneath the sprawl + Of hills and hills. And here there was a stillness + Made lonelier by an anvil ringing, by + A plow-man's voice at intervals. + + Here Hosea + Engaged a horse and buggy, and we drove + And wound about a crooked road between + Great hills that stood together like the backs + Of elephants in a herd, where boulders lay + As thick as hail in places. Ruined pines + Stood like burnt matches. There was one which stuck + Against a single cloud so white it seemed + A bursted bale of cotton. + + We reached the summit + And drove along past orchards, past a field + Level and green, kept like a garden, rich + Against the coming harvest. Here we met + A scarecrow man, driving a scarecrow horse + Hitched to a wobbly wagon. And we stopped, + The scarecrow stopped. The scarecrow and Hosea + Talked much of people and of farming—I + Sat listening, and I gathered from the talk, + And what Hosea told me as we drove, + That once this field so level and so green + The scarecrow owned. He had cleaned out the stumps, + And tried to farm it, failed, and lost the field, + But raged to lose it, thought he might succeed + In further time. Now having lost the field + So many years ago, could be a scarecrow, + And drive a scarecrow horse, yet laugh again + And have no care, the sorrow healed. + + It seemed + The clearing of the stumps was scarce a starter + Toward a field of profit. For in truth, + The soil possessed a secret which the scarecrow + Never went deep enough to learn about. + His problem was all stumps. Not solving that, + He sold it to a farmer who out-slaved + The busiest bee, but only half succeeded. + He tried to raise potatoes, made a failure. + He planted it in beans, had half a crop. + He sowed wheat once and reaped a stack of straw. + The secret of the soil eluded him. + And here Hosea laughed: "This fellow's failure + Was just the thing that gave another man + The secret of the soil. For he had studied + The properties of soils and fertilizers. + And when he heard the field had failed to raise + Potatoes, beans and wheat, he simply said: + There are other things to raise: the question is + Whether the soil is suited to the things + He tried to raise, or whether it needs building + To raise the things he tried to raise, or whether + It must be builded up for anything. + At least he said the field is clear of stumps. + Pass on your field, he said. If I lose out + I'll pass it on. The field is his, he said + Who can make something grow. + + And so this field + Of waving wheat along which we were driving + Was just the very field the scarecrow man + Had failed to master, as that other man + Had failed to master after him. + + Hosea + Kept talking of this field as we drove on. + That field, he said, is economical + Of men compared with many fields. You see + It only used two men. To grub the stumps + Took all the scarecrow's strength. That other man + Ran off to Oklahoma from this field. + I have known fields that ate a dozen men + In country such as this. The field remains + And laughs and waits for some one who divines + The secret of the field. Some farmers live + To prove what can't be done, and narrow down + The guess of what is possible. It's right + A certain crop should prosper and another + Should fail, and when a farmer tries to raise + A crop before it's time, he wastes himself + And wastes the field to try. + + We now were climbing + To higher hills and rockier fields. Hosea + Had fallen into silence. I was thinking + About Sir Galahad, was wondering + Which man he was, the scarecrow, or the farmer + Who didn't know the seed to sow, or whether + He might still prove the farmer raising wheat, + Now we were come to give him back the field + With all the stumps grubbed out, the secret lying + Revealed and ready for the appointed hands. + + We passed an orchard growing on a knoll + And saw a barn perked on a rocky hill, + And near the barn a house. Hosea said: + "This is Sir Galahad's." We tied the horse. + And we were in the silence of the country + At mid-day on a day in June. No bird + Was singing, fowl was cackling, cow was lowing, + No dog was barking. All was summer stillness. + We crossed a back-yard past a windlass well, + Dodged under clothes lines through a place of chips, + Walked in a path along the house. I said: + "Sir Galahad is ploughing, or perhaps + Is mending fences, cutting weeds." It seemed + Too bad to come so far and not to find him. + "We'll find him," said Hosea. "Let us sit + Under that tree and wait for him." + + And then + We turned the corner of the house and there + Under a tree an old man sat, his head + Bowed down upon his breast, locked fast in sleep. + And by his feet a dog half blind and fat + Lay dozing, too inert to rise and bark. + + Hosea gripped my arm. "Be still" he said. + "Let's ask him where Sir Galahad is," said I. + And then Hosea whispered, "God forgive me, + I had forgotten, you too have forgotten. + The man is old, he's very old. The years + Go by unnoticed. Come! Sir Galahad + Should sleep and not be waked." + + We tip-toed off + And hurried back to Alden for the train. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ST. DESERET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips + Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette. + Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch, + And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice. + But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds + Your vision not at all, and you have passion + For me and what I am. How can you be so? + Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours, + Bury your face in these my russet tresses, + And yet not lose your vision? So I love you, + And fear you too. How idle to deny it + To you who know I fear you. + + Here am I + Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask. + You stride about my rooms and open books, + And say when did he give you this? You pick + His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl + Out of ironic strength, and smile the while: + "You did not love this man." You probe my soul + About his courtship, how I ran away, + How he pursued with gifts from city to city, + Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood + + Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard, + Watchful and waiting at the green-room door. + So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks, + One little question at a time, you've inked + The story in my flesh. And now at last + You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true. + But what a death he had! Envy him that. + Your frigid soul can never win the death + I gave him. + + Listen since you know already + All but the subtlest matters. How you laugh! + You know these too? Well, only I can tell them. + + First 'twas a piteous thing to see a man + So love a woman, see a living thing + So love another. Why he could not touch + My hand but that his heart went up ten beats. + His eyes would grow as bright as flames, his breath + Come short when speaking. When he felt my breast + Crush soft around him he would reel and walk + Away from me, while I stood like a snake + Poised for the strike, as quiet and possessed + As a dead breeze. And you can have me wholly, + And pet and pat me like a favored child, + And let me go my way, while you turn back + To what you left for me. + + Not so with him: + I was all through his blood, had made his flesh + My flesh, his nerves, brain, soul all mine at last, + Dreams, thoughts, emotions, hungers all my own. + So that he lived two lives, his own and mine, + With one poor body, which he gave to me. + Save that he could not give what I pushed back + Into his hands to use for me and live + My pities, hatreds, loves and passions with. + I loved all this and thrived upon it, still + I did not love him. Then why marry him? + Why don't you see? It meant so much to him. + And 'twas a little thing for me to do. + His loneliness, his hunger, his great passion + That showed in his poor eyes, his broken breath, + His chivalry, his gifts, his poignant letters, + His failing health, why even woman's cruelty + Cannot deny such passion. Woman's cruelty + Takes other means for finding its expression. + And mine found its expression—you have guessed + And so I tell you all. + + We were married then. + He made a sacrament of our nuptials, + Knelt with closed eyes beside the bed, my lips + Pressed to his brow and throat. Unveiled my breast + And looked, then closed his eyes. He did not take me + As man takes his possession, nature's way, + In triumph of life, in lightning, no, he came + A suppliant, a worshipper, and whispered: + "What angel child may lie upon the breast + Of this it's angel mother." + + Well, you see + The tears came in my eyes, for pity of him, + Who made so much of what I had to give, + And could give easily whether 'twas my rapture + To give or to withhold. And in that moment + Contempt of which I had been scarcely conscious + Lying diffused like dew around my heart + Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup + To one bright drop of vital power, where + He could not see it, scarcely knew that something + Gradually drugged the potion that he drank + In life with me. + + So we were wed a year, + And he was with me hourly, till at last + I could not breathe for him, while he could breathe + No where but where I was. Then the bazaar + Was coming on where I was to dance, and he + Had long postponed a trip to England where + Great interests waited for him, and with kisses + I pushed him to his duty, and he went + Shame stricken for a duty long postponed, + Unable to retort against my words + When I said "You must go;" for well he knew + He should have gone before. And as for going + I pleaded the bazaar and hate of travel, + And got him off, and freed myself to breathe. + + His life had been too fast, his years too many + To stand the strain that came. There was the worry + About the business, and the labor over it. + There was the war, and all the fear and turmoil + In London for the war. But most of all + There was the separation. And his letters! + You've read them, wretch. Such letters never were + Of aching loneliness and pining love + And hope that lives across three thousand miles, + And waits the day to travel them, and fear + Of something which may bar the way forever: + A storm, a wreck, a submarine and no day + Without a letter or a cablegram. + And look at the endearments—oh you fiend + To pick their words to pieces like a botanist + Who cuts a flower up for his microscope. + And oh myself who let you see these letters. + Why did I do it? Rather why is it + You master me, even as I mastered him? + + At last he finished, got his passage back. + He had been gone three months. And all these letters + Showed how he starved for me, and scarce could wait + To take me in his arms again, would choke + With fast and heavy feeding. + + Well, you see + The contempt I spoke of which lay long diffused + Like dew around my heart, and which at once + Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup + Grew brighter, bitterer, for this obvious hunger, + This thirst which could not wait, the piteous trembling. + And all the while it seemed he thought his love + Grew sacreder as it grew uncontrolled, + And marked by trembling, choking, tears and sighs. + This is not love which should be, has no use + In this or any world. And as for me + I could not stand it longer. And I thought + Of what was best to do: if 'twas not best + To kill him as the queen bee kills the mate + In rapture's own excess. + + Then he arrived. + I went to meet him in the car, pretended + The feed pipe broke while I was on the way. + I was not at the station when he came. + I got back to the house and found him gone. + He had run through the rooms calling my name, + So Mary told me. Then he went around + From place to place, wherever in the village + He thought to find me. + + Soon I heard his steps, + The key in the door, his winded breath, his call, + His running, stumbling up the stairs, while I + Stood silent as a shadow in our room, + My round bright eyes grown brighter for the light + His life was feeding them. And then he stood + Breathless and trembling in the door-way, stood + Transfixed with ecstacy, then rushed and caught me + And broke into loud tears. + + It had to end. + One or the other of us had to die. + I could not die but by a violence, + And he could die by love alone, and love + I gave him to his death. + + Why tell you details + And ways with which I maddened him, and whipped + The energies of love? You have extracted + The secret in the main, that 'twas from love + He came to death. His life had been too fast, + His years too many for the daily rapture + I gave him after three months' separation. + And so he died one morning, made me free + Of nothing but his presence in the flesh. + His love is on me yet, and its effect. + And now you're here to slave me differently— + No soul is ever free. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain, + Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold. + And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold + The guarded heart against excess of rain. + Hands spirit tipped through which a genius plays + With paints and clays, + And strings in many keys— + Clothed in an aura of thought as soundless as a flood + Of sun-shine where there is no breeze. + So is it light in spite of rhythm of blood, + Or turn of head, or hands that move, unite— + Wind cannot dim or agitate the light. + From Plato's idea stepping, wholly wrought + From Plato's dream, made manifest in hair, + Eyes, lips and hands and voice, + As if the stored up thought + From the earth sphere + Had given down the being of your choice + Conjured by the dream long sought. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For you have moved in madness, rapture, wrath + In and out of the path + Drawn by the dream of a face. + You have been watched, as star-men watch a star + That leaves its way, returns and leaves its way, + Until the exploring watchers find, can trace + A hidden star beyond their sight, whose sway + Draws the erratic star so long observed— + So have you wandered, swerved. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Always pursued and lost, + Sometimes half found, half-faced, + Such years we waste + With the almost: + The lips flower pressed like buds to hold + Guarded the heart of the flower, + But over them eyes not hued as the Dream foretold. + Or to find the lips too rich and the dower + Of eyes all gaiety + Where wisdom scarce can be. + Or to find the eyes, but to find offence + In fingers where the sense + Falters with colors, strings, + Not touching with closed eyes, out of an immanence + Of flame and wings. + Or to find the light, but to find it set behind + An eye which is not your dream, nor the shadow thereof, + As it were your lamp in a stranger's window. + And so almost to find + In the great weariness of love. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this is the tragedy: + If the Idea did not move + Somewhere in the realm of Love, + Clothing itself in flesh at last for you to see, + You could scarcely follow the gleam. + And the tragedy is when Life has made you over, + And denied you, and dulled your dream, + And you no longer count the cost, + Nor the past lament, + You are sitting oblivious of your discontent + Beside the Almost— + And then the face appears + Evoked from the Idea by your dead desire, + And blinds and burns you like fire. + And you sit there without tears, + Though thinking it has come to kill you, or mock your youth + With its half of the truth. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A beach as yellow as gold + Daisied with tents for a lovely mile. + And a sea that edges and walls the sand with blue, + Matching the heaven without a seam, + Save for the threads of foam that hold + With stitches the canopy rare as the tile + Of old Damascus. And O the wind + Which roars to the roaring water brightened + By the beating wings of the sun! + And here I walk, not seeking the Dream, + As men walk absent of heart or mind + Who have no wish for a sorrow lightened + Since all things now seem lost or won. + And here it is that your face appears! + Like a star brushed out from leaves by a breeze + When day's in the sky, though evening nears. + You are here by a tent with your little brood, + And I approach in a quiet mood + And see you, know that the Destinies + Have surrendered you at last. + Voice, lips and hands and the light of the eyes. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And I who have asked so much discover + That you find in me the man and lover + You have divined and visualized, + In quiet day dreams. And what is strange + Your boy of eight is subtly guised + In fleeting looks that half resemble + Something in me. Two souls may range + Mid this earth's billion souls for life, + And hide their hunger or dissemble. + For there are two at least created, + Endowed with alien powers that draw, + And kindred powers that by some law + Bind souls as like as sister, brother. + There are two at least who are for each other. + If we are such, it is not fated + You are for him, howe'er belated + The time's for us. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And yet is not the time gone by? + Your garden has been planted, dear. + And mine with weeds is over-grown. + Oh yes! 'tis only late July! + We can replant, ere frosts appear, + Gather the blossoms we have sown. + And I have preached that hearts should seize + The hour that brings realities. ... + + Yes, I admit it all, we crush + Under our feet the world's contempt. + But when I raise the cup, it's blush + Reveals the snake's eyes, there's a hush + While a hand writes upon the wall: + Life cannot be re-made, exempt + From life that has been, something's gone + Out of the soil, in life updrawn + To growths that vine, and tangle, crawl, + Withered in part, or gone to seed. + 'Tis not the same, though you have freed + The soil from what was grown. ... + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Heaven is but the hour + Of the planting of the flower. + But heaven is the blossom to be, + Of the one Reality. + And heaven cannot undo the once sown ground. + But heaven is love in the pursuing, + And in the memory of having found. ... + + The rocks in the river make light and sound + And show that the waters search and move. + And what is time but an infinite whole + Revealed by the breaks in thought, desire? + To put it away is to know one's soul. + Love is music unheard and fire + Too rare for eyes; between hurt beats + The heart detects it, sees how pure + Its essence is, through heart defeats.— + You are the silence making sure + The sound with which it has to cope, + My sorrow and as well my hope. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue, + Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh, + Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset, + Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare, + I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts. + Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be. + I'll tell you more than you can think to ask me. + I love this woman, but what is love to you? + What is it to your laws or courts? I love her. + She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room— + She stood before me naked, shrank a little, + Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry + When she saw amiable passion in my eyes— + She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes + More in those moments than whole hours of talk + From witness stands exculpate could make clear + My innocence. + + But if I did a crime + My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life. + Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love + Are walled in and locked up like coal or food + And only may be had by purchasers + From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold. + Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste, + While power and freedom skulk with famished lips + Too tightly pressed for curses. + + So do men, + Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves + And live in meagreness to make sure a life + Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale; + And live in ways, companionships as fixed + As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock. + You wonder at war? Why war lets loose desires, + Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war? + Then let men live. The moral equivalent + Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice— + Religion is not life, but life is living. + And painted cherries to the hungry thrush + Is art to life. The artist lived his work. + You cannot live his life who love his work. + You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries + Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths, + The story's coming of her nakedness + Be patient for a time. + + All this I learned + While painting pictures no one ever bought, + Till hunger drove me to this servile work + As butler in her father's house, with time + On certain days to walk the galleries + And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw + I was not living while I painted pictures. + I was not living working for a crust, + I was not living walking galleries: + All this was but vicarious life which felt + Through gazing at the thing the artist made, + In memory of the life he lived himself: + As we preserve the fragrance of a flower + By drawing off its essence in a bottle, + Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away + To get the inner passion of the flower + Extracted to a bottle that a queen + May act the flower's part. + + Say what you will, + Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits, + Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches + Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite, + You call the State, has fashioned life aright— + The secret is abroad, from eye to eye + The secret passes from poor eyes that wink + In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength + Roped down or barred, that what the human heart + Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame + Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out, + Is love for body and for spirit, love + To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it, + This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow + Where spirits are left free a little while + Within a little space, so long as strength, + Flesh, blood increases to the day of use + As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast, + Society may feed himself and keep + His olden shape and power? + + Fools go crop + The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself + For what you want, and count it righteousness, + No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing, + Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls + Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries, + Inhaling from a bottle what was lived + These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny + That what we men desire are horses, dogs, + Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change, + Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change, + And re-adjusted order. + + As I turned + From painting and from art, yet found myself + Full of all lusts while bound to menial work + Where my eyes daily rested on this woman + A thought came to me like a little spark + One sees far down the darkness of a cave, + Which grows into a flame, a blinding light + As one approaches it, so did this thought + Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman, + I wanted her, why should I lose this woman? + What was there to oppose possession? Will? + Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then + Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will + Deserves achievement? Which has rights above + The other? I desire her, her desire + Is not toward me, which of these two desires + Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers + For her, at least the stronger must prevail, + And wreck itself or bend all else before it. + That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain + To overwhelm her will with gold, and I + With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it, + And what's the difference? + + But as I said + I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard + Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came + And gazed upon me from her window. I + Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes. + Then in a concentration which was blindness + To all else, so bewilderment of mind, + I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope + Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back + The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness. + There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr + Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele, + Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning + Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames + Consumed her ravished beauty. + + So I looked, + And trembled, then returned perhaps to find + Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate, + And radiate with lashes of surprise, + Delight as when a star is still but shines. + And on this night somehow our natures worked + To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner + To show more back and bosom than before. + And as I served her, her down-looking eyes + Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin. + Before I could begin to bend she leaned + And let me see—oh yes, she let me see + The white foam of her little breasts caressing + The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore + Of bright carnations. It was from such foam + That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave + The napkin to her she pushed out a foot, + And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she + Concealed a smile—and you, you jailers laugh + Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger. + + I go on, + Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps! + At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir. + I finding errands in the hallway hear + The desultory taking up of books, + And through her open door, see her at last + Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath + Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps + The light on where the onyx tub and walls + Dazzle the air. I enter then her room + And stand against the closed door, do not pry + Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance + To fly me, fight me standing face to face. + I hear her flounder in the water, hear + Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms; + Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness + Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute + She stands with back toward me in the doorway, + A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair + Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold. + She turned toward her dresser then and shook + White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked + So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts, + Touching them under with soft tapering hands + To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame + Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these, + The thought ran through me, for her joy alone + And not for mine? + + So I stood there like Zeus + Coming in thunder to Semele, like + The diety of Watteau. Correggio + Had never painted me a satyr there + Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful, + My will subdued in worship of her beauty + To obey her will. + + And then she turned and saw me, + And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried + To hide it from me, faced me immovable + A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips. + And let me plead my cause, make known my love, + Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile. + Let me approach her till I almost touched + The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed + That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped + Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid— + Oh no, it cannot be—what would they say?" + Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed + The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go—you beast." + My dream went up like paper charred and whirled + Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone + Amid her room and saw my life, our life + Embodied in this woman lately there + Lying and cowardly. And as I turned + To leave the room, her father and the gardener + Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs + And turned me over, stunned, to you the law + Here with these others who have stolen coal + To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty + To keep from freezing in this arid country + Of winter winds on which the dust of custom + Rides like a fog. + + Now do your worst to me! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LANDSCAPE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You and your landscape! There it lies + Stripped, resuming its disguise, + Clothed in dreams, made bare again, + Symbol infinite of pain, + Rapture, magic, mystery + Of vanished days and days to be. + There's its sea of tidal grass + Over which the south winds pass, + And the sun-set's Tuscan gold + Which the distant windows hold + For an instant like a sphere + Bursting ere it disappear. + There's the dark green woods which throve + In the spell of Leese's Grove. + And the winding of the road; + And the hill o'er which the sky + Stretched its pallied vacancy + Ere the dawn or evening glowed. + And the wonder of the town + Somewhere from the hill-top down + Nestling under hills and woods + And the meadow's solitudes. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And your paper knight of old + Secrets of the landscape told. + And the hedge-rows where the pond + Took the blue of heavens beyond + The hastening clouds of gusty March. + There you saw their wrinkled arch + Where the East wind cracks his whips + Round the little pond and clips + Main-sails from your toppled ships. ... + + Landscape that in youth you knew + Past and present, earth and you! + All the legends and the tales + Of the uplands, of the vales; + Sounds of cattle and the cries + Of ploughmen and of travelers + Were its soul's interpreters. + And here the lame were always lame. + Always gray the gray of head. + And the dead were always dead + Ere the landscape had become + Your cradle, as it was their tomb. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And when the thunder storms would waken + Of the dream your soul was not forsaken: + In the room where the dormer windows look— + There were your knight and the tattered book. + With colors of the forest green + Gabled roofs and the demesne + Of faery kingdoms and faery time + Storied in pre-natal rhyme. ... + Past the orchards, in the plain + The cattle fed on in the rain. + And the storm-beaten horseman sped + Rain blinded and with bended head. + And John the ploughman comes and goes + In labor wet, with steaming clothes. + This is your landscape, but you see + Not terror and not destiny + Behind its loved, maternal face, + Its power to change, or fade, replace + Its wonder with a deeper dream, + Unfolding to a vaster theme. + From time eternal was this earth? + No less this landscape with your birth + Arose, nor leaves you, nor decay + Finds till the twilight of your day. + It bore you, moulds you to its plan. + It ends with you as it began, + But bears the seed of future years + Of higher raptures, dumber tears. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For soon you lose the landscape through + Absence, sorrow, eyes grown true + To the naked limbs which show + Buds that never more may blow. + Now you know the lame were straight + Ere you knew them, and the fate + Of the old is yet to die. + Now you know the dead who lie + In the graves you saw where first + The landscape on your vision burst, + Were not always dead, and now + Shadows rest upon the brow + Of the souls as young as you. + Some are gone, though years are few + Since you roamed with them the hills. + So the landscape changes, wills + All the changes, did it try + Its promises to justify?... + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For you return and find it bare: + There is no heaven of golden air. + Your eyes around the horizon rove, + A clump of trees is Leese's Grove. + And what's the hedgerow, what's the pond? + A wallow where the vagabond + Beast will not drink, and where the arch + Of heaven in the days of March + Refrains to look. A blinding rain + Beats the once gilded window pane. + John, the poor wretch, is gone, but bread + Tempts other feet that path to tread + Between the barn and house, and brave + The March rain and the winds that rave. ... + O, landscape I am one who stands + Returned with pale and broken hands + Glad for the day that I have known, + And finds the deserted doorway strown + With shoulder blade and spinal bone. + And you who nourished me and bred + I find the spirit from you fled. + You gave me dreams,'twas at your breast + My soul's beginning rose and pressed + My steps afar at last and shaped + A world elusive, which escaped + Whatever love or thought could find + Beyond the tireless wings of mind. + Yet grown by you, and feeding on + Your strength as mother, you are gone + When I return from living, trace + My steps to see how I began, + And deeply search your mother face + To know your inner self, the place + For which you bore me, sent me forth + To wander, south or east or north. ... + Now the familiar landscape lies + With breathless breast and hollow eyes. + It knows me not, as I know not + Its secret, spirit, all forgot + Its kindred look is, as I stand + A stranger in an unknown land. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Are we not earth-born, formed of dust + Which seeks again its love and trust + In an old landscape, after change + In hearts grown weary, wrecked and strange? + What though we struggled to emerge + Dividual, footed for the urge + Of further self-discoveries, though + In the mid-years we cease to know, + Through disenchanted eyes, the spell + That clothed it like a miracle— + Yet at the last our steps return + Its deeper mysteries to learn. + It has been always us, it must + Clasp to itself our kindred dust. + We cannot free ourselves from it. + Near or afar we must submit + To what is in us, what was grown + Out of the landscape's soil, the known + And unknown powers of soil and soul. + As bodies yield to the control + Of the earth's center, and so bend + In age, so hearts toward the end + Bend down with lips so long athirst + To waters which were known at first— + The little spring at Leese's Grove + Was your first love, is your last love! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When those we knew in youth have crept + Under the landscape, which has kept + Nothing we saw with youthful eyes; + Ere God is formed in the empty skies, + I wonder not our steps are pressed + Toward the mystery of their rest. + That is the hope at bud which kneels + Where ancestors the tomb conceals. + Age no less than youth would lean + Upon some love. For what is seen + No more of father, mother, friend, + For hands of flesh lost, eyes grown blind + In death, a something which assures, + Comforts, allays our fears, endures. + Just as the landscape and our home + In childhood made of heaven's dome, + And all the farthest ways of earth + A place as sheltered as the hearth. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Is it not written at the last day + Heaven and earth shall roll away? + Yes, as my landscape passed through death, + Lay like a corpse, and with new breath + Became instinct with fire and light— + So shall it roll up in my sight, + Pass from the realm of finite sense, + Become a thing of spirit, whence + I shall pass too, its child in faith + Of dreams it gave me, which nor death + Nor change can wreck, but still reveal + In change a Something vast, more real + Than sunsets, meadows, green-wood trees, + Or even faery presences. + A Something which the earth and air + Transmutes but keeps them what they were; + Clear films of beauty grown more thin + As we approach and enter in. + Until we reach the scene that made + Our landscape just a thing of shade. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows, + So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow + I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye, + To-morrow lacks two days of being a month— + Here is a secret—since I made my will. + Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it? + That I should make a will! Yet it may be + That then and jump at this most crescent hour + Heaven inspired the deed. + + As a mad younker + I knew an aged man in Warwickshire + Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness + Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts. + If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall, + With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain + And with doleful suspiration kept + This habit of his grief. And on a time + As he stood looking at the flying clouds, + I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it, + Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me,' + Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off + And left me empty there. + + Now here am I! + Oh, it is strange to find myself this age, + And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled, + And, like this aged man of Warwickshire, + Slaved by a mood which must have breath—"Tra-la! + That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me." + For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la" + The moment I break sleep to see the day. + At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad + I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table + I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne + Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la' + Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so?" + Then I bethought me of that aged man + Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered: + "Perhaps I am so happy when awake + The song crops out in slumber—who can say?" + And Anne arose, began to keel the pot, + But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman? + + To-morrow is my birthday. If I die, + Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide, + What soul would interdict the poppied way? + Heroes may look the Monster down, a child + Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see + Such bland unreckoning of his strength—but I, + Having so greatly lived, would sink away + Unknowing my departure. I have died + A thousand times, and with a valiant soul + Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death + To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean. + But in this death that has no bottom to it, + No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul + Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink + From that inane which gulfs us, without place + For us to stand and see it. + + Yet, dear Ben, + This thing must be; that's what we live to know + Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it. + As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens + Spout learnedly of war, who never saw + A cannon aimed. You drink too much to-day, + Or get a scratch while turning Lucy's stile, + And like a beast you sicken. Like a beast + They cart you off. What matter if your thought + Outsoared the Phoenix? Like a beast you rot. + Methinks that something wants our flesh, as we + Hunger for flesh of beasts. But still to-morrow, + To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow + Creeps in this petty pace—O, Michael Drayton, + Some end must be. But 'twixt the fear of ceasing + And weariness of going on we lie + Upon these thorns! + + These several springs I find + No new birth in the Spring. And yet in London + I used to cry, "O, would I were in Stratford; + It's April and the larks are singing now. + The flags are green along the Avon river; + O, would I were a rambler in the fields. + This poor machine is racing to its wreck. + This grist of thought is endless, this old sorrow + Sprouts, winds and crawls in London's darkness. Come + Back to your landscape! Peradventure waits + Some woman there who will make new the earth, + And crown the spring with fire." + + So back I come. + And the springs march before me, say, "Behold + Here are we, and what would you, can you use us? + What good is air if lungs are out, or springs + When the mind's flown so far away no spring, + Nor loveliness of earth can call it back? + I tell you what it is: in early youth + The life is in the loins; by thirty years + It travels through the stomach to the lungs, + And then we strut and crow. By forty years + The fruit is swelling while the leaves are fresh. + By fifty years you're ripe, begin to rot. + At fifty-two, or fifty-five or sixty + The life is in the seed—what's spring to you? + Puff! Puff! You are so winged and light you fly. + For every passing zephyr, are blown off, + And drifting, God knows where, cry out "tra-la," + "Ah, mercy me," as it may happen you. + Puff! Puff! away you go! + + Another drink? + Why, you may drown the earth with ale and I + Will drain it like a sea. The more I drink + The better I see that this is April time. ... + + Ben! There is one Voice which says to everything: + "Dream what you will, I'll make you bear your seed. + And, having borne, the sickle comes among ye + And takes your stalk." The rich and sappy greens + Of spring or June show life within the loins, + And all the world is fair, for now the plant + Can drink the level cup of flame where heaven + Is poured full by the sun. But when the blossom + Flutters its colors, then it takes the cup + And waves the stalk aside. And having drunk + The stalk to penury, then slumber comes + With dreams of spring stored in the imprisoned germ, + An old life and a new life all in one, + A thing of memory and of prophecy, + Of reminiscence, longing, hope and fear. + What has been ours is taken, what was ours + Becomes entailed on our seed in the spring, + Fees in possession and enjoyment too. ... + + The thing is sex, Ben. It is that which lives + And dies in us, makes April and unmakes, + And leaves a man like me at fifty-two, + Finished but living, on the pinnacle + Betwixt a death and birth, the earth consumed + And heaven rolled up to eyes whose troubled glances + Would shape again to something better—what? + Give me a woman, Ben, and I will pick + Out of this April, by this larger art + Of fifty-two, such songs as we have heard, + Both you and I, when weltering in the clouds + Of that eternity which comes in sleep, + Or in the viewless spinning of the soul + When most intense. The woman is somewhere, + And that's what tortures, when I think this field + So often gleaned could blossom once again + If I could find her. + + Well, as to my plays: + I have not written out what I would write. + They have a thousand buds of finer flowering. + And over "Hamlet" hangs a teasing spirit + As fine to that as sense is fine to flesh. + Good friends, my soul beats up its prisoned wings + Against the ceiling of a vaster whorl + And would break through and enter. But, fair friends, + What strength in place of sex shall steady me? + What is the motive of this higher mount? + What process in the making of myself— + The very fire, as it were, of my growth— + Shall furnish forth these writings by the way, + As incident, expression of the nature + Relumed for adding branches, twigs and leaves?... + + Suppose I'd make a tragedy of this, + Focus my fancied "Dante" to this theme, + And leave my halfwrit "Sappho," which at best + Is just another delving in the mine + That gave me "Cleopatra" and the Sonnets? + If you have genius, write my tragedy, + And call it "Shakespeare, Gentleman of Stratford," + Who lost his soul amid a thousand souls, + And had to live without it, yet live with it + As wretched as the souls whose lives he lived. + Here is a play for you: Poor William Shakespeare, + This moment growing drunk, the famous author + Of certain sugared sonnets and some plays, + With this machine too much to him, which started + Some years ago, now cries him nay and runs + Even when the house shakes and complains, "I fall, + You shake me down, my timbers break apart. + Why, if an engine must go on like this + The building should be stronger." + + Or to mix, + And by the mixing, unmix metaphors, + No mortal man has blood enough for brains + And stomach too, when the brain is never done + With thinking and creating. + + For you see, + I pluck a flower, cut off a dragon's head— + Choose twixt these figures—lo, a dozen buds, + A dozen heads out-crop. For every fancy, + Play, sonnet, what you will, I write me out + With thinking "Now I'm done," a hundred others + Crowd up for voices, and, like twins unborn + Kick and turn o'er for entrance to the world. + And I, poor fecund creature, who would rest, + As 'twere from an importunate husband, fly + To money-lending, farming, mulberry trees, + Enclosing Welcombe fields, or idling hours + In common talk with people like the Combes. + All this to get a heartiness, a hold + On earth again, lest Heaven Hercules, + Finding me strayed to mid-air, kicking heels + Above the mountain tops, seize on my scruff + And bear me off or strangle. + + Good, my friends, + The "Tempest" is as nothing to the voice + That calls me to performance—what I know not. + I've planned an epic of the Asian wash + Which slopped the star of Athens and put out, + Which should all history analyze, and present + A thousand notables in the guise of life, + And show the ancient world and worlds to come + To the last blade of thought and tiniest seed + Of growth to be. With visions such as these + My spirit turns in restless ecstacy, + And this enslaved brain is master sponge, + And sucks the blood of body, hands and feet. + While my poor spirit, like a butterfly + Gummed in its shell, beats its bedraggled wings, + And cannot rise. + + I'm cold, both hands and feet. + These three days past I have been cold, this hour + I am warm in three days. God bless the ale. + God did do well to give us anodynes. ... + So now you know why I am much alone, + And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips, + John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, + And do not have them here, dear ancient friends, + Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love. + Love is not love which alters when it finds + A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only + I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme: + I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch + Of hands of flesh. + + I am most passionate, + And long am used perplexities of love + To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder, + Seeing what I am, what my fate has been? + Well, hark you; Anne is sixty now, and I, + A crater which erupts, look where she stands + In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am, + As years go, but I am a youth afire + While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury + Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out + For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy! + I want them not, I want the love which springs + Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body + Is piled in reckless generosity. ... + You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know, + And think me nature's child, scarce understand + How much of physic, law, and ancient annals + I have stored up by means of studious zeal. + But pass this by, and for the braggart breath + Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups, + Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated, + Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth. + Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman, + According to the phrase or the addition + Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare + At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April, + Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry— + Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I?— + Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it: + I believe and say it as I would lightly speak + Of the most common thing to sense, outside + Myself to touch or analyze, this mind + Which has been used by Something, as I use + A quill for writing, never in this world + In the most high and palmy days of Greece, + Or in this roaring age, has known its peer. + No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed, + Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails + Of passions curious, countless lives explored + As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin, + The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this? + Since I know them by what I am, the essence + From which their utterance came, myself a flower + Of every graft and being in myself + The recapitulation and the complex + Of all the great. Were not brains before books? + And even geometries in some brain + Before old Gutenberg? O fie, Ben Jonson, + If I am nature's child am I not all? + Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale, + And say that reason in me was a fume. + But if you honor me, as you have said, + As much as any, this side idolatry, + Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be + In your regard, have come to fifty-two, + Defeated in my love, who knew too well + That poets through the love of women turn + To satyrs or to gods, even as women + By the first touch of passion bloom or rot + As angels or as bawds. + + Bethink you also + How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process + Working in man's soul from the woman soul + As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh, + Even as a malady may be, while this thing + Is health and growth, and growing draws all life, + All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment. + Till it become a vision paradisic, + And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost + Rung a place for stepping into heaven. ... + + This I have know, but had not. Nor have I + Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used + Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven + Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay + What grew within me, while I saw the blood + Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child + Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel + With my own blood stained. + + As a virgin shamed + By the swelling life unlicensed needles it, + But empties not her womb of some last shred + Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body, + And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep, + And weakness to the last of life, so I + For some shame not unlike, some need of life + To rid me of this life I had conceived + Did up and choke it too, and thence begot + A fever and a fixed debility + For killing that begot. + + Now you see that I + Have not grown from a central dream, but grown + Despite a wound, and over the wound and used + My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever + Which longed for that which nursed the malady, + And fed on that which still preserved the ill, + The uncertain, sickly appetite to please. + My reason, the physician to my love, + Angry that his prescriptions are not kept + Has left me. And as reason is past care + I am past cure, with ever more unrest + Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are, + And my discourse at random from the truth, + Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair + And thought her bright, who is as black as hell + And dark as night. + + But list, good gentlemen, + This love I speak of is not as a cloak + Which one may put away to wear a coat, + And doff that for a jacket, like the loves + We men are wont to have as loves or wives. + She is the very one, the soul of souls, + And when you put her on you put on light, + Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire, + Which if you tear away you tear your life, + And if you wear you fall to ashes. So + 'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine, + That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost, + And broken hope that we could find each other, + And that mean more to me and less to her. + 'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me + Without a sense of loss, without a tear, + And make me fool and perjured for the oath + That swore her fair and true. I feel myself + As like a virgin who her body gives + For love of one whose love she dreams is hers, + But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, + And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite + For other conquests. For I gave myself, + And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss + Of myself never to myself restored. + The urtication of this shame made plays + And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds + That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, + But, better, love. + + To hell with punks and wenches, + Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, + Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. + And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers, + All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, + Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. + I think I have a fever—hell and furies! + Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. + Ben, if I die before you, let me waste + Richly and freely in the good brown earth, + Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. + What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see + What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets? + Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil + I take the veil and hide, and like great Cæsar + Who drew his toga round him, I depart. + + Good friends, let's to the fields—I have a fever. + After a little walk, and by your pardon, + I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, + Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, + I pass you like an orange to a child: + I can no more with you. Do what you will. + What should my care be when I have no power + To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me + As little as I need you: go your way! + Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, + But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars + The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek + And clap their gushing wounds—but I shall sleep, + Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon + Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators + Shall fulmine over London or America + Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters + And cut each others' throats when reason fails— + But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed + The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" + But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. + I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep— + Let's walk and hear the lark. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWEET CLOVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Only a few plants up—and not a blossom + My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? + Old John comes by. I show him my result. + Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure, + I wanted you to sow it. Now you see + What comes of letting Hunter do your work. + The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps, + Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed + Was sown. + + But John, who knows a clover field, + Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil + And studies them. + + He says, Look at the roots! + Hunter neglected to inoculate + The seed, for clover seed must always have + Clover bacteria to make it grow, + And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover + The roots are studded thick with tubercles, + Like little warts, made by bacteria. + And somehow these bacteria lay hold + Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil, + And make the plants grow, make them blossom too. + When Hunter sowed this field he was not well: + He should have hauled some top-soil to this field + From some old clover field, or made a culture + Of these bacteria and soaked the seed + In it before he sowed it. + + As I said, + Hunter was sick when he was working here. + And then he ran away to Indiana + And left his wife and children. Now he's back. + His cough was just as bad in Indiana + As it is here. A cough is pretty hard + To run away from. Wife and children too + Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them + Stays with a fellow and cannot be left. + Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you. + He's straightening out his little farm and making + Provision for his family. Hunter's changed. + He is a better man. It almost seems + That Hunter's blossomed. ... + + I am sorry for him. + The doctor says he has tuberculosis. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To a western breeze + A row of golden tulips is nodding. + They flutter their golden wings + In a sudden ecstasy and say: + Something comes to us from beyond, + Out of the sky, beyond the hill + We give it to you. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And I walk through rows of jonquils + To a beloved door, + Which you open. + And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head + Nodding to me, and saying: + Something comes to me + Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty— + I give it to you. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes, + And the freshness of June iris in your hands, + And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom. + But your voice is the voice of the robin + Singing at dawn amid new leaves. + It is like sun-light on blue water + Where the south-wind is on the water + And the buds of the flags are green. + It is like the wild bird of the sedges + With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed + Showering lyrics over the sun-light + Between rhythmical pauses + When his heart has stopped, + Making light and water + Into song. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let me hear your voice, + And the voice of Eternal Beauty + Through the music of your voice. + Let me gather the iris of your hands. + Against my face. + And close my eyes with your eyes. + Let me listen with you + For the Voice. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed + In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told, + Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you + From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work, + Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose, + The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands, + The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene. + How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless, + You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here + Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you, + And think of your work—how nothing could balk you + Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned, + Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh, + Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear + For your eighty-four years! + + And they say of you still + You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn, + And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always. + Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived + In your day and your place? It was never their due! + Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be— + A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes + Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places. + Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God gave you. + And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe— + Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light? + But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric. + Did France bar her door? Geneva remained—good enough! + Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know. + Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing, + You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path; + You stand at your door and step by another to France— + Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies + Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman. + And here you have printers to print what you write and a house + For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin. + O busy Voltaire, never resting. ... + + So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke, + The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State, + The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire: + The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you essayed + To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil. + It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter, + A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast + Was thrown on the handles. + + And yet to this day, O Voltaire, + They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did + Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the roots to the sun, + And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light, + And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it. + But listen + The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still + But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others, + That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides. + The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment + To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French? + + Did you give up three years of your life + To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas? + Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well, + Six lines in an article written in English are plenty + To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture, + Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them + Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble, + But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature, + Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record + Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, while batting + At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ... + + How well did you know that life to a genius, a god, + Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes + As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show: + Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp. + Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds. + Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying. + Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake + Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs, + Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships. + You saw through and laughed at—you saw above all + That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a laugh. + + So you smiled till the lines of your mouth + A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing + To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me, + I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing + Through eighty-four years for realities—O let them pass, + Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god? + Front the ages with a smile! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POOR PIERROT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes + I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons. + For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate? + Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate? + + Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor? + Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door? + Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie + Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye. + + I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and deep: + The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep. + They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or strife— + When life fills full the soul then life kills life. + + I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune, + Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon. + And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee + Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MIRAGE OF THE DESERT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door: + Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through. + There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds— + But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue? + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And there's the harp on which great fingers play + Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things; + And there's a soul that wanders out when called + By a voice afar from the answering strings. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears, + Till the vision, the mad music are wept away. + One cannot have them and live, but if one die + It might be better than living—who can say? + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know + How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough? + Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul— + But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DAHLIAS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The mad wind is the warden, + And the smiling dahlias nod + To the dahlias across the garden, + And the wastes of the golden rod. + + They never pray for pardon, + Nor ask his way nor forego, + Nor close their hearts nor harden + Nor stay his hand, nor bestow + + Their hearts filched out of their bosoms, + Nor plan for dahlias to be. + For the wind blows over the garden + And sets the dahlias free. + + They drift to the song of the warden, + Heedless they give him heed. + And he walks and blows through the garden + Blossom and leaf and seed. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Silvers and purples breathing in a sky + Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger, + Of the restrained but passionate July + Upon the marshes of the river lie, + Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend + Under the flapping of the breeze's wing, + Departing and revisiting + The haunts of the river twisting without end. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The torsions of the river make long miles + Of the waters of the river which remain + Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles + Of water between the rushes, which restrain + The bewildered currents in returning files, + Twisting between the greens like a blue racer, + Too hurt to leap with body or uplift + Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes + The iron bridge's reticules + Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons. + But from the bridge, watching the little steamer + Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville, + The river loosened from the abandoned spools + Of earth and heaven wanders without will, + Between the rushes, like a silken streamer. + And two old men who turn the bridge + For passing boats sit in the sun all day, + Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs, + And smoke and talk of a glory passed away. + And of the ruthless sacrilege + Which mowed away the pines, + And cast them in the current here as logs, + To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver, + Making for a little hour heroes and heroines, + Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven, + When the great saws sent screeches up and whines, + And cries for more and more + Slaughter of forests up and down the river + And along the lake's shore. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But all is quiet on the river now + As when the snow lay windless in the wood, + And the last Indian stood + And looked to find the broken bough + That told the path under the snow. + All is as silent as the spiral lights + Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise, + Like the wings of swarming dragon flies, + Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies + Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights + Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare + Of dunes and purple air, + There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The forests and the mills are gone! + All is as silent as the voice I heard + On a summer dawn + When we two fished among the river reeds. + As silent as the pain + In a heart that feeds + A sorrow, but does not complain. + As silent as above the bridge in this July, + Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky + Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane: + A man-bestridden dragon fly! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DELILAH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because thou wast most delicate, + A woman fair for men to see, + The earth did compass thy estate, + Thou didst hold life and death in fee, + And every soul did bend the knee. + + [Sidenote: (Wherein the corrupt spirit of privilege is symbolized by + Delilah and the People by Samson.)] + + Much pleasure also made thee grieve + For that the goblet had been drained. + The well spiced viand thou didst leave + To frown on want whose throat was strained, + And violence whose hands were stained. + + The purple of thy royal cloak, + Made the sea paler for its hue. + Much people bent beneath the yoke + To fetch thee jewels white and blue, + And rings to pass thy gold hair through. + + Therefore, Delilah wast thou called, + Because the choice wines nourished thee + In Sorek, by the mountains walled + Against the north wind's misery, + Where flourished every pleasant tree. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah hath a taste for ease and luxury and wantoneth + with divers lovers.)] + + Thy lovers also were as great + In numbers as the sea sands were; + Thou didst requite their love with hate; + And give them up to massacre, + Who brought thee gifts of gold and myrrh. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah conceiveth the design of ensnaring Samson.)] + + At Gaza and at Ashkelon, + The obscene Dagon worshipping, + Thy face was fair to look upon. + Yet thy tongue, sweet to talk or sing, + Was deadlier than the adder's sting. + + Wherefore, thou saidst: "I will procure + The strong man Samson for my spouse, + His death will make my ease secure. + The god has heard this people's vows + To recompense their injured house." + + Thereafter, when the giant lay + Supinely rolled against thy feet, + Him thou didst craftily betray, + With amorous vexings, low and sweet, + To tell thee that which was not meet. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah attempteth to discover the source of Samson's + strength. Samson very neatly deceiveth her.)] + + And Samson spake to thee again; + "With seven green withes I may be bound, + So shall I be as other men." + Whereat the lords the green withes found— + The same about his limbs were bound. + + Then did the fish-god in thee cry: + "The Philistines be upon thee now." + But Samson broke the withes awry, + As when a keen fire toucheth tow; + So thou didst not the secret know. + + But thou, being full of guile, didst plead: + "My lord, thou hast but mocked my love + With lies who gave thy saying heed; + Hast thou not vexed my heart enough, + To ease me all the pain thereof?" + + Now, in the chamber with fresh hopes, + The liers in wait did list, and then + He said: "Go to, and get new ropes, + Wherewith thou shalt bind me again, + So shall I be as other men." + + [Sidenote: (Samson retaineth his intellect and the lustihood of his + body and again misleadeth the subtle craft of Delilah.)] + + Then didst thou do as he had said, + Whereat the fish-god in thee cried, + "The Philistines be upon thy head," + He shook his shoulders deep and wide, + And cast the ropes like thread aside. + + Yet thou still fast to thy conceit, + Didst chide him softly then and say: + "Beforetime thou hast shown deceit, + And mocked my quest with idle play, + Thou canst not now my wish gainsay." + + Then with the secret in his thought, + He said: "If thou wilt weave my hair, + The web withal, the deed is wrought; + Thou shalt have all my strength in snare, + And I as other men shall fare." + + Seven locks of him thou tookest and wove + The web withal and fastened it, + And then the pin thy treason drove, + With laughter making all things fit, + As did beseem thy cunning wit. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah still pursueth her designs and Samson beginning to + be somewhat wearied hinteth very close to his secret.)] + + Then the god Dagon speaking by + Thy delicate mouth made horrid din; + "Lo the Philistine lords are nigh"— + He woke ere thou couldst scarce begin, + And took away the web and pin. + + Yet, saying not it doth suffice, + Thou in the chamber's secrecy, + Didst with thy artful words entice + Samson to give his heart to thee, + And tell thee where his strength might be. + + Pleading, "How canst thou still aver, + I love thee, being yet unkind? + How is it thou dost minister + Unto my heart with treacherous mind, + Thou art but cruelly inclined." + + From early morn to falling dusk, + At night upon the curtained bed, + Fragrant with spikenard and with musk, + For weariness he laid his head, + Whilst thou the insidious net didst spread. + + [Sidenote: (Samson being weakened by lust and overcome by Delilah's + importunities and guile telleth her wherein his great strength + consisteth.)] + + Nor wouldst not give him any rest, + But vexed with various words his soul, + Till death far more than life was blest, + Shot through and through with heavy dole, + He gave his strength to thy control. + + Saying, "I am a Nazarite, + To God alway, nor hath there yet + Razor or shears done despite + To these my locks of coarsen jet, + Therefore my strength hath known no let." + + "But, and if these be shaven close, + Whereas I once was strong as ten, + I may not meet my meanest foes + Among the hated Philistine, + I shall be weak like other men." + + He turned to sleep, the spell was done, + Thou saidst "Come up this once, I trow + The secret of his strength is known; + Hereafter sweat shall bead his brow, + Bring up the silver thou didst vow." + + [Sidenote: (Samson having trusted Delilah turneth to sleep whereat her + minions with force falleth upon him and depriveth him of his + strength.)] + + They came, and sleeping on thy knees, + The giant of his locks was shorn. + And Dagon, being now at ease, + Cried like the harbinger of morn, + To see the giant's strength forlorn. + + For he wist not the Lord was gone:— + "I will go as I went erewhile," + He said, "and shake my mighty brawn." + Without the captains, file on file, + Did execute Delilah's guile. + + [Sidenote: (Sansculottism, as it seemeth, is overthrown.)] + + At Gaza where the mockers pass, + Midst curses and unholy sound, + They fettered him with chains of brass, + Put out his eyes, and being bound + Within the prison house he ground. + + The heathen looking on did sing; + "Behold our god into our hand, + Hath brought him for our banqueting, + Who slew us and destroyed our land, + Against whom none of us could stand." + + [Sidenote: (Samson being no longer formidable and being deprived of + his eyes is reduced to slavery and made the sport of the heathen.)] + + Now, therefore, when the festival + Waxed merrily, with one accord, + The lords and captains loud did call, + To bring him out whom they abhorred, + To make them sport who sat at board. + + [Sidenote: (After a time Samson prayeth for vengeance even though + himself should perish thereby.)] + + And Samson made them sport and stood + Betwixt the pillars of the house, + Above with scornful hardihood, + Both men and women made carouse, + And ridiculed his eyeless brows. + + Then Samson prayed "Remember me + O Lord, this once, if not again. + O God, behold my misery, + Now weaker than all other men, + Who once was mightier than ten." + + "Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes, + And for this unrequited toil, + For fraud, injustice, perjuries, + For lords whose greed devours the soil, + And kings and rulers who despoil." + + [Sidenote: (Wherein by a very nice conceit revolution is symbolized.)] + + "For all that maketh light of Thee, + And sets at naught Thy holy word, + For tongues that babble blasphemy, + And impious hands that hold the sword— + Grant vengeance, though I perish, Lord." + + He grasped the pillars, having prayed, + And bowed himself—the building fell, + And on three thousand souls was laid, + Gone soon to death with mighty yell. + And Samson died, for it was well. + + The lords and captains greatly err, + Thinking that Samson is no more, + Blind, but with ever-growing hair, + He grinds from Tyre to Singapore, + While yet Delilah plays the whore. + + So it hath been, and yet will be, + The captains, drunken at the feast + To garnish their felicity, + Will taunt him as a captive beast, + Until their insolence hath ceased. + + [Sidenote: (Wherein it is shown that while the people like Samson have + been blinded, and have not recovered their sight still that their hair + continueth to grow.)] + + Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet, + To Dagon and to Ashtoreth; + Of bloody stripes from head to feet, + He will endure unto the death, + Being blind, he also nothing saith. + + Then 'gainst the Doric capitals, + Resting in prayer to God for power, + He will shake down your marble walls, + Abiding heaven's appointed hour, + And those that fly shall hide and cower. + + But this Delilah shall survive, + To do the sin already done, + Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive, + At Gaza and at Ashkelon, + A woman fair to look upon. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WORLD-SAVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, + Play whips for fun, or snares for game, + The liar full of ease goes free, + And Socrates must bear the shame. + + With the blunt sage he stands despised, + The Pharisees salute him not; + Laughter awaits the truth he prized, + And Judas profits by his plot. + + A million angels kneel and pray, + And sue for grace that he may win— + Eternal Jove prepares the day, + And sternly sets the fateful gin. + + Satan, who hates the light, is fain, + To back his virtuous enterprise; + The omnipotent powers alone refrain, + Only the Lord of hosts denies. + + Whatever of woven argument, + Lacks warp to hold the woof in place, + Smothers his honest discontent, + But leaves to view his woeful face. + + Fling forth the flag, devour the land, + Grasp destiny and use the law; + But dodge the epigram's keen brand, + And fall not by the ass's jaw. + + The idiot snicker strikes more down, + Than fell at Troy or Waterloo; + Still, still he meets it with a frown, + And argues loudly for "the True." + + Injustice lengthens out her chain, + Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more; + But while the eons wax and wane, + He storms the barricaded door. + + Wisdom and peace and fair intent, + Are tedious as a tale twice told; + One thing increases being spent— + Perennial youth belongs to gold. + + At Weehawken the soul set free, + Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill, + Drink life from that philosophy, + And flourish by the age's will. + + If he shall toil to clear the field, + Fate's children seize the prosperous year; + Boldly he fashions some new shield, + And naked feels the victor's spear. + + He rolls the world up into day, + He finds the grain, and gets the hull. + He sees his own mind in the sway, + And Progress tiptoes on his skull. + + Angels and fiends behold the wrong, + And execrate his losing fight; + While Jove amidst the choral song + Smiles, and the heavens glow with light! + + —<i>Trueblood</i> + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama— + Only one drama, then to die. Enough + To win the heights but once! He writes me letters, + These later days marked "Opened by the Censor," + About his drama, asks me what I think + About this point of view, and that approach, + And whether to etch in his hero's soul + By etching in his hero's enemies, + Or luminate his hero by enshadowing + His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him + Which is the actual and the larger theme, + His hero or his hero's enemies? + And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind + Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan + The god misunderstood, the lover of man + Destroyed by heaven for his love of man. + In July, 1914, while in London + He took me to his house to dine and showed me + The verses as above. And while I read + He left the room, returned, I heard him move + The ash trays on the table where we sat + And set some object on the table. + + Then + As I looked up from reading I discovered + A skull and bony hand upon the table. + And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow! + And what a hand was this! A right hand too. + Those fingers in the flesh did miracles. + And when I have my hero's skull before me, + His hand that moulded peoples, I should write + The drama that possesses all my thought. + You'd think the spirit of the man would come + And show me how to find the key that fits + The story of his life, reveal its secret. + I know the secrets, but I want the secret. + You'd think his spirit out of gratitude + Would start me off. It's something, I insist, + To find a haven with a dramatist + After your bones have crossed the sea, and after + Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, + And reverent housing. + + Dying in New York + He lay for ten years in a lonely grave + Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe. + No grave yard in the city would receive him. + Neither a banker nor a friend of banks, + Nor falling in a duel to awake + Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity + Was not so much as offered. He was poor, + And never had a tomb like Washington. + Of course he wasn't Washington—but still, + Study that skull a little! In ten years + A mad admirer living here in England + Went to America and dug him up, + And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then + Our country was in turmoil over France— + (The details are so rich I lose my head, + And can't construct my acts.)—hell's flaming here, + And we are fighting back the roaring fire + That France had lighted. England would abort + The era she embraced. Here is a point + That vexes me in laying out the scenes, + And persons of the play. For parliament + Went into fury that these bones were here + On British soil. The city raged. They took + The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison + For crying on the streets the bones' arrival. + I'd like to put that crier in my play. + The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case + I put it on a background understood, + And showing why the fellow was arrested, + And what a high offence to heaven it was. + Then here's another thing: The monument + This zealous friend had planned was never raised. + The city wouldn't have it—you can guess + The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand + Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me! + He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets. + He had the English gift of writing pamphlets. + He stirred up peoples with his English gift + Against the mother country. How to show this + In action, not in talk, is difficult. + + Well, then here is our friend who has these bones + And cannot honor them in burial. + And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt. + And look! the bones pass to our friend's receiver. + Are they an asset? Our Lord Chancellor + Does not regard them so. I'd like to work + Some humor in my drama at this point, + And satirize his lordship just a little. + Though you can scarcely call a skull an asset + If it be of a man who helped to cost you + The loss of half the world. So the receiver + Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer + Took care of them. He sold them to a man + Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin + About this time turned up in Guilford—then + It's 1854, the man is dead + Near forty years, when just the skull and hand + Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades + All questions touching on that ownership, + And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are— + The rest in short. + + And as for me—no matter + Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me. + Behold the good right hand, behold the skull + Of <i>Thomas Paine</i>, theo-philanthropist, + Of Quaker parents, born in England! Look, + That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote + The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied + Americans against the mother country, + With just that English gift of pamphleteering. + You see I'd have to bring George Washington, + And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson + Upon the stage, and put into their mouths + The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine, + To get before the audience that they thought + He did as much as any man to win + Your independence; that your Declaration + Was founded on his writings, even inspired + A clause against your negro slavery—how— + Look at this hand!—he was the first to write + <i>United States of America</i>—there's the hand + That was the first to write those words. Good Lord + This drama would out-last a Chinese drama + If I put all the story in. But tell me + What to omit, and what to stress? + + And still + I'd have the greatest drama in the world + If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted, + Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast, + His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery. + And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine + Because he was too great, and by this showing + Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers + For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done— + I know that; but it puzzles me to think + That Hamilton—we'll say, is so revered, + So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied + On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs! + Great genius! and so forth—and there's the Crisis + And Common Sense which only little Shelleys + Haunting the dusty book shops read at all. + It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank + Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt— + For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed + In money matters to another's wrong + For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know + The world cares more for chastity and temperance + Than for a faultless life in money matters. + No use to dramatize that vital contrast, + The world to-day is what it always was. + But you don't call this Hamilton an artist + And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler? + Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world + As much as any. There is Leonardo— + The point's not here. + + I think it's more like this: + Some men are Titans and some men are gods, + And some are gods who fall while climbing back + Up to Olympus whence they came. And some + While fighting for the race fall into holes + Where to return and rescue them is death. + Why look you here! You'd think America + Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine + Of Thomas Paine, in fiery gratitude. + He's there in France's national assembly, + And votes to save King Louis with this phrase: + Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office. + They think him faithless to the revolution + For words like these—and clap! the prison door + Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter + To president—of what! to Washington + President of the United States of America, + A title which Paine coined in seventy-seven + Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state! + And Washington is silent, never answers, + And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell, + Who hears the guillotine go slash and click! + Perhaps this is the nucleus of my drama. + Or else to show that Washington was wise + Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas, + And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas, + Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas + For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense." + That may be just the story for my drama. + Old Homer satirized the human race + For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian. + But there's not stuff for satire in a war + Ensuing on the insult for the rescue + Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets, + And won a continent for the rescuer. + That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow + Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man. + This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate + Of England and her power, America's + Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama + As showing how the more you do in life + The greater shall you suffer. This is true, + If what you battered down gets hold of you. + This drama almost drives me mad at times. + I have his story at my fingers' ends. + But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands. + I think I'll have to give it up. What's that? + Well, if an audience of to-day would turn + From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage + What is the use to write it, if they'd turn + No matter how you wrote it? I believe + They wouldn't like it in America, + Nor England either, maybe—you are right! + A drama with no audience is a failure. + But here's this skull. What shall I do with it? + If I should have it cased in solid silver + There is no shrine to take it—no Cologne + For skulls like this. + + Well, I must die sometime, + And who will get it then? Look at this skull! + This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend: + A man who has a theme the world despises! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RECESSIONAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IN TIME OF WAR + + MEDICAL UNIT— + + Even as I see, and share with you in seeing, + The altar flame of your love's sacrifice; + And even as I bear before the hour the vision, + Your little hands in hospital and prison + Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes, + So do I suffer for splendor of your being + Which leads you from me, and in separation + Lays on my breast the pain of memory. + Over your hands I bend + In silent adoration, + Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end, + Asking for consolation + Out of the sacrament of our separation, + And for some faithful word acceptable and true, + That I may know and keep the mystery: + That in this separation I go forth with you + And you to the world's end remain with me. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How may I justify the hope that rises + That I am giving you to a world of pain, + And am a part of your love's sacrifices? + Is it so little if I see you not again? + You will croon soldier lads to sleep, + Even to the last sleep of all. + But in this absence, as your love will keep + Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall, + So I, though far away, shall kneel by you + If the last hour approaches, to bedew + Your lips that from their infant wondering + Lisped of a heaven lost. + I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost + As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving. + Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living + Bearing a solace in death. + God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,— + You are transfigured + Before me, and I bow my head, + And leave you in the light that lights your way, + And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped, + And the hour we must obey— + Look you, I will go pray! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AWAKENING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When you lie sleeping; golden hair + Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink + Ears that nestle, I forbear + A moment while I look and think + How you are mine, and if I dare + To bend and kiss you lying there. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Raphael in the flesh! Resist + I cannot, though to break your sleep + Is thoughtless of me—you are kissed + And roused from slumber dreamless, deep— + You rub away the slumber's mist, + You scold and almost weep. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is too bad to wake you so, + Just for a kiss. But when awake + You sing and dance, nor seem to know + You slept a sleep too deep to break + From which I roused you long ago + For nothing but my passion's sake— + What though your heart should ache! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I arise in the silence of the dawn hour. + And softly steal out to the garden + Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning. + And a wind moves out of the south-land, + Like a film of silver, + And thrills with a far borne message + The flowers of the garden. + Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them + To the south wind as he passes. + But the zinnias and calendulas, + In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly + As the south wind whispers the secret + Of the dawn hour! + + I stand in the silence of the dawn hour + In the garden, + As the star of morning fades. + Flying from scythes of air + The hare-bells, purples and golden glow + On the sand-hill back of the orchard + Race before the feet of the wind. + But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim + Begin to flutter and glisten. + And in a moment, in a twinkled passion, + The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed, + As he fences the lilac lights of the sky, + And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon + Is drowned in the waste of morning! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the silence of the garden, + At the dawn hour + I turn and see you— + You who knew and followed, + You who knew the dawn hour, + And its sky like a Favrile goblet. + You who knew the south-wind + Bearing the secret of the morning + To waking gardens, fields and forests. + You in a gown of green, O footed Iris, + With eyes of dryad gray, + And the blown glory of unawakened tresses— + A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment, + In the silence of the dawn hour! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And here I behold you + Amid a trance of color, silent music, + The embodied spirit of the morning: + Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun + Caught in the twinkling oak leaves: + Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind; + And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas; + The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac + Turned white for the woe of the moon; + And the silence of the dawn hour! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And there to take you in my arms and feel you + In the glory of the dawn hour, + Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh! + To know your spirit by that oneness + Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion + Of life re-lit and visioned. + In dryad eyes beholding + The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing + Rapturous moment of the arisen sun; + And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile. + There to behold you, + Our spirits lost together + In the silence of the dawn hour! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave! + France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal! + Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel + Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave. + Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave + Which Germany and England joined to seal, + And undismayed didst seek the human weal, + Through which thou couldst thyself and others save— + The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise! + When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours. + Freedom remembers, and I can forget:— + Great are we by the faith our past betrays, + And noble now the great Republic flowers + Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gourgaud, these tears are tears—but look, this laugh, + How hearty and serene—you see a laugh + Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes + Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves + When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend, + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me + Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy. + Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed, + Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves, + Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world. + And here we sit grown old, of memories + Top-full—your hand—my breast is all afire + With happiness that warms, makes young again. + + You see it is not what we saw to-day + That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:— + But all that I remember, we remember + Of what the world was, what it is to-day, + Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see + Not in the rise of this man or of that, + Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow + That lifts or fells a nation—no, my friend, + God is not there, but in the living stream + Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows, + Cross-currents, what you will, to that result + Where stillness shows the star that fits the star + Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept + Through sorrow, blood and death,—God moves in that + And there I find Him. + + But these tears—for whom + Or what are tears? The Old Guard—oh, my friend + That melancholy remnant! And the horse, + White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing + The saddle and the bridle which he used. + My tears take quality for these pitiful things, + But other quality for the purple robe + Over the coffin lettered in pure gold + "Napoleon"—ah, the emperor at last + Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks + Over the land he loved, with what result? + Does just the army that acclaimed him rise + Which rose to hail him back from Elba?—no + All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, + And notables uncover! At the door + A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled + Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, + He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, + The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, + I place it on the coffin—dear Gourgaud, + Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh + For thinking that the Emperor is home; + For thinking I have laid upon his bed + The sword that makes inviolable his bed, + Since History stepped to where I stood and stands + To say forever: Here he rests, be still, + Bow down, pass by in reverence—the Ages + Like giant caryatides that look + With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold + With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, + Command your reverence. + + What have we seen? + Why this, that every man, himself achieving + Exhausts the life that drives him to the work + Of self-expression, of the vision in him, + His reason for existence, as he sees it. + He may or may not mould the epic stuff + As he would wish, as lookers on have hope + His hands shall mould it, and by failing take— + For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye, + A cinder for that moment in the eye— + A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise + Have all his work misvalued for the time, + And pump his heart up harder to subdue + Envy, or fear or greed, in any case + He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes + His soul's endowment in the vision of life. + And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau + He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps, + Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican, + Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists, + Conspirators, and clericals may shout + Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours + Kicking the gravel with his little heel, + Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud. + Well, what was he at Waterloo?—you know: + That piercing spirit which at mid-day power + Knew all the maps of Europe—could unfold + A map and say here is the place, the way, + The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here. + Why, all his memory of maps was blurred + The night before he failed at Waterloo. + The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it. + He could not ride a horse at Waterloo. + His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested? + The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris, + Now that our giant democrat was sick. + Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris + Helped by the Duke and Blücher, damn their souls. + + What is a man to do whose work is done + And does not feel so well, has cancer, say? + You know he could have reached America + After his fall at Waterloo. Good God! + If only he had done it! For they say + New Orleans is a city good to live in. + And he had ceded to America + Louisiana, which in time would curb + The English lion. But he didn't go there. + His mind was weakened else he had foreseen + The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged + Would claw him if it got him, play with him + Before it killed him. Who was England then?— + + An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king + Who lost a continent for the lust that slew + The Emperor—the world will say at last + It was no other. Who was England then? + A regent bad as husband, father, son, + Monarch and friend. But who was England then? + Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who + Had cut his country's long before. The duke— + Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept— + The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows + With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury, + To see the Duke waylay democracy. + The world's great conqueror's conqueror!—Eh bien! + Grips England after Waterloo, but when + The people see the duke for what he is: + A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry, + A spotless knight of ancient privilege, + They up and stone him, by the very deed + Stone him for wronging the democracy + The Emperor erected with the sword. + The world's great conqueror's conqueror—Oh, I sicken! + Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves + Are guarded and kept up, but falling down + To ruin and erasure when the graves + Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets, + Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk + Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor, + Melt up true metal at your peril, poets, + Sweet moralists, monopolists of God. + But who was England? Byron driven out, + And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct, + Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey, + The turn-coat panegyrist of King George, + An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last; + A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop + The progress of democracy and chanting + To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo, + Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped. + For England of to-day is freer—why? + The revolution and the Emperor! + They quench the revolution, send Napoleon + To St. Helena—but the ashes soar + Grown finer, grown invisible at last. + And all the time a wind is blowing ashes, + And sifting them upon the spotless linen + Of kings and dukes in England till at last + They find themselves mistaken for the people. + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me—<i>tiens</i>! + The Emperor is home again in France, + And Europe for democracy is thrilling. + Now don't you see the Emperor was sick, + The shadows falling slant across his mind + To write to such an England: "My career + Is ended and I come to sit me down + Before the fireside of the British people, + And claim protection from your Royal Highness"— + This to the regent—"as a generous foe + Most constant and most powerful"—I weep. + They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship, + He thinks he's bound for England, and why not? + They dine him, treat him like an Emperor. + And then they tack and sail to St. Helena, + Give him a cow shed for a residence. + Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him, + Spy on his torture, intercept his letters, + Step on his broken wings, and mock the film + Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ... + + One day the packet brought to him a book + Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor." + Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned + Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed, + The Emperor said—I stood near by—"Who gave you + The right to slur my title? In a few years + Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself + Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered + For your indignities to me, that's all. + England expended millions on her libels + To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose + Obscure or bloody—how have they availed? + You have me here upon this scarp of rock, + But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun + And like the sun it cannot be destroyed. + Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam + The liberal stream, but only to make stronger + The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true? + That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend + And trust God as I have not trusted yet. + And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed? + A portion of the royal blood of Europe? + A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood + Is dated from the field of Montenotte, + And from my mother there in Corsica, + And from the revolution. I'm a man + Who made himself because the people made me. + You understand as little as she did + When I had brought her back from Austria, + And riding through the streets of Paris pointed + Up to the window of the little room + Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne, + A poor boy with my way to make—as poor + As Andrew Jackson in America, + No more a despot than he is a despot. + Your England understands. I was a menace + Not as a despot, but as head and front, + Eyes, brain and leader of democracy, + Which like the messenger of God was marking + The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies. + Your England understands I had to hold + By rule compact a people drunk with rapture, + And torn by counter forces, had to fight + The royalists of Europe who beheld + Their peoples feverish from the great infection, + Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop + Its spread to them. Your England understands. + Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey. + But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors, + My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures + Arts, sciences I builded, democratic + Triumphs which I won will live for ages— + These are my witnesses, will testify + Forever what I was and meant to do. + The ideas which I brought to power will stifle + All royalty, all feudalism—look + They live in England, they illuminate + America, they will be faith, religion + For every people—these I kindled, carried + Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief + Torch bearer, soldier, representative." + + You were not there, Gourgaud—but wait a minute, + I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now: + Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor + Contemptuous but not the less bewitched. + And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled + "You make me smile." Why that is memorable: + It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone. + He was a prophet, founder of the sect + Of smilers and of laughers through the world, + Smilers and laughers that the Emperor + Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe, + What were it in this day except for France, + Napoleon's France, the revolution's France? + What will it be as time goes on but peoples + Made free through France? + + I take the good and ill, + Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed, + Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours, + Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched, + His child torn from him, Josephine and wife + Silent or separate, waiting long for death, + Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings + Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain + A little sun, and crying to the sea + With broken voice—I weep when I remember + Such things which you and I from day to day + Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then + There is that night of thunder, and the dawning + And all that day of storm and toward the evening + He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well, + I leave the room and say to Steward there: + "The Emperor is dead." That very moment + A crash of thunder deafened us. You see + A great age boomed in thunder its renewal— + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the blue sky of a clear vision, + And by the white light of a great illumination, + And by the blood-red of brotherhood, + Draw the sword, O Republic! + Draw the sword! + + For the light which is England, + And the resurrection which is Russia, + And the sorrow which is France, + And for peoples everywhere + Crying in bondage, + And in poverty! + + You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic! + And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks; + And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory: + Now the leaven must be stirred, + And the brands themselves carried and touched + To the jungles and the black-forests. + Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling, + They are crying to each other from the peaks— + They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight, + Eager for battle! + + As a strong man nurses his youth + To the day of trial; + But as a strong man nurses it no more + On the day of trial, + But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength! + And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth! + You shall neither save your youth, + Nor hoard your strength + Beyond this hour, O Republic! + + For you have sworn + By the passion of the Gaul, + And the strength of the Teuton, + And the will of the Saxon, + And the hunger of the Poor, + That the white man shall lie down by the black man, + And by the yellow man, + And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh, + Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy. + And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold + Aught beside them, + You have dedicated the earth, O Republic, + To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy! + + By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom, + And by the Power that makes us love our fellows, + And by the Power that comforts us in death, + Dying for great races to come— + Draw the sword, O Republic! + Draw the Sword! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEAR OLD DICK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Said dear old Dick + To the colored waiter: + "Here, George! be quick + Roast beef and a potato. + I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one, + You black old scoundrel, get a move on you! + I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun. + This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you, + You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon—" + "Yas sah! Yas sah,"answered the coon. + "Now don't you talk back," said dear old Dick, + "Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick + With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor, + Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick." + And the nigger all the time was moving round the table, + Rattling the silver things faster and faster— + "Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able + I'll bring yo' dinnah as shore as yo's bawn." + "Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone, + You low-down nigger," said dear old Dick. + + Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick + A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard; + Or how would you relish some spit in your broth? + Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard? + Or something in your coffee to make your stomach froth? + Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie? + That's a gentlemanly nigger or he'd black your eye/' + + Then dear old Dick made this long reply: + "You know, I love a nigger, + And I love this nigger. + I met him first on the train from California + Out of Kansas City; in the morning early + I walked through the diner, feeling upset + For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly. + And there sat this nigger by a table all dressed, + Waiting for the time to serve the omelet, + Buttered toast and coffee to the passengers. + And this is what he said in a fine southern way: + 'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest, + I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.' + Now think! here's a human who has no other cares + Except to please the white man, serve him when he's starving, + And who has as much fun when he sees you carving + The sirloin as you do, does this black man. + Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel, + Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan? + There's music in their soul as original + As any breed of people in the whole wide earth; + They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth. + There are only two things real American: + One is Christian Science, the other is the nigger. + Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure + Anything beside that is not imitation + Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation. + Return to this globe five hundred years hence— + You'll see how the fundamental color of the coon + In art, in music, has altered our tune; + We are destined to bow to their influence; + There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone, + And that is America put into tone." + + And dear old Dick gathered speed and said: + "Sometimes through Dvorák a vision arises + To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red: + 'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow, + I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow + Of the life of Temu, the god who prizes + Favorite souls and the souls of kings.' + Now these are the words, and here is the dream, + No wonder you think I am seeing things: + The desert of Egypt shimmers in the gleam + Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight. + And a giant negro as black as night + Is walking by a camel in a caravan. + His great back glistens with the streaming sweat. + The camel is ridden by a light-faced man, + A Greek perhaps, or Arabian. + And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying + With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down. + He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing; + His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening + To the negro keeping time like a tabouret. + And what cares he for Memphis town, + Merneptah the bloody, or Books of the Dead, + Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread? + A tune is in his heart, a reality: + The camel, the desert are things that be, + He's a negro slave, but his heart is free." + + Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner. + "Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner," + Said dear old Dick to the colored waiter. + "Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato. + I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do; + Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo', + And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took + From a dish set by, by the git-away cook. + I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do." + "Well, George," Dick said, "if Gabriel blew + His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend + To wait on St. Peter world without end." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROOM OF MIRRORS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw a room where many feet were dancing. + The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing + Both flames of candles and the heaven's light, + Though windows there were none for air or flight. + The room was in a form polygonal + Reached by a little door and narrow hall. + One could behold them enter for the dance, + And waken as it were out of a trance, + And either singly or with some one whirl: + The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl. + And every panel of the room was just + A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust + Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize + Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease + Of music or of dancing, save by him + Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim + And unknown space behind the flashing mirrors, + And by his partner struck through by the terrors + Of sudden loss. + + And looking I could see + That scarcely any dancer here could free + His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze + Upon himself or others, till a craze + Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate + The hand that took each dancer soon or late. + Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced, + Some stared and paled and then more madly danced. + One dancer only never looked at all. + He seemed soul captured by the carnival. + There were so many dancers there he loved, + He was so greatly by the music moved, + He had no time to study his own face + There in the mirrors as from place to place + He quickly danced. + + Until I saw at last + This dancer by the whirling dancers cast + Face full against a mirrored panel where + Before he could look at himself or stare + He plunged through to the other side—and quick, + As water closes when you lift the stick, + The mirrored panel swung in place and left + No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick. + But all his partners thus so soon bereft + Went dancing to the music as before. + But I saw faces in that mirrored door + Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching + Their faces over shoulders, even matching + Their terror with each other's to repress + A growing fear in seeing it was less + Than some one else's, or to ease despair + By looking in a face who did not care, + While watching for the hand that through some door + Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor + With every time-beat of the orchestra. + What is this room of mirrors? Who can say? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LETTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What does one gain by living? What by dying + Is lost worth having? What the daily things + Lived through together make them worth the while + For their sakes or for life's? Where's the denying + Of souls through separation? There's your smile! + And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings + Half uttered nothings of delight! But then + Now that I see you not, and shall again + Touch you no more—memory can possess + Your soul's essential self, and none the less + You live with me. I therefore write to you + This letter just as if you were away + Upon a journey, or a holiday; + And so I'll put down everything that's new + In this secluded village, since you left. ... + Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember, + After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom. + We had spring all at once—the long December + Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room, + And laid your things away. And then one morning + I saw the mother robin giving warning + To little bills stuck just above the rim + Of that nest which you watched while being built, + Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb, + With folded wings against an April rain. + On June the tenth Edward and Julia married, + I did not go for fear of an old pain. + I was out on the porch as they drove by, + Coming from church. I think I never scanned + A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it + Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet— + I went into the house to have a cry. + A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife. + Between housework and hoeing in the garden + I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life. + My heart was numb and still I had to harden + All memory or die. And just the same + As when you sat beside the window, passed + Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed. + He did not die till late November came. + Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast, + 'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child. + Her husband was in Monmouth at the time. + She had no milk, the baby is not well. + The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell. + And after harvest Joseph Clifford tiled + His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime + Has shocked the village, for the monster killed + Glendora Wilson's father at his door— + A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled. + I could go on, but wherefore tell you more? + The world of men has gone its olden way + With war in Europe and the same routine + Of life among us that you knew when here. + This gossip is not idle, since I say + By means of it what I would tell you, dear: + I have been near you, dear, for I have been + Not with you through these things, but in despite + Of living them without you, therefore near + In spirit and in memory with you. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Do you remember that delightful Inn + At Chester and the Roman wall, and how + We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth? + And afterward when you and I came down + To London, I forsook the murky town, + And left you to quaint ways and crowded places, + While I went on to Putney just to see + Old Swinburne and to look into his face's + Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on + A finer thing than any verse he wrote? + (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!) + He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason + To England's greatness. What was Camden like? + Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink? + And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think. + His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh! + Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half + My visit, so I left. + + The thing was this: + None of this talk was Swinburne any more + Than some child of his loins would take his hair, + Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,— + His flesh was nothing but a poor affair, + A channel for the eternal stream—his flesh + Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book, + But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look + Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh + And liquid meaning. So I knew at last + His real immortal self is in his verse. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since you have gone I've thought of this so much. + I cannot lose you in this universe— + I first must lose myself. The essential touch + Of soul possession lies not in the walk + Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk + Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes + Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread + Broken together, nor the hour of love + When flesh surrenders depths of things divine + Beyond all vision, as they were the dream + Of other planets, but without these even + In death and separation, there is heaven: + By just that unison and its memory + Which brought our lips together. To be free + From accidents of being, to be freeing + The soul from trammels on essential being, + Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed + Into the only heaven God has made: + That's where we know each other as we are, + In the bright ether of some quiet star, + Communing as two memories with each other. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CANTICLE OF THE RACE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SONG OF MEN + + How beautiful are the bodies of men— + The agonists! + Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong + For their strength's behests. + Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong + In games or tests + When they run or box or swim the long + Sea-waves crests + With their slender legs, and their hips so strong, + And their rounded chests. + + I know a youth who raises his arms + Over his head. + He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms + Of flood or fire. + He springs renewed from a lusty bed + To his youth's desire. + He drowses, for April flames outspread + In his soul's attire. + + The strength of men is for husbandry + Of woman's flesh: + Worker, soldier, magistrate + Of city or realm; + Artist, builder, wrestling Fate + Lest it overwhelm + The brood or the race, or the cherished state. + They sing at the helm + When the waters roar and the waves are great, + And the gale is fresh. + + There are two miracles, women and men— + Yea, four there be: + A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man, + And God's decree. + And a babe from the womb in a little span + Ere the month be ten. + Their rapturous arms entwine and cling + In the depths of night; + He hunts for her face for his wondering, + And her eyes are bright. + A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring + Is man's delight. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SONG OF WOMEN + + How beautiful is the flesh of women— + Their throats, their breasts! + My wonder is a flame which burns, + A flame which rests; + It is a flame which no wind turns, + And a flame which quests. + + I know a woman who has red lips, + Like coals which are fanned. + Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips + From her white-rose chin. + Her throat curves like a cloud to the land + Where her breasts begin. + I close my eyes when I put my hand + On her breast's white skin. + + The flesh of women is like the sky + When bare is the moon: + Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks, + And sea-shell loins. + I know a woman whose splendors vex + Where the flesh joins— + A slope of light and a circumflex + Of clefts and coigns. + She thrills like the air when silence wrecks + An ended tune. + + These are the things not made by hands in the earth: + Water and fire, + The air of heaven, and springs afresh, + And love's desire. + And a thing not made is a woman's flesh, + Sorrow and mirth! + She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre, + And she drips the wine. + Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh + As buds on the vine: + For fire and water and air are flesh, + And love is the shrine. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT + + How beautiful is the human spirit + In its vase of clay! + It takes no thought of the chary dole + Of the light of day. + It labors and loves, as it were a soul + Whom the gods repay + With length of life, and a golden goal + At the end of the way. + + There are souls I know who arch a dome, + And tunnel a hill. + They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome, + And measure the sky. + They find the good and destroy the ill, + And they bend and ply + The laws of nature out of a will + While the fates deny. + + I wonder and worship the human spirit + When I behold + Numbers and symbols, and how they reach + Through steel and gold; + A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech, + And an hour foretold. + It ponders its nature to turn and teach, + And itself to mould. + + The human spirit is God, no doubt, + Is flesh made the word: + Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael, + And the souls who heard + Beyond the rim of the world the swell + Of an ocean stirred + By a Power on the waters inscrutable. + There are souls who gird + Their loins in faith that the world is well, + In a faith unblurred. + How beautiful is the human spirit— + The flesh made the word! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This way and that way measuring, + Sighting from tree to tree, + And from the bend of the river. + This must be the place where Black Eagle + Twelve hundred moons ago + Stood with folded arms, + While a Pottawatomie father + Plunged a knife in his heart, + For the murder of a son. + Black Eagle stood with folded arms, + Slim, erect, firm, unafraid, + Looking into the distance, across the river. + Then the knife flashed, + Then the knife crashed through his ribs + And into his heart. + And like a wounded eagle's wings + His arms fell, slowly unfolding, + And he sank to death without a groan! + + And my name is Black Eagle too. + And I am of the spirit, + And perhaps of the blood + Of that Black Eagle of old. + I am naked and alone, + But very happy; + Being rich in spirit and in memories. + I am very strong. + I am very proud, + Brave, revengeful, passionate. + No longer deceived, keen of eye, + Wise in the ways of the tribes: + A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes. + A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains. + A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries. + A knower of harmless snakes, + And the livid copperhead. + Lastly a knower of the spirits, + For there are many spirits: + Spirits of hidden lakes, + And of pine forests. + Spirits of the dunes, + And of forested valleys. + Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields, + And great distances. + There are many spirits + Under the Great Spirit. + Him I know not. + Him I only feel + With closed eyes. + Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river + At a sky of stars, + When the leaves of the oak are asleep. + I will fill this birch bark full of writing + And hide it in the cleft of an oak, + Here where Black Eagle fell. + Decipher my story who can: + + When I was a boy of fourteen + Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs, + Rose from the door of his tent + And came to where we were running, + Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox, + And said to me in their hearing: + "You are the fastest of all. + Now run again, and let me see. + And if you can run + I will make you my runner, + I will care for you, + And you shall have pockets of gold." ... + + And then we ran. + And the others lagged behind me, + Like smoke behind the wind. + But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox + Grew dark. + They nudged each other. + They looked side-ways, + Toeing the earth in shame. ... + Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me. + And he went here and there + To find a match. + And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper, + And nuggets of gold. + And at last the match was made. + + It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell, + It was by a red and yellow mountain, + It was by a great river + That we ran. + Hundreds of Indians came to the race. + They babbled, smoked and quarreled. + And everyone carried a knife, + And everyone carried a gun. + And we runners— + How young we were and unknowing + What the race meant to them! + For we saw nothing but the track, + We saw nothing but our trainers + And the starters. + And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim. + But the Indians and the squaws saw much else, + They thought of the race in such different ways + From the way we thought of it. + For with me it was honor, + It was triumph, + It was fame. + It was the tender looks of Indian maidens + Wherever I went. + But now I know that to Tobacco Jim, + And the old fathers and young bucks + The race meant jugs of whiskey, + And new guns. + It meant a squaw, + A pony, + Or some rise in the life of the tribe. + + So the shot of the starter rang at last, + And we were off. + I wore a band of yellow around my brow + With an eagle's feather in it, + And a red strap for my loins. + And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang: + "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle, + They are all behind you." + And they were all behind me, + As the cloud's shadow is behind + The bend of the grass under the wind. + But as we neared the end of the race + The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians, + And the young bucks, + Crowded close to the track— + I fell and lost. + + Next day Tobacco Jim went about + Lamenting his losses. + And when I told him they tripped me + He cursed them. + But later he went about asking in whispers + If I was wise enough to throw the race. + Then suddenly he disappeared. + And we heard rumors of his riches, + Of his dogs and ponies, + And of the joyous life he was leading. + + Then my father took me to New Mexico, + And here my life changed. + I was no longer the runner, + I had forgotten it all. + I had become a wise Indian. + I could do many things. + I could read the white man's writing + And write it. + + And Indians flocked to me: + Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel, + Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet, + And many others. + They flocked to me, for I could help them. + For the Great Spirit may pick a chief, + Or a leader. + But sometimes the chief rises + By using wise Indians like me + Who are rich in gifts and powers ... + But at least it is true: + All little great Indians + Who are after ponies, + Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets + Gain their ends through the gifts and powers + Of wise Indians like me. + They come to you and ask you to do this, + And to do that. + And you do it, because it would be small + Not to do it. + And until all the cards are laid on the table + You do not see what they were after, + And then you see: + They have won your friend away; + They have stolen your hill; + They have taken your place at the feast; + They are wearing your feathers; + They have much gold. + And you are tired, and without laughter. + And they drift away from you, + As Tobacco Jim went away from me. + And you hear of them as rich and great. + And then you move on to another place, + And another life. + + Billy the Pelican has built him a board house + And lives in Guthrie. + Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace. + Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News; + He is helping the government + To reclaim stolen lands. + (Many have told me it was Hungry Mole + Who tripped me in the race.) + Big Jawed Prophet is very rich. + He has disappeared as an eagle + With a rabbit. + And I have come back here + Where twelve hundred moons ago + Black Eagle before me + Had the knife run through his ribs + And through his heart. ... + + I will hide this writing + In the cleft of the oak + By this bend in the river. + Let him read who can: + I was a swift runner whom they tripped. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY LIGHT WITH YOURS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + When the sea has devoured the ships, + And the spires and the towers + Have gone back to the hills. + And all the cities + Are one with the plains again. + And the beauty of bronze, + And the strength of steel + Are blown over silent continents, + As the desert sand is blown— + My dust with yours forever. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + When folly and wisdom are no more, + And fire is no more, + Because man is no more; + When the dead world slowly spinning + Drifts and falls through the void— + My light with yours + In the Light of Lights forever! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BLIND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Amid the din of cars and automobiles, + At the corner of a towering pile of granite, + Under the city's soaring brick and stone, + Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand + With eyeless sockets playing on a flute. + And an old woman holds the cup for you, + Wherein a curious passer by at times + Casts a poor coin. + + You are so blind you cannot see us men + As walking trees! + I fancy from the tune + You play upon the flute, you have a vision + Of leafy trees along a country road-side, + Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks + Rise singing in the sun-shine! + In your darkness + You may see such things playing on your flute + Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago! + + And here's another on a farther corner, + With head thrown back as if he searched the skies, + He's selling evening papers, what's to him + The flaring headlines? Yet he calls the news. + That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call, + Or play the flute in blindness. + + Yet I think + It's neither news nor music with these blind ones— + Rather the hope of re-created eyes, + And a light out of death! + "How can it be," I hear them over and over, + "There never shall be eyes for me again?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + "I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —<i>His Own Words</i> + + IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Eagle, whose fearless + Flight in vast spaces + Clove the inane, + While we stood tearless, + White with rapt faces + In wonder and pain. ... + + Heights could not awe you, + Depths could not stay you. + Anguished we saw you, + Saw Death way-lay you + Where the storm flings + Black clouds to thicken + Round France's defender! + Archangel stricken + From ramparts of splendor— + Shattered your wings! ... + + But Lafayette called you, + Rochambeau beckoned. + Duty enthralled you. + For France you had reckoned + Her gift and your debt. + Dull hearts could harden + Half-gods could palter. + For you never pardon + If Liberty's altar + You chanced to forget. ... + + Stricken archangel! + Ramparts of splendor + Keep you, evangel + Of souls who surrender + No banner unfurled + For ties ever living, + Where Freedom has bound them. + Praise and thanksgiving + For love which has crowned them— + Love frees the world! ... +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who is that calling through the night, + A wail that dies when the wind roars? + We heard it first on Shipley's Hill, + It faded out at Comingoer's. + + Along five miles of wintry road + A horseman galloped with a cry, + "'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer, + "When I heard clattering hoofs go by." + + "I flung the winder up to listen; + I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge; + I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle + When he went over Houghton's Bridge." + + Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin' + A heifer in the barn, and then + My boy says: 'Pap, that's Billy Paris.' + 'There,' says my boy, it is again." + + "Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris, + We seed 'im at the Christmas tree. + It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy + I seed go home with Emily.' + + "'He is too old for galavantin' + Upon a night like this,' says I. + 'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty, + Good-natured huskiness in that cry.' + + "'It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin' + The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine, + 'I never thought—it makes me shiver, + And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'" + + Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it + I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns. + Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse + Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's." + + Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle + And held it up to the winder pane. + But when I heerd again the holler + 'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane." + + Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed + I thought he'd thump the door away. + I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?' + 'O, Emily,' I heard him say. + + "And there stood Billy Paris tremblin', + His face so white, he looked so queer. + 'O Andy'—and his voice went broken. + 'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.' + + "'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, + 'What brings you here?—I would be told.' + Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers, + It teched her hand ... and it war cold. + + "'We got back from the Christmas doin's + And went to bed, and she was sayin', + (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin' + To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.' + + "'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, + And then I thought I heerd her moan. + It war the wind, I guess, for Emily + War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.' + + "I left him then to call my woman + To tell her that her mother died. + When we come back his voice was steady, + The big tears in his eyes was dried. + + "He just sot there and quiet like + Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had, + And said for her to die on Christmas + Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad. + + "He grew so cam he almost skeered us. + Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.' + Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman + That ever walked this Vale of Care.' + + "Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang, + I never heerd her once complain.' + Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas + When she can go and have no pain.' + + "Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.' + Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.' + He hid his face then in his muffler + And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WIDOW LA RUE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + What will happen, Widow La Rue? + For last night at three o'clock + You woke and saw by your window again + Amid the shadowy locust grove + The phantom of the old soldier: + A shadow of blue, like mercury light— + What will happen, Widow La Rue? + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What may not happen + In this place of summer loneliness? + For neither the sunlight of July, + Nor the blue of the lake, + Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, + Nor the song of larks and thrushes, + Nor the bravuras of bobolinks, + Nor scents of hay new mown, + Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, + Nor the snow of nodding yarrow, + Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest + Of the bluff by the lake + Can take away the loneliness + Of this July by the lake! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Last night you saw the old soldier + By your window, Widow La Rue! + Or was it your husband you saw, + As he lay by the gate so long ago? + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue, + And specks of blood on his face, + Like a wall specked by a shake a brush; + And something like blubber or pinkish wax, + Hiding the gash in his throat—— + The serum and blood blown up by the breath + From emptied lungs. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend + For the afternoon and the night, + Where the phantom will not come, + Where the phantom may be forgotten. + And scarcely has she turned the road, + Round the water-mill by the creek, + When the telephone rings and daughter Flora + Springs up from a drowsy chair + And the ennui of a book, + And runs to answer the call. + And her heart gives a bound, + And her heart stops still, + As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses + Quick as poison through all her frame. + And something like bees swarming in her breast + Comes to her throat in a surge of fear, + Rapture, passion, for what is the voice + But the voice of her lover? + And just because she is here alone + In this desolate summer-house by the lake; + And just because this man is forbidden + To cross her way, for a taint in his blood + Of drink, from a father who died of drink; + And just because he is in her thought + By night and day, + The voice of him heats her through like fire. + She sways from dizziness, + The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ... + He is in the village, is walking out, + He will be at the door in an hour. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + The sun is half a hand above the lake + In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness. + On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover + Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow + Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters + Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end. + A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire + Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet. + Over the olive green of the darkening forest + A thin moon slits the sky and down the road + Two lovers walk. + + It is night when they reappear + From the forest, walking the hay-field over. + And the sky is so full of stars it seems + Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, + Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, + And in the silence of the scented hay-field + Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water + A hundred feet below. + And at last they sit by a cock of hay, + As warm as the nest of a bird, + Hand clasped in hand and silent, + Large-eyed and silent. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, daughter Flora! + Delicious weakness is on you now, + With your lover's face above you. + You can scarcely lift your hand, + Or turn your head + Pillowed upon the fragrant hay. + You dare not open your moistened eyes + For fear of this sky of stars, + For fear of your lover's eyes. + The trance of nature has taken you + Rocked on creation's tide. + And the kinship you feel for this man, + Confessed this night—so often confessed + And wondered at— + Has coiled its final sorcery about you. + You do not know what it is, + Nor care what it is, + Nor care what fate is to come,— + The night has you. + You only move white, fainting hands + Against his strength, then let them fall. + Your lips are parted over set teeth; + A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body + Maddens your lover, + And in a swift and terrible moment + The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ... + + Then your lover sits up with a sigh. + But you lie there so still with closed eyes. + So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars. + A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr + Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, + But you do not move. + And the sun comes up at last + Finding you asleep in his arms, + There by the hay cock. + And he kisses your tears away, + And redeems his word of last night, + For down to the village you go + And take your vows before the Pastor there, + And then return to the summer house. ... + All is well. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Widow La Rue has returned + And is rocking on the porch— + What is about to happen? + For last night the phantom of the old soldier + Appeared to her again— + It followed her to the house of her friend, + And appeared again. + But more than ever was it her husband, + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue. + And while she thinks of it, + And wonders what is about to happen, + She hears laughter, + And looking up, beholds her daughter + And the forbidden lover. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And then the daughter and her husband + Come to the porch and the daughter says + "We have just been married in the village, mother; + Will you forgive us? + This is your son; you must kiss your son." + And Widow La Rue from her chair arises + And calmly takes her child in her arms, + And clasps his hand. + And after gazing upon him + Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked + Upon returning Agamemnon, + With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed, + She kissed him, + And in a calm voice blessed them. + Then sent her daughter, singing, + On an errand back to the village + To market for dinner, saying: + "We'll talk over plans, my dear." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + And the young husband + Rocks on the porch without a thought + Of the lightning about to strike. + And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue + Enters the house. + And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic rapture, + The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room + By a window back of the chair where he rocks, + And drawing the shade + She speaks: + + "These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the old soldier + Who haunts the midnights + Of this summer loneliness. + And I knew that a doom was at hand. ... + You have married my daughter, and this is the doom. ... + O, God in heaven!" + Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness + Winds out of the July glare + And stops the flow of his blood, + As he hears from the re-echoing room + The voice of Widow La Rue + Moving darkly between banks + Of delirious fear and woe! + + "Be calm till you hear me through. ... + Do not move, or enter here, + I am hiding my face from you. ... + Hear me through, and then fly. + I warned her against you, but how could I tell her + Why you were not for her? + But tell me now, have you come together? + No? Thank God for that. ... + For you must not come together. ... + Now listen while I whisper to you: + My daughter was born of a lawless love + For a man I loved before I married, + And when, for five years, no child came + I went to this man + And begged him to give me a child. ... + Well then ... the child was born, your wife as it seems. ... + And when my husband saw her, + And saw the likeness of this man in her face + He went out of the house, where they found him later + By the entrance gate + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue, + And specks of blood on his face, + Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush. + And something like blubber or pinkish wax + Hiding the gash in his throat— + The serum and blood blown up by the breath + From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God! + Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand? + Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go! + Leap from the bluff to the rocks on the shore! + Take down the sickle and end yourself! + You don't care, you say, for all I've told you? + Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. ... + And her father died when she was a baby. ... + And you were four when your father died. ... + And her father died on the very day + That your father died, + At the verv same moment. ... + On the very same bed. ... + Don't you understand?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch, + He runs and stumbles to reach the road. + He yells and curses and tears his hair. + He staggers and falls and rises and runs. + And Widow La Rue + With the eyes of Clytemnestra + Stands at the window and watches him + Running and tearing his hair. + + VII + + She seems so calm when the daughter returns. + She only says: "He has gone to the meadow, + He will soon be back. ..." + But he never came back. + + And the years went on till the daughter's hair + Was white as her mother's there in the grave. + She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left + And didn't say good-bye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, + Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old + In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed + To deities or devils. To resume + We find it caused by morphological + Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes, + More times, indeed, the anatomical + Basis, if one be, escapes detection. + For many functions of the cortex are + Unknown, as I have said. + + And now remember + Mercier's analysis of heredity: + Besides direct transmission of unstable + Nervous systems, there remains the law + Hereditary of sanguinity. + Then here's another matter: Parents may + Have normal nervous systems, yet produce + Children of abnormal nerves and minds, + Caused by unsuitable sexual germs. + Let me repeat before I leave the matter + The factors in a perfect organization: + First quality in the germ producing matter; + Then quality in the sperm producing force, + And lastly relative fitness of the two. + We are but plants, however high we rise, + Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream + We are but plants, and all we are and do + Depends upon the seed and on the soil. + What Mendel found in raising peas may lead + To perfect knowledge of the human mind. + There is one law for men and peas, the law + Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men + And mind of certain matter, all depends + Not on a varying law, but on a law + Varied in its course by matter, as + The arm, which is a lever and which works + By lever principle cannot make use + And form cement with trowel to the forms + It makes of paint or marble. + + To resume: + A child may take the qualities of one parent + In some respects, and of the other parent + In some respects. A child may have the traits + Of father at one period of his life, + The mother at one period of his life. + And if the parents' traits are similar + Their traits may be prepotent in a child, + Thus giving rise to qualities convergent. + So if you take a circle and draw off + A line which would become another circle + If drawn enough, completed, but is left + Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind + Of cumulative heredity. Take John, + My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect, + John has a mind which is a perfect circle. + A perfect circle can be small, you know. + And so John has good sense within his sphere. + But if some force began to work like yeast + In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line + To make a larger thinking circle, say + About a great invention, heaven or God, + Then John would be abnormal, till this line + Shot round and joined, became a larger circle. + This is the secret of eccentric genius, + The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space + Does not enclose co-ordinated thought. + He's like a plant mutating, half himself + Half something new and greater. If we looked + To John's heredity we'd find this change + Was manifest in mother or in father + About the self-same period of life, + Most likely in his father. Attributes + Of fathers are inherited by sons, + Of mothers by the daughters. + + Now this morning + I take up paranoia. Paranoics + Are often noted for great gifts of mind. + Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics, + Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown, + Cellini, many others. All who think + Themselves inspired of God, and all who see + Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects + Of prophecies are paranoics. All + Who visions have of God or archangels, + Hear voices or celestial music, these + Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise + Enough above the earth to look along + A longer arc and see realities, + Or see strange things through atmospheric strata + Which build up or distort the things they see + Remains the question. Let us wait the proof. + + Last week I told you I would have to-day + The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here, + And lecture on his case. Here is the brain: + Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look + After the lecture at the brain and skull. + There's nothing anatomical at fault + With this fine brain, so far as I can find. + You'll note how deep the convolutions are, + Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull + Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note, + The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical. + But this is scarce significant. Let me tell + How Jacob Groesbell looked: + + The man was tall, + Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs. + His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high, + And ran back at an angle, temples full. + His nose was long and fleshy at the point, + Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray, + The iris flecked. They looked as if a light + As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears + Were very large, projected at right angles. + His neck was slender, womanish. His skin + Of finest texture, white and very smooth. + His voice was quiet, musical. His manner + Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable. + His parents, as I learned through inquiry, + Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved. + The mother healthy both in mind and body. + The father was eccentric, perhaps insane. + They were first cousins. + + I knew Jacob Groesbell + Ten years before he died. I knew him first + When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman + With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then + As time went on I saw him when he came + At my request to do my carpentry. + I grew to know him, and by slow degrees + He told me of his readings in the Bible, + And gave me his interpretations. At last + Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach, + Which took him off. He sent for me, and said + He wished me to attend him, which I did. + He told me I could have his body and brain + To lecture on, dissect, since some had said + He was insane, he told me, and if so + I should find something wrong with brain or body. + And if I found a wrong then all his visions + Of God and archangels were just the fancies + That come to madmen. So he made provision + To give his brain and body for this cause, + And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing + On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic. + + As I have said before, in making tests + And observations of the patient, have + His conversation taken stenographically, + In order to preserve his speech exactly, + And catch the flow if he becomes excited. + So we determine if he makes new words, + If he be incoherent, or repeats. + I took my secretary once to make + A stenographic record. Strange enough + He would not talk while she was writing down. + And when I asked him why, he would not tell. + So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel, + And put in it a dictaphone, and when + A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put + My hand among my bottles in the satchel, + As if I was compounding medicine, + Instead I'd put another cylinder on. + And thus I got his story in his voice, + Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all, + Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone + The students in the farthest gallery + Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me, + And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain + Here in this jar beside me. Listen now + To Jacob Groesbell's voice: + + "Will you repeat + From the beginning connectedly the story + Of your religious life, illumination, + Vhat you have called your soul's escape?" + + "I will, + Since I shall never tell it again." + + "I grew up + Timid and sensitive, not very strong, + Not understood of father or of mother. + They did not love me, and I never felt + A tenderness for them. I used to quote: + 'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?' + At school I was not liked. I had a chum + From time to time, that's all. And I remember + My mother on a day put with my luncheon + A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came + I missed it, found some boys had taken it, + And when I asked for it, they made the cry: + 'Bottle of milk, bottle of milk,' and I + Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour + It hurts me to remember it. Such days, + All misery! For all my clothes were patched. + They hooted at me. So I lived alone. + At twelve years old I had great fears of death, + And hell, heard devils in my room. One night + During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains, + And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day + As I was walking on the village street + Close to the church I heard a voice which said + 'Behold, my son'—and falling on my knees + I prayed in ecstacy—but as I prayed + Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me. + A heat ran through me, I arose and fled. + Well, then I joined the church and was baptized. + But something left me in the ceremony, + I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back + Into the trap. I took to wandering + In solitary places, could not bear + To see a human face. I slept for nights + In still ravines, or meadows. But one time + Returning to my home, I found the room + Filled up with visitors—my heart stopped short, + And glancing at the faces of my parents + I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak, + Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So + I tell this just to illustrate my shyness, + Which cursed my youth and made me miserable, + Something I fought but could not overcome. + And pondering on the Scriptures I could see + How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even, + How even as my brothers called me mad + They called our Saviour so. + + "At fourteen years + My father taught me carpentry, his trade, + And made me work with him. I seemed to be + The butt for jokes and laughter with the men— + I know not why. For now and then they'd drop + A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew + I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts + Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years, + God was not with me though I sought Him ever + And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain + Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights, + Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves, + Clouds, trunks of trees,—illusions of the devil. + I was turned twenty years when on an evening + Calm, beautiful in June, after a day + Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch, + The sun just sinking, at my left I heard + A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ." + My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil + Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought, + So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy. + I ran into my room and seized a pistol + To end my life. God willed it otherwise. + I fainted and awoke upon the floor + After some hours. To heap my suffering full + A few days after this while in the village + I went into a store. The friendly clerk— + I knew him always—said 'What will you have? + I wait first always on the little boys.' + I laughed and went my way. But in an hour + His saying rankled, I began to brood + On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last + His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin, + So devil tangled, tortured—which not prayer + Nor watching could deliver. So I thought + To save my soul from murder I must fly— + I felt an urging as one does in sleep + Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly + From terror, death, from blankness on the scene, + From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world + Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps + Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme + Impels all steps. So packing up my kit, + My Bible in my pocket, secretly + I disappeared. Next day took up my life + In Barrington, a village thirty miles + From all I knew, besides a lovely lake, + Reached by a road that crossed a bridge + Over a little bay, the bridge's ends + Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here + Night after night I fished, or stood and watched + The star-light on the water. + + I grew calmer + Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived + Under a widow's roof, who was devout + And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor, + To every word: I was now twenty-five, + In perfect health, no longer persecuted, + At peace with all the world, if not my soul + Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell + It had an ache which sometimes I could feel, + And yet I had this soul awakening. + I know I have been counted mad, so watch + Each detail here and judge. + + At four o'clock + The thirtieth day of June, my work being done, + My kit upon my back I walked this road + Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon + Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle + Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence + Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot + I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy + The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats + Along the bay, the blueness of the lake, + The ripple of the water at my feet, + The rythmic babble of the little boats + Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing, + Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds + Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down + Over the waters gloriously to rest. + So as I stared upon the sun on the water, + Some minutes, though I know not for how long, + Out of the splendor of the shining sun + Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth + Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow, + His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view, + And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise + And come with me.' + + "And in an instant there + Something fell from me, I became a cloud, + A soul with wings. A glory burned about me. + And in that glory I perceived all things: + I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets + Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns + And I knew God, and knew all things as God: + The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom, + Truth, love and purity. And in that instant + Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces, + And how they are arranged order to order, + With no break in the order, one harmonious + Whole of universal life all blended + And interfused with universal love. + And as it was with Shelley so I cried, + And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose + And started back to climb the hill again, + Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did, + Nor where I went, and thinking if this be + A fancy only of the Saviour then + He will not follow me, and if it be + Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall + After the revelation. As I reached + The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me + And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son, + Who knowest me, when they who walked with me + Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told + All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses, + Who knew me not till I brake bread and then, + As after thought could say, Did not our heart + Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell, + Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed + With visions and my Father's love, this walk + Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked, + Expounding all the scriptures, telling me + About the race of men who live and move + Along a life of meat and drink and sleep + And comforts of the flesh, while here and there + A hungering soul is chosen to lift up + And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet + Must seek and must find God to keep the race + Awake to the divine and to the orders + Of universal and harmonious life, + All interfused with Universal love, + Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism, + Which sees no order, reason, no intent + Beat down the race to welter in the mire + When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God, + The leaders of the race from age to age + Are chosen for their separate work, each work + Fits in the given order. All who suffer + The martyrdom of thought, whether they think + Themselves as servants of my Father, or even + Mock at the images and rituals + Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize + The mystery they sensed, or whether they be + Spirits of laughter, logic, divination + Of human life, the human soul, all men + Who give their essence, blindly or in vision + In faith that life is worth their utmost love, + They are my brothers and my Father's sons.' + So Jesus told me as we took my walk + Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned + And walked through heading rye and purple vetch + Into an orchard where great rows of pears + Sloped up a hill. It was now evening: + Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west, + And a half moon was hanging just above + The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening! + We came back to the boats at last and loosed + One of them and rowed out into the bay, + And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said + 'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.' + A haziness came on me now. I seem + To find myself alone there in that boat. + At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk, + The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home + Back to the village in a silence, peace, + A happiness profound. + + "And the next morning + I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet + With spiritual vision so intense I looked + Through things material as if they were + But shadows—old things passed away or grew + A lovelier order. And my heart was full. + Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved. + My landlady looked at me sharply, asked + What hour I entered, where I was so late. + I only answered fishing. For I told + No person of my vision, went my way + At carpentry in silence, in great joy. + For archangels and powers were at my side, + They led me, bore me up, instructed me + In mysteries, and voices said to me + 'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John. + I wrote and printed and the village read, + And called me mad. And so I grew to see + The deepest truths of God, and God Himself, + The geniture of all things, of the Word + Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages, + Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness + Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained, + And how the search for something (it is God) + Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts + Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries + Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth + At harvest time have praise or reverence. + I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God + Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains + Are but the wires in the bulb which stays, + Resists the current and makes human thought. + As the electric current is not light + But heat and power as well. Our little brains + Resist God and make thought and love as well. + But God is more than these. Oh I heard much + Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels, + Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still. + That is the axis of profoundest life + Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry + And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages, + The epochs of this earth as it were the feet + Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew + The agony of genius and the woe + Of prophets and the great. + + "From that next morning + I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal + Than I had ever done. I could not open + Its pages anywhere but I could find + Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to. + I could not doubt my destiny was bound + With man's salvation. Jeremiah said + 'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words + To me were spoken, and to no one else. + And so I searched the scriptures. And I found + I never had a thought, experience, pang, + A state in human life our Saviour had not. + He was a carpenter, and so was I. + He had his soul's illumination, so had I. + His brethren called him mad, they called me mad. + He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph. + For I could, I can feel my way along + Death's stages as a man can reach and feel + Ahead of him along a wall. I know + This body is a shell, a butterfly's + Excreta pushed away with rising wings. + + "I searched the scriptures. How should I believe + Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see + At mid-day in the way a light from heaven + Above the brightness of the sun and hear + The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,' + Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus, + Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself, + Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake + Such words as none but men inspired can speak, + As well as words of truth and soberness, + Such as myself speak now. + + "And from the scriptures + I passed to studies of the men who came + To great illuminations. You will see + There are two kinds: One's of the intellect, + The understanding, one is of the soul. + The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh + To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men + In their illumination see the frame-work + Of life or see its spirit, so align + Themselves with Science, Satire, or align + Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy. + So being Aristotle, Rabelais, + Paul, Swedenborg. + + "And as the years + Went on, as I had time, was fortunate + In finding books I read of many men + Who had illumination, as I had it. Read + Of Dante's vision, how he found himself + Saw immortality, lost fear of death. + Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect + At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven + Before he quitted life and saw behind + The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth. + Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest + My manhood's visionary meditations + Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge. + Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable + Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.' + Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth + Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused, + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean and the living air, + And the blue skies, and in the mind of man— + A motion and a spirit that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought + And rolls through all things.' + + "And at last they called me + The mad, and learned carpenter. And then— + I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold ..." + + At this point + He fainted, sank into a stupor. There + I watched him, to discover if 'twas death. + But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke. + There was some other talk, but not of moment. + I had to change the cylinder—the talk + Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things, + Throws no light on the case, being sane enough. + He died next morning. + + Students who desire + To examine the skull and brain may do so now + At their convenience in the laboratory. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRIAR YVES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Said Friar Yves: "God will bless + Saint Louis' other-worldliness. + Whatever the fate be, still I fare + To fight for the Holy Sepulcher. + If I survive, I shall return + With precious things from Palestine— + Gold for my purse, spices and wine, + Glory to wear among my kin. + Fame as a warrior I shall win. + But, otherwise, if I am slain + In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn + Immortal life washed white from sin." + + Said Friar Yves: "Come what will— + Riches and glory, death and woe— + At dawn to Palestine I go. + Whether I live or die, I gain + To fly the tepid good and ill + Of daily living in Champagne, + Where those who reach salvation lose + The treasures, raptures of the earth, + Captured, possessed, and made to serve + The gospel love of Jesus' birth, + Sacrifice, death; where even those + Passing from pious works and prayer + To paradise are not received + As those who battled, strove, and lived, + And periled bodies, as I choose + To peril mine, and thus to use + Body and soul to build the throne + Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care + Lay Jesus under a granite stone." + + Then Friar Yves buckled on + His breastplate, and, at break of dawn, + With crossboy, halberd took his way, + Walked without resting, without pause, + Till the sun hovered at midday + Over a tree of glistening leaves, + Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws + My stomach," whispered Friar Yves. + "If I," he sighed, "could only gain, + Like yonder spring, an inner source + Of life, and need not dew or rain + Of human love, or human friends, + And thus accomplish my soul's ends + Within myself! No," said the friar; + "There is one water and one fire; + There is one Spirit, which is God. + And what are we but streams and springs + Through which He takes His wanderings? + Lord, I am weak, I am afraid; + Show me the way!" the friar prayed. + "Where do I flow and to what end? + Am I of Thee, or do I blend + Hereafter with Thee?" + + Yves heard, + While praying, sounds as when the sod + Teems with a swarm of insect things. + He dropped his halberd to look down, + And then his waking vision blurred, + As one before a light will frown. + His inner ear was caught and stirred + By voices; then the chestnut tree + Became a step beside a throne. + Breathless he lay and fearfully, + While on his brain a vision shone. + Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone: + "The time has come when I must take + The form of man for mankind's sake. + This drama is played long enough + By creatures who have naught of me, + Save what comes up from foam of the sea + To crawling moss or swimming weeds, + At last to man. From heaven in flame, + Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly, + And take a mortal's form and name, + And labor for the race's needs." + Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky + Flushed like a bride's face rosily, + And shot to lightning from its bloom. + The world leaped like a babe in the womb, + And choral voices from heaven's cope + Circled the earth like singing stars: + "O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope, + O passion realized at last; + O end of hunger, fear, and wars, + O victory over the bottomless, vast + Valley of Death!" + + A silence fell, + Broke by the voice of Gabriel: + "Music may follow this, O Lord! + Music I hear; I hear discord + Through ages yet to be, as well. + There will be wars because of this, + And wars will come in its despite. + It's noon on the world now; blackest night + Will follow soon. And men will miss + The meaning, Lord! There will be strife + 'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, + Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, + 'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. + There will be war to win the place + Where you bend death to sovereign life. + Armed kings will battle for the grace + Of rulership, for power and gold + In the name of Jesus. Men will hold + Conclaves of swords to win surcease + Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. + The seed is good, Lord, make the ground + Good for the seed you scatter round!" + + Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: + "The gardener sprays his plants and trees + To drive out lice and stop disease. + After the spraying, fruit is grown + Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes + Of men can see this end, although + Leaves wither or a whole tree dies + From what the gardener does to grow + Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. + The gardener lives outside the tree; + The gardener knows the tree can see + What cure is needed, plans afresh + An end foreseen, and there's the will + Wherewith the gardener may fulfil + The orchard's destiny." + + So He spake. + And Friar Yves seemed to wake, + But did not wake, and only sunk + Into another dreaming state, + Wherein he saw a woman's form + Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. + Her body was virginal, white, and straight, + And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, + Behind a robe of writhing green: + As when a rock's wall makes a screen + Whereon the crisscross reflect moves + Of circling water under the rays + Of April sunlight through the sprays + Of budding branches in willow groves— + A liquid mosaic of green and gold— + Thus was her robe. + + But to behold + Her face was to forget the youth + Of her white bosom. All her hair + Was tangled serpents; she did wear + A single eye in the middle brow. + Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth + Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough + O'ershadowed her the while she gripped + A pail in either hand. One dripped + Clear water; one, ethereal fire. + Then to the Graia spoke the friar: + "Have mercy! Tell me your desire + And what you are?" + + Then the Graia said: + "My body is Nature and my head + Is Man, and God has given me + A seeing spirit, strong and free, + Though by a single eye, as even + Man has one vision at a time. + I lift my pails up; mark them well. + With this fire I will burn up heaven, + And with this water I will quench + The flames of hell's remotest trench, + That men may work in righteousness. + Not for the fears of an after hell, + Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless + The soul with when the mountains nod + And the sun darkens, but for love + Of Man and Life, and love of God. + Now look!" + + She dashed the pail of fire + Against the vault of heaven. It fell + As would a canopy of blue + Burned by a soldier's careless torch. + She dashed the water into hell, + And a great steam rose up with the smell + Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch + All things which on the good earth grew. + "Now," said the Graia, "loiterer, + Awake from slumber, rise and speed + To fight for the Holy Sepulcher— + Nothing is left but Life, indeed— + I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell." + + Friar Yves no longer slept; + Friar Yves awoke and wept. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EIGHTH CRUSADE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, + And every day it rained. And every morning + I heard the wind and rain among the leaves. + Try as I would my spirits grew no better. + What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind? + I spent the whole day working with my hands, + For there was brush to clear and corn to plant + Between the gusts of rain; and there at night + I sat about the room and hugged the fire. + And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered + For cold and it was June. I ached all through + For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not + To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body, + Or soul if it were soul? + + But there at night + As I sat aching, worn, before the hour + Of sleep, and restless in this interval + Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors, + Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap + Of cards upon a table by a boarder + Who passed the time in playing solitaire, + Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe, + And scrape away the dust of long past years + To show me what had happened in his life. + And as he smoked and talked his aged wife + Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches + Formed by a slender island, flow together. + Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch, + An episode or version. And sometimes + He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend + While she went on to what she wished to finish, + When he'd resume. They talked together thus. + He found the story and began to tell it, + And she hung on his story, told it too. + + This night the rain came down in buckets full, + And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath + Between the opening of the outer door + And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air. + And my host who had hoed the whole day long, + Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe + Reading the organ of the Adventists, + His wife beside him knitting. + + On the table + Are several magazines with their monthly grist + Of stories and of pictures. O such stories! + Who writes these stories? How does it happen people + Are born into the world to read these stories? + But anyway the lamp is very bad, + And every bone in me aches—and why always + Must one be either reading, knitting, talking? + Why not sit quietly and think? + + At last + Between the clicking needles and the slap + Of cards upon the table and the swish + Of rain upon the window my host speaks: + "It says here when the Germans are defeated, + And that means when the Turks are beaten too, + The Christian world will take back Palestine, + And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so." + "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live + To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back + From Jaffa if the Allies win." + + To me + The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk, + At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and + It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back, + But his trunk never came." + + And then the husband: + "What are you saying, mother, you go on + As if our friend here knew the story too. + And then you talk as if our hope of the war + Was centered on recovering that trunk." + + "Oh, not at all + But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there + In Jaffa you might get it back. You know + You'll never get it back while infidels + Rule Palestine." + + The husband says to me: + "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine, + Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago, + Is in existence yet, when chances are + They kept it for awhile, and sold it off, + Or threw it away." + + "They never threw it away. + Why I made him a dozen shirts or more, + And knitted him a lot of lovely socks, + And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained + Everything that a man might need in absence + A year from home. And yet they threw it away!" + + "They might have done so." + + "But they never did, + Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?" + "They were too valuable." + + "Too valuable, + Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes." + + "Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable." + He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools + Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this: + To work at cabinet making while observing + Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready + To drive the Turks from Palestine." + + What's this? + I rub my eyes and wake up to this story. + I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house + Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in. + And in a moment Turks and Palestine, + And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise + And show me how the world is small, and a man + Native to Illinois may travel forth + And mix his life with ancient things afar. + To-day be raising corn here and next month + Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycenæ, + Digging for Grecian relics. + + So I asked + "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick: + "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it." + And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke. + You see it was this way, myself and the bishop, + He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains, + Had planned to meet in Switzerland." + + "Montreaux" + The wife broke in. + + "Montreaux" the husband added. + "You said you two had planned it," she went on. + Now looking over specks and speaking louder: + "The bishop came to him, he planned it out. + My husband didn't plan the trip at all. + He knows the bishop planned it." + + Then the husband: + "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first, + And I acceded and we worked it out. + He was to go ahead of me, I was + To come in later, soon as I could raise + What funds my congregation could afford + To spare for this adventure." + + "Guess," she said, + "How much it was." + + I shook my head and she + Said in a lowered and a tragic voice: + "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe + It strapped his church to raise so great a sum. + And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come + Scarcely before the plan could be put through + Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum + Had never been made up and put in gold + For him to carry in a chamois belt." + + And then the husband said: "Mother, be still, + I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me." + "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that. + Go on," she said. + + And so he started over: + "The bishop came to me and said he thought + The Advent would be June of seventy-six. + This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one. + He said he had a dream; and in this dream + An angel stood beside him, told him so, + And told him to get me and go to Jaffa, + And live there, learn the people and the country, + We were to live disguised the better to learn + The people and the country. I was to work + At my trade as a cabinet maker, he + At carpentry, which was his trade, and so + No one would know us, or suspect our plan. + And thus we could live undisturbed and work, + And get all things in readiness, that in time + The Lord would send us power, and do all things. + We were the messengers to go ahead + And make the ways straight, so I told her of it." + + "You told me, yes, but my trust was as great + As yours was in the bishop, little the good + To tell me of it." + + "Well, I told you of it. + And she said, 'If the Lord commands you so + You must obey.' And so she knit the socks + And made that trunk of things, as she has said, + And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia." + + "'Twas nearer two months," said the wife. + + "Perhaps, + Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop + Left Springfield in a month from our first talk. + I knew, for I went over when he left. + And I remember how his poor wife cried, + And how the children cried. He had a family + Of some eight children." + + "Only seven then, + The son named David died the year before." + + "Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then. + The oldest was not more than twelve, I think, + And all the children cried, and at the train + His congregation almost to a man + Was there to see him off." + + "Well, one was missing. + You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly. + + "I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still. + Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks, + Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux + To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk + To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now + I must tell you my dream. The night before + I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream: + I saw the bishop on the station platform + His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing + His gold head cane. And sure enough next day + As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop + His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing + His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong, + And still I didn't act upon the thought." + + "I should say not," the wife broke in again. + + "Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought + More clearly than I did that things were wrong. + You can't uproot the confidence of years + Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms + I knew his face was red, but didn't know, + Or think just then, that brandy made it red. + And so I went up to the house he lived in— + A mansion beautiful, and we sat down. + And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker, + Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger + Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me + Silently for a moment, when he said: + 'What money did you bring?' And so I told him. + And he said quickly 'let me have it.' So + I took my belt off, counted out the gold + And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it + With this hand in this pocket, that in that, + And sat there and said nothing more, just looked! + And then before a word was spoke again + I heard a step upon the stair, the stair + Came down into this room where we were sitting. + And I looked up, and there—I rubbed my eyes— + I looked again, rose from my chair to see, + And saw descending the most lovely woman, + Who was"— + + "A lovely woman," sneered the wife + "Well, she was just affinity to the bishop, + That's what she was." + + "Affinity is right— + You see she was the leader in the choir, + And she had run away with him, or rather + Had gone abroad upon another boat + And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time + For forty hours or so all is a blank. + I just remember trying to speak and choking, + And flying from the room, the bishop clutching + At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that + I can't recall a thing until I saw + A little cottage way up in the Alps. + I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick, + The door was opened and they took me in, + And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me + In a good bed where I slept half a week. + It seems in my bewilderment I wandered, + Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so + By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes." + + "He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed. + + "These were the kindest people in the world, + A French family. They gave me splendid food, + And when I left two francs to reach the place + Where lived the English Consul, who arranged + After some days for money for my passage + Back to America, and in six weeks + I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains." + + "Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said. + + And I who heard this story through spoke up: + "The thing about this that I fail to get + Concerns this woman, the affinity. + If, as seems evident, she and the bishop + Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith, + And you, the congregation to get money + To do it with, or used you in particular + To get the money for themselves to live on + After they had arrived there in Montreaux, + If all this be" I said, "why did this woman + Descend just at the moment when he asked you + For the money that you had. You might have seen her + Before you gave the money, if you had + You might have held it back." + + "I would indeed, + You can be sure I should have held it back." + + And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting. + + "Now, James, you let me answer that, I know. + She was done with the bishop, that's the reason. + Be still and let me answer. Here's the story: + We found out later that the bishop's trunk + And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa + There to Montreaux, were there that very day, + Which means the bishop never meant to go + To Palestine at all, but meant to meet + This woman in Montreaux and live with her. + Well, that takes money. So he used my husband + To get that money. Now you wonder I see + Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme, + Descend into the room before my husband + Had given up this money, and this money, + You see, was treated as a common fund + Belonging to the church and to be used + To get back Palestine, and so the bishop + As head of the church, superior to my husband, + Could say 'give me the money'—that was natural, + My husband could not be surprised at that, + Or question it. Well, why did she descend + And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat! + I know what she did, as well as I had seen + Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing. + And when she heard my husband tell the sum + Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her, + And Satan entered in her heart, and she + Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets + Clink with the double eagles, then descended + To expose the bishop and disgrace him there + And everywhere in all the world. Now listen: + She got that money or the most of it + In spite of what she did. For in six weeks + After my husband had returned, she walked, + The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield + As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon + The bishop died and all the papers printed + The story of his shame." + + She had scarce finished + When the man at solitaire threw down the deck + And make a whacking noise and rose and came + Around in front of us and stood and looked + The old man and old woman over, me + He studied too. Then in an organ voice: + "Is there a single verse in the New Testament + That hasn't sprouted one church anyway, + Letting alone the verses that have sprouted + Two, three or four or five? I know of one: + Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"? + Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept." + With that he went out in the rain and slammed + The door behind him. + + The old clergyman + Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said, + "That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner + And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns + Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle. + I stand a moment listening, then my friend + Who studies all religions, finds a wonder + In orphic spectacles like this, lays hold + Upon my arm and draws me to a door + Through which we look and see a room of seats, + A platform at the end, a table on it, + And signs upon the wall, "Jesus is Waiting," + And "God is Love." + + We enter, take a seat. + The band comes in and fills the room to bursting + With horns and drums. They cease and feet are heard, + The crowd has followed, half the seats are full. + After a prayer, a song, the captain mounts + The platform by the table and begins: + "Praise God so many girls are here to-night, + And Sister Trickey, by the grace of God + Saved from the wrath to come, will speak to you." + So Sister Trickey steps upon the platform, + A woman nearing forty, one would say. + Blue-eyed, fair skinned, and yellow haired, a figure + Once trim enough, no doubt, grown stout at last. + She was a pretty woman in her time, + 'Twas plain to see. A shrewd intelligence + From living in the world shines in her face. + We settle down to hear from Sister Trickey + And in a moment she begins: + + "Young girls: + I thank the Lord for Jesus, for he saved me, + I thank the Lord for Jesus every hour. + No woman ever stained with redder sins. + Had greater grace than mine. Praise God for Jesus! + Praise God for blood that washes sins away! + I was a woman fallen till Lord Jesus + Forgave me, helped me up and made me clean. + My name is Lilah Trickey. Let me tell you + How music was my tempter. Oh, you girls, + If there be one before me who can sing + Beware the devil and beware your voice + That it be used for Jesus, not for Satan." + + "I had a voice, was leader of the choir, + But Satan entered in my voice to tempt + The bishop of the church, and in my heart + To tempt and use the bishop; in the bishop + Old Satan slipped to lure me from the path. + He fell from grace for listening. And I + Whose voice had turned him over to the devil + Fell as he fell. He dragged me down with him. + No use to make it long, one word's enough: + Old Satan is the first word and the last, + And all between is nothing. It's enough + To say the bishop and myself eloped + Went to Montreaux. He left a wife and children. + And I poor silly thing with promises + Of culture of my voice in Paris, lost + Good name and all. And he lost all as well. + Good name, his soul I fear, because he took + The church's money saying he would use it + To win the Holy Sepulchre, in fact + Intending all the while to use the money + For travel and for keeping up a house + With me as soul-mate. For he never meant + To let me go to Paris for my voice, + He never got enough to pay for that. + On that point he betrayed me, now I see + 'Twas God who used him to deceive me there, + And leave me to return to Springfield broken, + An out-cast, fallen woman, shamed and scorned." + + "We took a house in Montreaux, plain enough + As we looked at it passing, but within + 'Twas sweet and fair as Satan could desire: + Engravings on the wall and marble mantels, + Gilt clocks upon the mantels, lovely rugs, + Chests full of linen, silver, pewter, china, + Soft beds with canopies of figured satin, + The scent of apple blossoms through the rooms. + A little garden, vines against the wall. + There were the lake and mountains. Oh, but Satan + Baited the hook with beauty. But the bishop + Seemed self-absorbed, depressed and never smiled. + And every time his face came close to mine + I smelled the brandy on him. Conscience whipped + Its venomed tail against his peace of mind. + And so he took the brandy to benumb + The sting of conscience and to dull the pain. + He told me he had business in Montreaux + Which would require some weeks, would there be met + By people who had money for him. I + Was twenty-three and green, besides I walked + In dreamland thinking of the promised schooling + In Paris—oh 'twas music, as I said.". ... + + "At last one day he said a friend was coming, + And he went to the station. Very soon + I heard their steps, the bishop and his friend. + They entered. I was curious and sat + Upon the stair-way's landing just to hear. + And this is what I heard. The bishop asked: + 'You've brought some money, how much have you brought?' + + The man replied 'four hundred dollars.' Then + The bishop said: 'I'll take it.' In a moment + I heard the clinking gold and heard the bishop + Putting it in his pocket.' + + "God forgive me, + I never was so angry in my life. + The bishop had been talking in big figures, + We would have thousands for my voice and Paris, + And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing + Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see + The American who brought the money—well, + No matter what it was, I walked in view + Upon the landing, stood there for a moment + And saw our visitor, a clergyman + From all appearances. He stared, grew red, + Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose, + Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door, + Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked + The door ajar, with open mouth backed out + Upon the street and ran. I heard him run + A square at least." + + "The bishop looked at me, + His face all brandy blossoms, left the room, + Came back at once with brandy on his breath. + And all that day was tippling, went to bed + So drunk I had to take his clothing off + And help him in." + + "Young girls, beware of music, + Save only hymns and sacred oratorios. + Beware the theatre and dancing hall. + Take lesson from my fate. + + "The morning came. + The bishop called me, he was very ill + And pale with fear. He had a dream that night. + Satan had used him and abandoned him. + And Death, whom only Jesus can put down, + Was standing by the bed. He called to me, + And said to me: + + "'That money's in that drawer. + Use it to reach America, but use it + To send my body back. Death's in the corner + Behind that cabinet—there—see him look! + I had a dream—go get a pen and paper, + And write down what I tell you. God forgive me— + Oh what a blasphemer am I. O, woman, + To lie here dying and to know that God + Has left me—hell awaits me—horrible! + Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money, + This man and I were walking from Damascus, + And in a trice came down to Olivet. + Just then great troops of men sprang up around us + And hailed us as expecting our approach. + And there I saw the faces—hundreds maybe, + Of congregations who had trusted me + In all the long past years—Oh, sinful woman, + Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times, + 'And wreck my ministry.' + + "'And so these crowds + Armed as it seemed, exulted, called me general, + And shouted forward. So we ran like mad + And came before a building with a dome— + You know—I've seen a picture of it somewhere. + And so the crowds yelled: let the bishop enter + And see the sepulchre, while we keep guard. + They pushed me in. But when I was inside + There was no dome, above us was the sky, + And what seemed walls was nothing but a fence. + Before us was a stable with a stall + Where two cows munched the hay. There was a farmer + Who with a pitchfork bedded down the stall. + "Where is the holy sepulchre?" I asked— + "My army's at the door." He kept at work + And never raised his eyes and only said: + "Don't know; I haven't time for things like that. + You're 'bout the hundredth man who's asked me that. + We don't know where it is, nor do we care. + We live here and we knew him, so we feel + Less interest than you. But have you thought + If you should find it it would only be + A tomb like other tombs? Why look at this: + Here is the very manger where he lay— + What is it? Just a manger filled with straw. + These cows are not the very cows you know— + But cows are cows in every age and place. + I think that board there has been nailed on since. + Outside of that the place is just the same. + Now what's the good of seeing it? His mother + Lay in that corner there, what if she did? + That lantern on the wall's the very one + They came to see the child with from the inn— + What of it? Take your army and go on, + And leave me with my barn and with my cows." + + "'So all the glory vanished! Devil magic + Stripped all the glory off. No angels singing, + No star of Bethlehem, no magi kneeling, + No Mary crowned, no Jesus King, no mystic + Blood for sins' remission—just a barn, + A stall, two cows, a lantern—all the glory— + Swept from the gospel. That's my punishment: + My poor weak brain filled full of all this dream, + Which seems as real as life—to lie here dying + Too weak to shake the dream! To see Death there + Behind that cabinet—there—see him look— + By God forsaken—all theology, + All mystery, all wonder, all delight + Of spiritual vision swept away as clean + As winds sweep up the clouds, and thus to see + While dying, just a manger, and two cows, + A lantern on the wall. + + "'And thus to see, + For blasphemy that duped an honest heart, + And took the pitiful dollars of the flock + To win you with—oh, woman, woman, woman, + A barn, a stall, a lantern limned so clear + In such a daylight of clear seeing senses + That all the splendor, the miraculous + Wonder of the virgin, nimbused child, + The star that followed till it rested over + The manger (such a manger) all are wrecked, + All blotted from belief, all snatched away + From hands pushed off by God, no longer holding + The robes of God.' + + "And so the bishop raved + While I stood terrified, since I could feel + Death in the room, and almost see the monster + Behind the cabinet. + + "Then the bishop said: + "'My dream went on. I crossed the stable yard + And passed into a place of tombs. And look! + Before I knew I stepped into a hole, + A sunken grave with just a slab at head, + And "Jesus" carven on it, nothing else, + No date, no birth, no parentage.'" + + "'I lie + Tormented by the pictures of this dream. + Woman, take to your death bed with clear mind + Of gospel faith, clean conscience, sins forgiven. + The thoughts that we must suffer with and die with + Are worth the care of all the days of life. + All life should be directed to this end, + Lest when the mind lies fallen, vultures swoop, + And with their wings blot out the sun of faith, + And with their croakings drown the voice of God.' + + "He ceased, became delirious. So he died, + And I still unrepentant buried him + There in Montreaux, and with what gold remained + Went on to Paris. + + "See how I was marked + For God's salvation. + + "There I went to see + The celebrated teacher Jean Strakosch, + Who looked at me with insolent, calm eyes, + And face impassive, let me sing a scale, + Then shook his head. A diva, as I thought, + Came in just then. They talked in French, and I, + Prickling from head to foot with shame, ignored, + Left standing like a fool, passed from the room. + So music turned on me, but God received me, + And I came back to Springfield. But the Lord + Made life too hard for me without the fold. + I was so shunned and scorned, I had no place + Save with the fallen, with the mockers, drinkers. + Thus being in conviction, after struggles, + And many prayers I found salvation, found + My work in life: which is to talk to girls + And stand upon this platform and relate + My story for their good." + + She ceased. Amens + Went up about the room. The big drum boomed, + And the raucous brass horns mingled with the cymbals, + The silver triangle and the singing voices. + + My friend and I arose and left the room. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NEANDERTHAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry + I woke from deeper slumber—was it sleep?— + And saw a hooded figure standing by + The bed whereon I lay. + + "Why do you keep, + O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard + About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep + Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard, + As that unearthly shape was veiled to you + At Casa Magni?" + + Then the room was starred + With light as I was speaking, and I knew + The god, my brother, from whose face the veil + Melted as mist. + + "What mission fair and true, + While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale + Amid this solemn stillness, for your face + Unutterably majestic." + + As when the dale + At midnight echoes for a little space, + The night-bird's cry, the god responded "Come," + And nothing more. I left my bed apace, + And followed him with wings above the gloom + Of clouds like chariots driven on to war, + Between whose wheels the swift moon raced and swum. + + A mile beneath us lay the earth, afar + Were mountains which as swift as thought drew near + As we passed over pines, where many a star + And heaven's light made every frond as clear + As through a glass or in the lightning's flash. ... + Yet I seemed flying from an olden fear, + A bulk of black that sought to sting or gnash + My breast or side—which was myself, it seemed, + The flesh or thinking part of me grown rash + And violent, a brain soul unredeemed, + Which sometime earlier in the grip of Death + Forgot its terror when my soul which streamed + Like ribbons of silk fire, with quiet breath + Said to the body, as it were a thing + Separate and indifferent: "How uneath + That fellow turns, while I am safe yet cling + Close to him, both another and the same." + Now was this mood reversed: That self must wing + Its fastest flight to fly him, lest he maim + With fleshly hands my better, stronger part, + As dragon wings my flap and quench a flame. ... + But as we passed o'er empires and athwart + A bellowing strait, beholding bergs and floes + And running tides which made the sinking heart + Rise up again for breath, I felt how close + The god, my brother, was, who would sustain + My wings whatever dangers might oppose, + And knowing him beside me, like a strain + Of music were his thoughts, though nothing yet + Was spoken by him. + + When as out of rain + Suddenly lights may break, the earth was set + Beneath us, and we stood and paused to see + The Düssel river from a parapet + Of earth and rock. Then bending curiously, + As reaching, in a moment with his hand + He scraped the turf and stones, pried up a key + Of harder granite, and at his command, + When he had made an opening, I slid + And sank, down, down through the Devonian land + Until with him I reached a cavern hid + From every eye but ours, and where no light + But from our faces was, a pyramid + Of hills that walled this crypt of soundless night. + Then in a mood, it seemed more fanciful, + He bent again and raked, and to my sight + Upheaved and held the remnant of a skull— + Gorilla's or a man's, I could not guess. + Yet brutal though it was, it was a hull + Too fine and large to house the nakedness + Of a beast's mind. + + But as I looked the god + Began these words: "Before the iron stress + Of the north pole's dominion fell, he trod + The wastes of Europe, ere the Nile was made + A granary for the east, or ere the clod + In Babylon or India baked was laid + For hovels, this man lived. Ten thousand years + Before the earliest pyramid cast its shade + Upon the desolate sands this thing of fears, + Lusts, hungers, lived and hunted, woke and slept, + Mated, produced its kind, with hairy ears, + And tiger eyes sensed all that you accept + In terms of thought or vision as the proof + Of immanent Power or Love. But this skull kept + The intangible meaning out. This heavy roof + Of brutish bone above the eyes was dead + Even to lower ethers, no behoof + Of seasons, stars or skies took, though they bred + Suspicions, fears, or nervous glances, thought, + Which silent as a lizard's shadow fled + Before it graved itself, passed over, wrought + No vision, only pain, which he deemed pangs + Of hunger or of thirst." + + As you have sought + The meaning of life's riddle, since it hangs + In waking or in slumber just above + The highest reach of prophecy, and fangs + With poison of despair all moods but love, + Behold its secret lettered on this brow + Placed by your own! + + This is the word thereof: + <i>Change and progression from the glazed slough, + Where life creeps and is blind, ascending up + The jungled slopes for prey till spirits bow + On Calvaries with crosses, take the cup + Of martyrdom for truth's sake.</i> + + It may be + Men of to-day make monstrous war, sleep, sup, + Traffic, build shrines, as earliest history + Records the earliest day, and that the race + Is what it was in virtue, charity, + And nothing better. But within this face + No light shone from that realm where Hindostan, + Delving in numbers, watching stars took grace + And inspiration to explore the plan + Of heaven and earth. And of the scheme the test + Is not five thousand years, which leave the van + Just where it was, but this change manifest + In fifty thousand years between the mind + Neanderthal's and Shelley's. + + Man progressed + Along these years, found eyes where he was blind, + Put instinct under thought, crawled from the cave, + And faced the sun, till somewhere heaven's wind + Mixed with the light of Lights descending, gave + To mind a touch of divinity, making whole + An undeveloped growth. + + As ships that brave + Great storms at sea on masts a flaming coal + From heaven catch, bear on, so man was wreathed + Somewhere with lightning and became a soul. + Into his nostrils purer fire was breathed + Than breath of life itself, and by a leap, + As lightning leaps from crag to crag, what seethed + In man from the beginning broke the sleep + That lay on consciousness of self, with eyes + Awakened saw himself, out of the deep + And wonder of the self caught the surmise + Of Power beyond this world, and felt it through + The flow of living. + + And so man shall rise + From this illumination, from this clue + To perfect knowledge that this Power exists, + And what man is to this Power, even as you + Have left Neanderthal lost in the mists + And ignorance of centuries untold. + What would you say if learned geologists + Out of the rocks and caverns should unfold + The skulls of greater races, records, books + To shame us for our day, could we behold + Therein our retrogression? Wonder looks + In vain for these, discovers everywhere + Proof of the root which darkly bends and crooks + Far down and far away; a stalk more fair + Upspringing finds its proof, buds on the stalk + The eye may see, at last the flowering flare + Of man to-day! + + I see the things which balk, + Retard, divert, draw into sluices small, + But who beholds the stream turned back to mock, + Not just itself, but make equivocal + A Universal Reason, Vision? No. + You find no proof of this, but prodigal + Proof of ascending Life! + + So life shall flow + Here on this globe until the final fruit + And harvest. As it were until the glow + Of the great blossom has the attribute + In essence, color of eternal things, + And shows no rim between its hues which suit + The infinite sky's. Then if the dead earth swings + A gleaned and stricken field amid the void + What matters it to you, a soul with wings, + Whether it be replanted or destroyed? + Has it not served you?" + + Now his voice was still, + Which in such discourse had been thus employed. + And in that lonely cavern dark and chill + I heard again, "Then what is life?" And woke + To find the moonlight on the window sill + That which had seemed his presence. And a cloak, + Whose hood was perked upon the moonbeams, made + The skull of the Neanderthal. The smoke + Blown from the fireplace formed the cavern's shade. + And roaring winds blew down as they had tuned + The voice which left me calm and unafraid. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE END OF THE SEARCH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole, + And the tiger banner, he cries. + Pantagruel breaks into a laugh + As the monarch dries his eyes.—The Search</i> + + <i>"The tiger banyer, that is what you call much + Bad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer. + That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you call + Nature. See! Nature!"—King Joy</i> + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Said Old King Cole I know the banner + Of dragon and tiger too, + But I would know the vagrant fellows + Who came to my castle with you. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And I would know why they rise in the morning + And never take bread or scrip; + And why they hasten over the mountain + In a sorrowed fellowship. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not? + One said he goes to Spain. + One said he goes to Elsinore, + And one to the Trojan plain. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole, + There is a word that's more: + Who is it goes to Spain and Troy? + And who to Elsinore? + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel, + Out for the final joust. + One may be Hamlet, said Pantagruel + And one I think is Faust. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whoever they be, said Pantagruel, + Why stand at the window and drool? + Let's out and catch the runaways + While the morning hour is cool. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel runs to the castle court, + And King Cole follows soon. + The cobblestones of the court yard ring + To the beat of their flying shoon. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle, + And King Cole clutches his crown. + They throw the bolt of the castle gate + And race them through the town. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They cross the river and follow the road, + They run by the willow trees, + And the tiger banner and dragon banner + Wait for the morning breeze. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They clamber the wall and part the brambles, + And tear through thicket and thorn. + And a wild dove in an olive tree + Does mourn and mourn and mourn. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A green snake starts in the tangled grass, + And springs his length at their feet. + And a condor circles the purple sky + Looking for carrion meat. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And mad black flies are over their heads, + And a wolf looks out of his hole. + Great drops of sweat break out and run + From the brow of Old King Cole. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, + From the holy bottle, I pray. + My breath is short, my feet run blood, + My throat is baked as clay. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Anon they reach a mountain top, + And a mile below in the plain + Are the glitter of guns and a million men + Led by an idiot brain. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They come to a field of slush and flaw + Red with a blood red dye. + And a million faces fungus pale + Stare horribly at the sky. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They come to a cross where a rotting thing + Is slipping down from the nails. + And a raven perched on the eyeless skull + Opens his beak and rails: + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "If thou be the Son of man come down, + Save us and thyself save." + Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven: + "How now blaspheming knave!" + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Come down and of my bottle drink, + And cease this scurvy rune." + But the raven flapped its wings and laughed + Loud as the water loon. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, + I faint, a drink in haste. + But when he drinks he pales and mutters: + "The wine has lost its taste." + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "You have gone mad," said Pantagruel, + "In faith 'tis the same old wine." + Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottle + But the flavor is like sea brine. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And there on a rock is a cypress tree, + And a form with a muffled face. + "I know you, Death," said Pantagruel, + "But I ask of you no grace." + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Empty my bottle, sour my wine, + Bend me, you shall not break." + "Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a time + Before I come and take." + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "You have lost everything in life but the bottle, + Youth and woman and friend. + Pass on and laugh for a little space yet + The laugh that has an end." + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel passes and looks around him + Brave and merry of soul. + But there on the ground lies a dead body, + The body of Old King Cole. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And a Voice said: Take the body up + And carry the body for me + Until you come to a silent water, + By the sands of a silent sea. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel takes the body up + And the dead fat bends him down. + He climbs the mountains, runs the valleys + With body, bottle and crown. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And the wastes are strewn with skulls, + And the desert is hot and cursed. + And a phantom shape of the holy bottle + Mocks his burning thirst. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel wanders seven days, + And seven nights wanders he. + And on the seventh night he rests him + By the sands of the silent sea. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And sees a new made fire on the shore, + And on the fire is a dish. + And by the fire two travelers sleep, + And two are broiling fish. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping, + And Faust is stirring the fire. + But the fourth is a stranger with a face + Starred with a great desire. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts, + Pantagruel falls to his knees. + He flings down the body of Old King Cole + As a man throws off disease. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And rolls his burden away and cries: + "Take and watch, if you will. + But as for me I go to France + My bottle to refill." + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "And as for me I go to France + To fill this bottle up." + He felt at his side for the holy bottle, + And found it turned a cup. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And the stranger said: Behold our friend + Has brought my cup to me. + That is the cup whereof I drank + In the garden Gethsemane. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel hands the cup to Jesus + Who dips it in sea brine. + This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth, + Whereof I make your wine. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth, + And his lips wear a purple stain. + And Faust hands the cup to Pantagruel + With the dregs for him to drain. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber, + And Jesus strokes his hair. + And Faust sings a song of Euphorion + To hide his heart's despair. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth, + And they walk by the purple deep. + Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers, + And some grow tired and sleep." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOTANICAL GARDENS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He follows me no more, I said, nor stands + Beside me. And I wake these later days + In an April mood, a wonder light and free. + The vision is gone, but gone the constant pain + Of constant thought. I see dawn from my hill, + And watch the lights which fingers from the waters + Twine from the sun or moon. Or look across + The waste of bays and marshes to the woods, + Under the prism colors of the air, + Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds, + Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the sky + In terrible glory. + + And earth charmed I lie + Before the staring sphinx whose musing face + Is this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyes + Are separate clouds of gold, whose pedestal + Is earth, whose silken sheathed claws + No longer toy with me, even while I stroke them: + Since I have ceased to tease her. + + Then behold + A breeze is blown out of a world becalmed, + And as I see the multitudinous leaves + Fluttered against the water and the light, + And see this light unveil itself, reveal + An inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor, + I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels; + And I have fears of dieties shown or spun + From nothingness. But when I look again + The earth has stayed itself, I see the lake, + The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoods + Of thunder heads, yet feel upon my arm + A hand I know, and hear a voice I know— + He has returned and brought with him the thought + And the old pain. + + The voice says: "Leave the sphinx. + The garden waits your study fully grown." + And I arise and follow down a slope + To a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone, + And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosing + An Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smile + Consciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love, + As he strokes with baby hand the slender arching + Neck of a swan. And here is a peristyle + Whose carven columns are pink as the long updrawn + Stalks of tulips bedded in April snow. + And sunk amid tiger lillies is the face + Of an Asian Aphrodite close to the seat + With feet of a Babylonian lion amid + This ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppies + And ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems, + Though here is our western moon as white and thin + As an abalone shell hung under the boughs + Of an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky between + His boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. ... + We walk to the water's edge and here he shows me + Green scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs, + That yield to trees beyond the levels, where + The beech and oak have triumph; for along + This gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses, + That builds the soil against the water's hands, + All things are fierce for place and garner life + From weaker things. + + And then he shows me root stocks, + And Alpine willow, growths that sneak and crawl + Beneath the soil. Or as we leave the lake + And walk the forest I behold lianas, + Smilax or woodbine climbing round the trunks + Of giant trees that live and out of earth, + And out of air make strength and food and ask + No other help. And in this place I see + Spiral bryony, python of the vines + That coils and crushes; and that banyan tree + Whose spreading branches drop new roots to earth, + And lives afar from where the parent trunk + Has sunk its roots, so that the healthful sun + Is darkened: as a people might be darkened + By ignorance or want or tyranny, + Or dogma of a jungle hidden faith. + Why is it, think I, though I dare not speak, + That this should be to forests or to men; + That water fails, and light decreases, heat + Of God's air lessens, and the soil goes spent, + Till plants change leaves and stalks and seeds as well, + Or migrate from the olden places, go + In search of life, or if they cannot move + Die in the ruthless marches. + + That is life, he said. + For even these, the giants scatter life + Into the maws of death. That towering tree + That for these hundred years has leafed itself, + And through its leaves out of the magic air + Drawn nutriment for annual girths, took root + Out of an acorn which good chance preserved, + While all its brother acorns cast to earth, + To make trees, by a parent tree now gone, + Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sprouted + Amid thick jealous growth wherein they fell. + All acorns but this one were lost. + + Then he reads + My questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactus + Whose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive. + And shows me leaves that must have rain, and roots + That must have water where the river flows. + And how the spirit of life, though turned or driven + This way or that beyond a course begun, + Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conforms + To soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves, + Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stem + To fashion forth itself, produce its kind. + Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not, + Is only changed or buried, re-appears + As other forms of life. + + We had walked through + A forest of sequoias, beeches, pines, + And ancient oaks where I could see the trace + Of willows, alders, ruined or devoured + By the great Titans. + + At last + We reached my hill and sat and overlooked + The garden at our feet, even to the place + Of tiger lilies and of asphodel, + By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser: + As where the wounded surface of the shell + Thickens its shimmering stuff in spiral coigns + Of the shell, so was the moon above the seat + Beside the Eros and the Aphrodite + Sunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass. + And here we sat and looked. And here my vision + Was over all we saw, but not a part + Of what we saw, for all we saw stood forth + As foreign to myself as something touched + To learn the thing it is. + + I might have asked + Who owns this garden, for the thought arose + With my surprise, who owns this garden, who + Planted this garden, why and to what end, + And why this fight for place, for soil and sun + Water and air, and why this enmity + Between the things here planted, and between + Flying or crawling life and plants, and whence + The power that falls in one place but arises + Some other place; and why the unceasing growth + Of all these forms that only come to seed, + Then disappear to enrich the insatiate soil + Where the new seed falls? But silence kept me there + For wonder of the beauty which I saw, + Even while the faculty of external vision + Kept clear the garden separate from me, + Envisioned, seen as grasses, sedges, alders, + As forestry, as fields of wheat and corn, + As the vast theatre of unceasing life, + Moving to life and blind to all but life; + As places used, tried out, as if the gardener, + For his delight or use, or for an end + Of good or beauty made experiments + With seed or soils or crossings of the seed. + Even as peoples, epochs, did the garden + Lie to my vision, or as races crowding, + Absorbing, dispossessing, killing races, + Not only for a place to grow, but under + A stimulus of doctrine: as Mahomet, + Or Jesus, like a vital change of air, + Or artifice of culture, made the garden, + Which mortals call the world, grow in a way, + And overgrow the world as neither dreamed. + Who is the Gardener then? Or is there one + Beside the life within the plant, within + The python climbers, wandering sedges, root stalks, + Thorn bushes, night-shade, deadly saprophytes, + Goths, Vandals, Tartars, striving for more life, + And praying to the urge within as God, + The Gardener who lays out the garden, sprays + For insects which devour, keeps rich the soil + For those who pray and know the Gardener + As One who is without and over-sees? ... + + But while in contemplation of the garden, + Whether from failing day or from departure + Of my own vision in the things it saw, + Bereft of penetrating thought I sank, + Became a part of what I saw and lost + The great solution. + + As we sat in silence, + And coming night, what seemed the sinking moon, + Amid the yellow sedges by the lake + Began to twinkle, as a fire were blown— + And it was fire, the garden was afire, + As it were all the world had flamed with war. + And a wind came out of the bright heaven + And blew the flames, first through the ruined garden, + Then through the wood, the fields of wheat, at last + Nothing was left but waste and wreaths of smoke + Twisting toward the stars. And there he sat + Nor uttered aught, save when I sighed he said + "If it be comforting I promise you + Another spring shall come." + + "And after that?" + "Another spring—that's all I know myself, + There shall be springs and springs!" +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Toward the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWARD THE GULF *** + +***** This file should be named 7845-h.htm or 7845-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/4/7845/ + + +Text file produced by Dave Maddock, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +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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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Toward the Gulf + +Author: Edgar Lee Masters + + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7845] +This file was first posted on May 22, 2003 +Last Updated: May 21, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWARD THE GULF *** + + + + +Produced by Dave Maddock, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +TOWARD THE GULF + +By Edgar Lee Masters + + + + +CONTENTS + + TOWARD THE GULF + THE LAKE BOATS + CITIES OF THE PLAIN + EXCLUDED MIDDLE + SAMUEL BUTLER, ET AL + JOHNNY APPLESEED + THE LOOM + DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S + SIR GALAHAD + ST. DESERET + HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR + VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART + THE LANDSCAPE + TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY + SWEET CLOVER + SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL + FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE + POOR PIERROT + MIRAGE OF THE DESERT + DAHLIAS + THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES + DELILAH + THE WORLD-SAVER + RECESSIONAL + THE AWAKENING + IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR + FRANCE + BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES + DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC + DEAR OLD DICK + THE ROOM OF MIRRORS + THE LETTER + CANTICLE OF THE RACE + BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE + MY LIGHT WITH YOURS + THE BLIND + "I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU" + CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT + WIDOW LA RUE + DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE + FRIAR YVES + THE EIGHTH CRUSADE + THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE + NEANDERTHAL + THE END OF THE SEARCH + BOTANICAL GARDENS + + + + +TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY + + +It would have been fitting had I dedicated Spoon River Anthology to +you. Considerations of an intimate nature, not to mention a literary +encouragement which was before yours, crowded you from the page. Yet +you know that it was you who pressed upon my attention in June, 1909, +the Greek Anthology. It was from contemplation of its epitaphs that my +hand unconsciously strayed to the sketches of "Hod Putt," "Serepta The +Scold" ("Serepta Mason" in the book), "Amanda Barker" ("Amanda" in the +book), "Ollie McGee" and "The Unknown," the first written and the +first printed sketches of The Spoon River Anthology. The +_Mirror_ of May 29th, 1914, is their record. + +I take one of the epigrams of Meleager with its sad revealment and +touch of irony and turn it from its prose form to a verse form, making +verses according to the breath pauses: + +"The holy night and thou, O Lamp, we took as witness of our vows; and +before thee we swore, he that would love me always and I that I would +never leave him. We swore, and thou wert witness of our double +promise. But now he says that our vows were written on the running +waters. And thou, O Lamp, thou seest him in the arms of another." + +In verse this epigram is as follows: + + The holy night and thou, + O Lamp, + We took as witness of our vows; + And before thee we swore, + He that would love me always + And I that I would never leave him. + We swore, + And thou wert witness of our double promise. + But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters. + And thou, O Lamp, + Thou seest him in the arms of another. + +It will be observed that iambic feet prevail in this translation. They +merely become noticeable and imperative when arranged in verses. But +so it is, even in the briefest and starkest rendering of these +epigrams from the Greek the humanism and dignity of the original +transfer themselves, making something, if less than verse, yet more +than prose; as Byron said of Sheridan's speeches, neither poetry nor +oratory, but better than either. It was no difficult matter to pass +from Chase Henry: + + "In life I was the town drunkard. + When I died the priest denied me burial + In holy ground, etc." + +to the use of standard measures, or rhythmical arrangements of iambics +or what not, and so to make a book, which for the first third required +a practiced voice or eye to yield the semblance of verse; and for the +last two-thirds, or nearly so, accommodated itself to the less +sensitive conception of the average reader. The prosody was allowed +to take care of itself under the emotional requirements and +inspiration of the moment. But there is nothing new in English +literature for some hundreds of years in combinations of dactyls, +anapests or trochees, and without rhyme. Nor did I discover to the +world that an iambic pentameter can be lopped to a tetrameter without +the verse ceasing to be an iambic; though it be no longer the blank +verse which has so ennobled English poetry. A great deal of unrhymed +poetry is yet to be written in the various standard rhythms and in +carefully fashioned metres. + +But obviously a formal resuscitation of the Greek epigrams, ironical +and tender, satirical and sympathetic, as casual experiments in +unrelated themes would scarcely make the same appeal that an epic +rendition of modern life would do, and as it turned out actually +achieved. + +The response of the American press to Spoon River Anthology during the +summer of 1914 while it was appearing in the _Mirror_ is my +warrant for saying this. It was quoted and parodied during that time +in the country and in the metropolitan newspapers. _Current +Opinion_ in its issue of September, 1914, reproduced from the +_Mirror_ some of the poems. Though at this time the schematic +effect of the Anthology could not be measured, Edward J. Wheeler, that +devoted patron of the art and discriminating critic of its +manifestations, was attracted, I venture to say, by the substance of +"Griffy, The Cooper," for that is one of the poems from the Anthology +which he set forth in his column "The Voice of Living Poets" in the +issue referred to. _Poetry, A Magazine of Verse_, followed in +its issue of October, 1914, with a reprinting from the _Mirror_. +In a word, the Anthology went the rounds over the country before it +was issued in book form. And a reception was thus prepared for the +complete work not often falling to the lot of a literary production. +I must not omit an expression of my gratitude for the very high praise +which John Cowper Powys bestowed on the Anthology just before it +appeared in book form and the publicity which was given his lecture by +the _New York Times_. Nathan Haskell Dole printed an article in +the Boston _Transcript_ of June 30, 1915, in which he contrasted +the work with the Greek Anthology, pointing in particular to certain +epitaphs by Carphylides, Kallaischros and Pollianos. The critical +testimony of Miss Harriet Monroe in her editorial comments and in her +preface to "The New Poetry" has greatly strengthened the judgment of +to-day against a reversal at the hands of a later criticism. + +This response to the Anthology while it was appearing in the +_Mirror_ and afterwards when put in the book was to nothing so +much as to the substance. It was accepted as a picture of our life in +America. It was interpreted as a transcript of the state of mind of +men and women here and elsewhere. You called it a Comedy Humaine in +your announcement of my identity as the author in the _Mirror_ of +November 20, 1914. If the epitaphic form gave added novelty I must +confess that the idea was suggested to me by the Greek Anthology. But +it was rather because of the Greek Anthology than from it that I +evolved the less harmonious epitaphs with which Spoon River Anthology +was commenced. As to metrical epitaphs it is needless to say that I +drew upon the legitimate materials of authentic English versification. +Up to the Spring of 1914, I had never allowed a Spring to pass without +reading Homer; and I feel that this familiarity had its influence both +as to form and spirit; but I shall not take the space now to pursue +this line of confessional. + +What is the substance of which I have spoken if it be not the life +around us as we view it through eyes whose vision lies in heredity, +mode of life, understanding of ourselves and of our place and time? +You have lived much. As a critic and a student of the country no one +understands America better than you do. As a denizen of the west, but +as a surveyor of the east and west you have brought to the country's +interpretation a knowledge of its political and literary life as well +as a proficiency in the history of other lands and other times. You +have seen and watched the unfolding of forces that sprang up after the +Civil War. Those forces mounted in the eighties and exploded in free +silver in 1896. They began to hit through the directed marksmanship of +Theodore Roosevelt during his second term. You knew at first hand all +that went with these forces of human hope, futile or valiant endeavor, +articulate or inarticulate expression of the new birth. You saw and +lived, but in greater degree, what I have seen and lived. And with +this back-ground you inspired and instructed me in my analysis. +Standing by you confirmed or corrected my sculpturing of the clay +taken out of the soil from which we both came. You did this with an +eye familiar with the secrets of the last twenty years, familiar also +with the relation of those years to the time which preceded and bore +them. + +So it is, that not only because I could not dedicate Spoon River to +you, but for the larger reasons indicated, am I impelled to do you +whatever honor there may be in taking your name for this book. By this +outline confession, sometime perhaps to be filled in, do I make known +what your relation is to these interpretations of mine resulting from +a spirit, life, thought, environment which have similarly come to us +and have similarly affected us. + +I call this book "Toward the Gulf," a title importing a continuation +of the attempts of Spoon River and The Great Valley to mirror the age +and the country in which we live. It does not matter which one of +these books carries your name and makes these acknowledgments; so far, +anyway, as the opportunity is concerned for expressing my appreciation +of your friendship and the great esteem and affectionate interest in +which I hold you. + +EDGAR LEE MASTERS. + + + +The following poems were first printed in the publications indicated: + +Toward the Gulf, The Lake Boats, The Loom, Tomorrow is my +Birthday, Dear Old Dick, The Letter, My Light with Yours, Widow +LaRue, Neanderthal, in Reedy's Mirror. + +Draw the Sword, Oh Republic, in the Independent. + +Canticle of the Race, in Poetry, a Magazine of Verse. + +Friar Yves, in the Cosmopolitan Magazine. + +"I pay my debt for Lafayette and Rochambeau," in Fashions of +the Hour. + + + + + +TOWARD THE GULF + + _Dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt_ + + + From the Cordilleran Highlands, + From the Height of Land + Far north. + From the Lake of the Woods, + From Rainy Lake, + From Itasca's springs. + From the snow and the ice + Of the mountains, + Breathed on by the sun, + And given life, + Awakened by kisses of fire, + Moving, gliding as brightest hyaline + Down the cliffs, + Down the hills, + Over the stones. + Trickling as rills; + Swiftly running as mountain brooks; + Swirling through runnels of rock; + Curving in sphered silence + Around the long worn walls of granite gorges; + Storming through chasms; + And flowing for miles in quiet over the Titan basin + To the muddled waters of the mighty river, + Himself obeying the call of the gulf, + And the unfathomed urge of the sea! + + * * * * * + + Waters of mountain peaks, + Spirits of liberty + Leaving your pure retreats + For work in the world. + Soiling your crystal springs + With the waste that is whirled to your breast as you run, + Until you are foul as the crawling leviathan + That devours you, + And uses you to carry waste and earth + For the making of land at the gulf, + For the conquest of land for the feet of men. + + * * * * * + + De Soto, Marquette and La Salle + Planting your cross in vain, + Gaining neither gold nor ivory, + Nor tribute + For France or Spain. + Making land alone + For liberty! + You could proclaim in the name of the cross + The dominion of kings over a world that was new. + But the river has altered its course: + There are fertile fields + For a thousand miles where the river flowed that you knew. + And there are liberty and democracy + For thousands of miles + Where in the name of kings, and for the cross + You tramped the tangles for treasure. + + * * * * * + + The Falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters + In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices, + Swirling, dancing, leaping, foaming, + Spirits of caverns, of canyons and gorges: + Waters tinctured by star-lights, sweetened by breezes + Blown over snows, out of the rosy northlands, + Through forests of pine and hemlock, + Whisperings of the Pacific grown symphonic. + Voices of freedom, restless, unconquered, + Mad with divinity, fearless and free:-- + Hunters and choppers, warriors, revelers, + Laughers, dancers, fiddlers, freemen, + Climbing the crests of the Alleghenies, + Singing, chopping, hunting, fighting + Erupting into Kentucky and Tennessee, + Into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, + Sweeping away the waste of the Indians, + As the river carries mud for the making of land. + And taking the land of Illinois from kings + And handing its allegiance to the Republic. + What riflemen with Daniel Boone for leader, + And conquerors with Clark for captain + Plunge down like melted snows + The rocks and chasms of forbidden mountains, + And make more land for freemen! + Clear-eyed, hard-muscled, dauntless hunters, + Choppers of forests and tillers of fields + Meet at last in a field of snow-white clover + To make wise laws for states, + And to teach their sons of the new West + That suffrage is the right of freemen. + Until the lion of Tennessee, + Who crushes king-craft near the gulf. + Where La Salle proclaimed the crown, + And the cross, + Is made the ruler of the republic + By freeman suffragans, + And winners of the West! + + * * * * * + + Father of Waters! Ever recurring symbol of wider freedom, + Even to the ocean girdled earth, + The out-worn rule of Florida rots your domain. + But the lion of Tennessee asks: Would you take from Spain + The land she has lost but in name? + It shall be done in a month if you loose my sword. + It was done as he said. + And the sick and drunken power of Spain that clung, + And sucked at the life of Chile, Peru, Argentina, + Loosened under the blows of San Martin and Bolivar, + Breathing the lightning thrown by Napoleon the Great + On the thrones of Europe. + Father of Waters! 'twas you who made us say: + No kings this side of the earth forever! + One-half of the earth shall be free + By our word and the might that is back of our word! + + * * * * * + + The falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters + In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices! + And the river moves in its winding channel toward the gulf, + Over the breast of De Soto, + By the swamp grave of La Salle! + The old days sleep, the lion of Tennessee sleeps + With Daniel Boone and the hunters, + The rifle men, the revelers, + The laughers and dancers and choppers + Who climbed the crests of the Alleghenies, + And poured themselves into Tennessee, Ohio, + Kentucky, Illinois, the bountiful West. + But the river never sleeps, the river flows forever, + Making land forever, reclaiming the wastes of the sea. + And the race never sleeps, the race moves on forever. + And wars must come, as the waters must sweep away + Drift-wood, dead wood, choking the strength of the river-- + For Liberty never sleeps! + + * * * * * + + The lion of Tennessee sleeps! + And over the graves of the hunters and choppers + The tramp of troops is heard! + There is war again, + O, Father of Waters! + There is war, O, symbol of freedom! + They have chained your giant strength for the cause + Of trade in men. + But a man of the West, a denizen of your shore, + Wholly American, + Compact, clear-eyed, nerved like a hunter, + Who knew no faster beat of the heart, + Except in charity, forgiveness, peace; + Generous, plain, democratic, + Scarcely appraising himself at full, + A spiritual rifleman and chopper, + Of the breed of Daniel Boone-- + This man, your child, O, Father of Waters, + Waked from the winter sleep of a useless day + By the rising sun of a Freedom bright and strong, + Slipped like the loosened snows of your mountain streams + Into a channel of fate as sure as your own-- + A fate which said: till the thing be done + Turn not back nor stop. + Ulysses of the great Atlantis, + Wholly American, + Patient, silent, tireless, watchful, undismayed + Grant at Fort Donelson, Grant at Vicksburg, + Leading the sons of choppers and riflemen, + Pushing on as the hunters and farmers + Poured from the mountains into the West, + Freed you, Father of Waters, + To flow to the Gulf and be one + With the earth-engirdled tides of time. + And gave us states made ready for the hands + Wholly American: + Hunters, choppers, tillers, fighters + For epochs vast and new + In Truth, in Liberty, + Posters from land to land and sea to sea + Till all the earth be free! + + * * * * * + + Ulysses of the great Atlantis, + Dream not of disaster, + Sleep the sleep of the brave + In your couch afar from the Father of Waters! + A new Ulysses arises, + Who turns not back, nor stops + Till the thing is done. + He cuts with one stroke of the sword + The stubborn neck that keeps the Gulf + And the Caribbean + From the luring Pacific. + Roosevelt the hunter, the pioneer, + Wholly American, + Winner of greater wests + Till all the earth be free! + + * * * * * + + And forever as long as the river flows toward the Gulf + Ulysses reincarnate shall come + To guard our places of sleep, + Till East and West shall be one in the west of heaven and earth! + + * * * * * + + In an old print + I see a thicket of masts on the river. + But in the prints to be + There will be lake boats, + With port holes, funnels, rows of decks, + Huddled like swans by the docks, + Under the shadows of cliffs of brick. + And who will know from the prints to be, + When the Albatross and the Golden Eagle, + The flying craft which shall carry the vision + Of impatient lovers wounded by Spring + To the shaded rivers of Michigan, + That it was the Missouri, the Iowa, + And the City of Benton Harbor + Which lay huddled like swans by the docks? + + You are not Lake Leman, + Walled in by Mt. Blanc. + One sees the whole world round you, + And beyond you, Lake Michigan. + And when the melodious winds of March + Wrinkle you and drive on the shore + The serpent rifts of sand and snow, + And sway the giant limbs of oaks, + Longing to bud, + The boats put forth for the ports that began to stir, + With the creak of reels unwinding the nets, + And the ring of the caulking wedge. + But in the June days-- + The Alabama ploughs through liquid tons + Of sapphire waves. + She sinks from hills to valleys of water, + And rises again, + Like a swimming gull! + I wish a hundred years to come, and forever + All lovers could know the rapture + Of the lake boats sailing the first Spring days + To coverts of hepatica, + With the whole world sphering round you, + And the whole of the sky beyond you. + + I knew the captain of the City of Grand Rapids. + He had sailed the seas as a boy. + And he stood on deck against the railing + Puffing a cigar, + Showing in his eyes the cinema flash of the sun on the waves. + It was June and life was easy. ... + One could lie on deck and sleep, + Or sit in the sun and dream. + People were walking the decks and talking, + Children were singing. + And down on the purser's deck + A man was dancing by himself, + Whirling around like a dervish. + And this captain said to me: + "No life is better than this. + I could live forever, + And do nothing but run this boat + From the dock at Chicago to the dock at Holland + And back again." + + One time I went to Grand Haven + On the Alabama with Charley Shippey. + It was dawn, but white dawn only, + Under the reign of Leucothea, + As we volplaned, so it seemed, from the lake + Past the lighthouse into the river. + And afterward laughing and talking + Hurried to Van Dreezer's restaurant + For breakfast. + (Charley knew him and talked of things + Unknown to me as he cooked the breakfast.) + Then we fished the mile's length of the pier + In a gale full of warmth and moisture + Which blew the gulls about like confetti, + And flapped like a flag the linen duster + Of a fisherman who paced the pier-- + (Charley called him Rip Van Winkle). + The only thing that could be better + Than this day on the pier + Would be its counterpart in heaven, + As Swedenborg would say-- + Charley is fishing somewhere now, I think. + + There is a grove of oaks on a bluff by the river + At Berrien Springs. + There is a cottage that eyes the lake + Between pines and silver birches + At South Haven. + There is the inviolable wonder of wooded shore + Curving for miles at Saugatuck. + And at Holland a beach like Scheveningen's. + And at Charlevoix the sudden quaintness + Of an old-world place by the sea. + There are the hills around Elk Lake + Where the blue of the sky is so still and clear + It seems it was rubbed above them + By the swipe of a giant thumb. + And beyond these the little Traverse Bay + Where the roar of the breeze goes round + Like a roulette ball in the groove of the wheel, + Circling the bay, + And beyond these Mackinac and the Cheneaux Islands-- + And beyond these a great mystery!-- + + Neither ice floes, nor winter's palsy + Stays the tide in the river. + + + + +LAKE BOATS + + + And under the shadows of cliffs of brick + The lake boats + Huddled like swans + Turn and sigh like sleepers---- + They are longing for the Spring! + + + + +CITIES OF THE PLAIN + + + Where are the cabalists, the insidious committees, + The panders who betray the idiot cities + For miles and miles toward the prairie sprawled, + Ignorant, soul-less, rich, + Smothered in fumes of pitch? + + * * * * * + + Rooms of mahogany in tall sky scrapers + See the unfolding and the folding up + Of ring-clipped papers, + And letters which keep drugged the public cup. + The walls hear whispers and the semi-tones + Of voices in the corner, over telephones + Muffled by Persian padding, gemmed with brass spittoons. + Butts of cigars are on the glass topped table, + And through the smoke, gracing the furtive Babel, + The bishop's picture blesses the picaroons, + Who start or stop the life of millions moving + Unconscious of obedience, the plastic + Yielders to satanic and dynastic + Hands of reproaching and approving. + + * * * * * + + Here come knights armed, + But with their arms concealed, + And rubber heeled. + Here priests and wavering want are charmed. + And shadows fall here like the shark's + In messages received or sent. + Signals are flying from the battlement. + And every president + Of rail, gas, coal and oil, the parks, + The receipt of custom knows, without a look, + Their meaning as the code is in no book. + The treasonous cracksmen of the city's wealth + Watch for the flags of stealth! + + * * * * * + + Acres of coal lie fenced along the tracks. + Tracks ribbon the streets, and beneath the streets + Wires for voices, fire, thwart the plebiscites, + And choke the counsels and symposiacs + Of dreamers who have pity for the backs + That bear and bleed. + All things are theirs: tracks, wires, streets and coal, + The church's creed, + The city's soul, + The city's sea girt loveliness, + The merciless and meretricious press. + + * * * * * + + Far up in a watch-tower, where the news is printed, + Gray faces and bright eyes, weary and cynical + Discuss fresh wonders of the old cabal. + But nothing of its work in type is hinted: + Taxes are high! The mentors of the town + Must keep their taxes down + On buildings, presses, stocks + In gas, oil, coal and docks. + The mahogany rooms conceal a spider man + Who holds the taxing bodies through the church, + And knights with arms concealed. The mentors search + The spider man, the master publican, + And for his friendship silence keep, + Letting him herd the populace like sheep + For self and for the insatiable desires + Of coal and tracks and wires, + Pick judges, legislators, + And tax-gatherers. + Or name his favorites, whom they name: + The slick and sinistral, + Servitors of the cabal, + For praise which seems the equivalent of fame: + Giving to the delicate handed crackers + Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers, + The flash and thunder of front pages! + And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages + Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate. + And the unilluminate, + Whose brows are brass, + Who weep on every Sabbath day + For Jesus riding on an ass, + Scarce know the ass is they, + Now ridden by his effigy, + The publican with Jesus' painted mask, + Along a way where fumes of odorless gas + First spur then fell them from the task. + + * * * * * + + Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle + Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle. + And the angels say to Yahveh looking down + From the alabaster railing, on the town, + O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack + We wish we had our little Sodom back! + + + + +EXCLUDED MIDDLE + + + Out of the mercury shimmer of glass + Over these daguerreotypes + The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges + With its little figure of flowers. + And the enameled glair of parted hair + Lies over the oval brow, + From under which eyes of fiery blackness + Look through you. + And the only repose of spirit shown + Is in the hands + Lying loosely one in the other, + Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. ... + And in the companion folder of this case + Of gutta percha + Is the shape of a man. + His brow is oval too, but broader. + His nose is long, but thick at the tip. + His eyes are blue + Wherein faith burns her signal lights, + And flashes her convictions. + His mouth is tense, almost a slit. + And his face is a massive Calvinism + Resting on a stock tie. + + They were married, you see. + The clasp on this gutta percha case + Locks them together. + They were locked together in life. + And a hasp of brass + Keeps their shadows face to face in the case + Which has been handed down-- + (The pictures of noble ancestors, + Showing what strains of gentle blood + Flow in the third generation)-- + From Massachusetts to Illinois. ... + + Long ago it was over for them, + Massachusetts has done its part, + She raised the seed + And a wind blew it over to Illinois + Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated + Until one soul comes forth: + But a soul all striped and streaked, + And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed, + As it were a tree which on one branch + Bears northern spies, + And on another thorn apples. ... + + Come Weissmann, Von Baer and Schleiden, + And you Buffon and De Vries, + Come with your secrets of sea shore asters + Night-shade, henbanes, gloxinias, + Veronicas, snap-dragons, Danebrog, + And show us how they cross and change, + And become hybrids. + And show us what heredity is, + And how it works. + For the secret of these human beings + Locked in this gutta percha case + Is the secret of Mephistos and red Campions. + + Let us lay out the facts as far as we can. + Her eyes were black, + His eyes were blue. + She saw through shadows, walls and doors, + She knew life and hungered for more. + But he lived in the mists, and climbed to high places + To feel clouds about his face, and get the lights + Of supernal sun-sets. + She was reason, and he was faith. + She had an illumination, but of the intellect. + And he had an illumination but of the soul. + And she saw God as merciless law, + And he knew God as divine love. + And she was a man, and he in part was a woman. + He stood in a pulpit and preached the Christ, + And the remission of sins by blood, + And the literal fall of man through Adam, + And the mystical and actual salvation of man + Through the coming of Christ. + + And she sat in a pew shading her great eyes + To hide her scorn for it all. + She was crucified, + And raged to the last like the impenitent thief + Against the fate which wasted and trampled down + Her wisdom, sagacity, versatile skill, + Which would have piled up gold or honors + For a mate who knew that life is growth, + And health, and the satisfaction of wants, + And place and reputation and mansion houses, + And mahogany and silver, + And beautiful living. + She hated him, and hence she pitied him. + She was like the gardener with great pruners + Deciding to clip, sometimes not clipping + Just for the dread. + She had married him--but why? + Some inscrutable air + Wafted his pollen to her across a wide garden-- + Some power had crossed them. + And here is the secret I think: + (As we would say here is electricity) + It is the vibration inhering in sex + That produces devils or angels, + And it is the sex reaction in men and women + That brings forth devils or angels, + And starts in them the germs of powers or passions, + Becoming loves, ferocities, gifts and weaknesses, + Till the stock dies out. + So now for their hybrid children:-- + She gave birth to four daughters and one son. + + But first what have we for the composition of these daughters? + Reason opposed and becoming keener therefor. + Faith mocked and drawing its mantel closer. + Love thwarted and becoming acid. + Hatred mounting too high and thinning into pity. + Hunger for life unappeased and becoming a stream under-ground + Where only blind things swim. + God year by year removing himself to remoter thrones + Of inexorable law. + God coming closer even while disease + And total blindness came between him and God + And defeated the mercy of God. + And a love and a trust growing deeper in him + As she in great thirst, hanging on the cross, + Mocked his crucifixion, + And talked philosophy between the spasms of pain, + Till at last she is all satirist, + And he is all saint. + + And all the children were raised + After the strictest fashion in New England, + And made to join the church, + And attend its services. + And these were the children: + + Janet was a religious fanatic and a virago, + She debated religion with her husband for ten years, + Then he refused to talk, and for twenty years + Scarcely spoke to her. + She died a convert to Catholicism. + They had two children: + The boy became a forgerer + Of notorious skill. + The daughter married, but was barren. + + Miranda married a rich man + And spent his money so fast that he failed. + She lashed him with a scorpion tongue + And made him believe at last + With her incessant reasonings + That he was a fool, and so had failed. + In middle life he started over again, + But became tangled in a law-suit. + Because of these things he killed himself. + + Louise was a nymphomaniac. + She was married twice. + Both husbands fled from her insatiable embraces. + At thirty-two she became a woman on a telephone list, + Subject to be called, + And for two years ran through a daily orgy of sex, + When blindness came on her, as it came on her father before her, + And she became a Christian Scientist, + And led an exemplary life. + + Deborah was a Puritan of Puritans, + Her list of unmentionable things + Tabooed all the secrets of creation, + Leaving politics, religion, and human faults, + And the mistakes most people make, + And the natural depravity of man, + And his freedom to redeem himself if he chooses, + As the only subjects of conversation. + As a twister of words and meanings, + And a skilled welder of fallacies, + And a swift emerger from ineluctable traps of logic, + And a wit with an adder's tongue, + And a laugher, + And an unafraid facer of enemies, + Oppositions, hatreds, + She never knew her equal. + She was at once very cruel, and very tender, + Very selfish and very generous + Very little and very magnanimous. + Scrupulous as to the truth, and utterly disregardless of the truth. + + Of the keenest intuitions, yet gullible, + Easily used at times, of erratic judgment, + Analytic but pursuing with incredible swiftness + The falsest trails to her own undoing-- + All in all the strangest mixture of colors and scent + Derived from father and mother, + But mixed by whom, and how, and why? + + Now for the son named Herman, rebel soul. + His brow was like a loaf of bread, his eyes + Turned from his father's blue to gray, his nose + Was like his mother's, skin was dark like hers. + His shapely body, hands and feet belonged + To some patrician face, not to Marat's. + And his was like Marat's, fanatical, + Materialistic, fierce, as it might guide + A reptile's crawl, but yet he crawled to peaks + Loving the hues of mists, but not the mists + His father loved. And being a rebel soul + He thought the world all wrong. A nothingness + Moving as malice marred the life of man. + 'Twas man's great work to fight this Giant Fraud, + And all who praise and serve Him. 'Tis for man + To free the world from error, suffer, die + For liberty of thought. You see his mother + Is in possession of one part of him, + Or all of him for some time. + + So he lives + Nursing the dream (like father he's a dreamer) + That genius fires him. All the while a gift + For analytics stored behind that brow, + That bulges like a loaf of bread, is all + Of which he well may boast above the man + He hates as but a slave of faith and fear. + He feeds luxurious doubt with Omar Khyam, + But for long years neglects the jug of wine. + And as for "thou" he does not wake for years, + Is a pure maiden when he weds, the grains + Run counter in him, end in knots at times. + He takes from father certain tastes and traits, + From mother certain others, one can see + His mother's sex re-actions to his father, + Not passed to him to make him celibate, + But holding back in sleeping passions which + Burst over bounds at last in lust, not love. + Not love since that great engine in the brow + Tears off the irised wings of love and bares + The poor worm's body where the wings had been: + What is it but desire? Such stuff in rhyme + In music over what is but desire, + And ends when that is satisfied! + + He's a crank. + And follows all the psychic thrills which run + To cackles o'er the world. It's Looking Backward, + Or Robert Elsmere, Spencer's Social Statics, + It's socialism, Anarchism, Peace, + It's non-resistance with a swelling heart, + As who should say how truer to the faith + Of Jesus am I, without hope or faith, + Than churchmen. He's a prohibitionist, + The poor's protagonist, the knight at arms + Of fallen women, yelling at the rich + Whose wicked greed makes all the prostitutes-- + No prostitutes without the wicked rich! + But as he ages, as the bitter days + Approach with perorations: O ye vipers, + The engine in him changes all the world, + Reverses all the wheels of thought behind. + For Nietzsche comes, and makes him superman. + He dumps the truth of Jesus over--there + It lies with his youth's textual skepticism, + And laughter at the supernatural. + + Now what's the motivating principle + Of such a mind? In youth he sought for rules + Wherewith to trail and capture truths. He found it + In James McCosh's Logic, it was this: + Lex Exclusi Tertii aut Medii, + Law of Excluded Middle speaking plain: + A thing is true, or not true, never a third + Hypothesis, so God is or is not. + That's very good to start with, how to end + And how to know which of the two is false-- + He hunted out the false, as mother did-- + Requires a tool. He found it in this book, + Reductio ad absurdum; let us see + Excluded middle use reductio. + God is or God is not, but then what God? + Excluded Middle never sought a God + To suffer demolition at his hands + Except the God of Illinois, the God + Grown but a little with his followers + Since Moses lived and Peter fished. So now + God is or God is not. Let us assume + God is and use reductio ad absurdum, + Taking away the rotten props, the posts + That do not fit or hold, and let Him fall. + For if he falls, the other postulate + That God is not is demonstrated. See + A universe of truth pass on the way + Cleared by Excluded Middle through the stuff + Of thought and visible things, a way that lets + A greater God escape, uncaught by all + The nippers of reductio ad absurdum. + But to resume his argument was this: + God is or God is not, but if God is + Why pestilence and war, earthquake and famine? + He either wills them, or cannot prevent them, + But if he wills them God is evil, if + He can't prevent them, he is limited. + + But God, you say, is good, omnipotent, + And here I prove Him evil, or too weak + To stay the evil. Having shown your God + Lacking in what makes God, the proposition + Which I oppose to this, that God is not + Stands proven. For as evil is most clear + In sickness, pain and death, it cannot be + There is a Power with strength to overcome them, + Yet suffers them to be. + + And so this man + Went through the years of life, and stripped the fields + Of beauty and of thought with mandibles + Insatiable as the locust's, which devours + A season's care and labor in an hour. + He stripped these fields and ate them, but they made + No meat or fat for him. And so he lived + On his own thought, as starving men may live + On stored up fat. And so in time he starved. + The thought in him no longer fed his life, + And he had withered up the outer world + Of man and nature, stripped it to the bone, + Nothing but skull and cross-bones greeted him + Wherever he turned--the world became a bottle + Filled with a bitter essence he could drink + From long accustomed doses--labeled poison + And marked with skull and cross-bones. Could he laugh + As mother laughed? No more! He tried to find + The mother's laugh and secret for the laugh + Which kept her to the end--but did she laugh? + Or if she laughed, was it so hollow, forced + As all his laughter now was. He had proved + Too much for laughter. Nothing but himself + Remained to keep himself, he lived alone + Upon his stored up fat, now daily growing + To dangerous thinness. + + So with love of woman. + He had found "thou" the jug of wine as well, + "Thou" "thou" had come and gone too many times. + For what is sex but touch of flesh, the hand + Is flesh and hands may touch, if so, the loins-- + Reductio ad absurdum, O you fools, + Who see a wrong in touch of loins, no wrong + In clasp of hands. And so again, again + With his own tools of thought he bruised his hands + Until they grew too callous to perceive + When they were touched. + + So by analysis + He turned on everything he once believed. + Let's make an end! + + Men thought Excluded Middle + Was born for great things. Why that bulging brow + And analytic keen if not for greatness? + + In those old days they thought so when he fought + For lofty things, a youthful radical + Come here to change the world! But now at last + He lectures in back halls to youths who are + What he was in his youth, to acid souls + Who must have bitterness, can take enough + To kill a healthy soul, as fiends for dope + Must have enough to kill a body clean. + And so upon a night Excluded Middle + Is lecturing to prove that life is evil, + Not worth the living--when his auditors + Behold him pale and sway and take his seat, + And later quit the hall, the lecture left + Half finished. + + This had happened in a twinkling: + He had made life a punching bag, with fists, + Excluded Middle and Reductio, + Had whacked it back and forth. But just as often + As he had struck it with an argument + That it is not worth living, snap, the bag + Would fly back for another punch. For life + Just like a punching bag will stand your whacks + Of hatred and denial, let you punch + Almost at will. But sometime, like the bag, + The strap gives way, the bag flies up and falls + And lies upon the floor, you've knocked it out. + And this is what Excluded Middle does + This night, the strap breaks with his blows. He proves + His strength, his case and for the first he sees + Life is not worth the living. Life gives up, + Resists no more, flys back no more to him, + But hits the ceiling, snap the strap gives way! + The bag falls to the floor, and lies there still-- + Who now shall pick it up, re-fasten it? + And so his color fades, it well may be + The crisis of a long neurosis, well + What caused it? But his eyes are wondrous clear + Perceiving life knocked out. His heart is sick, + He takes his seat, admiring friends swarm round him, + Conduct him to a carriage, he goes home + And sitting by the fire (O what is fire? + The miracle of fire dawns on his thought, + Fire has been near him all these years unseen, + How wonderful is fire!) which warms and soothes + Neuritic pains, he takes the rubber case + Which locks the images of father, mother. + And as he stares upon the oval brow, + The eyes of blue which flash the light of faith, + Preserved like dendrites in this silver shimmer, + Some spectral speculations fill his brain, + Float like a storm above the sorry wreck + Of all his logic tools, machines; for now + Since pains in back and shoulder like to father's + Fall to him at the age that father had them, + Father has entered him, has settled down + To live with him with those neuritic pangs. + Thus are his speculations. Over all + How comes it that a sudden feel of life, + Its wonder, terror, beauty is like father's? + As if the soul of father entered in him + And made the field of consciousness his own, + Emotions, powers of thought his instruments. + That is a horrible atavism, when + You find yourself reverting to a soul + You have not loved, despite yourself becoming + That other soul, and with an out-worn self + Crying for burial on your hands, a life + Not yours till now that waits your new found powers-- + Live now or die indeed! + + + + +SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. + + + Let me consider your emergence + From the milieu of our youth: + We have played all the afternoon, grown hungry. + No meal has been prepared, where have you been? + Toward sun's decline we see you down the path, + And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile, + Or take us in your arms. Perhaps again + You look at us, say nothing, are absorbed, + Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces. + Of running wild without our meals + You do not speak. + + Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy, + After removing gloves and hat, you run, + As with a winged descending flight, and cry, + Half song, half exclamation, + Seize one of us, + Crush one of us with mad embraces, bite + Ears of us in a rapture of affection. + "You shall have supper," then you say. + The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire, + The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock + We sit down to a meal of hodge-podge stuff. + I understand now how your youth and spirits + Fought back the drabness of the village, + And wonder not you spent the afternoons + With such bright company as Eugenia Turner-- + And I forgive you hunger, loneliness. + + But when we asked you where you'd been, + Complained of loneliness and hunger, spoke of children + Who lived in order, sat down thrice a day + To cream and porridge, bread and meat. + We think to corner you--alas for us! + Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out + Like anvil sparks to justify your way: + "Your father's always gone--you selfish children, + You'd have me in the house from morn till night." + You put us in the wrong--our cause is routed. + We turn to bed unsatisfied in mind, + You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us. + Our sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution + To whip you out when minds grow strong. + + Up in the moon-lit room without a light, + (The lamps have not been filled,) + We crawl in unmade beds. + We leave you pouring over paper backs. + We peek above your shoulder. + It is "The Lady in White" you read. + Next morning you are dead for sleep, + You've sat up more than half the night. + We have been playing hours when you arise, + It's nine o'clock when breakfast's served at last, + When school days come I'm always late to school. + + Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door, + Eye through the crack, maybe, at nine o'clock, + Find father has returned during the night. + You are all happiness, his idlest word + Provokes your laughter. + He shows us rolls of precious money earned; + He's given you a silk dress, money too + For suits and shoes for us--all is forgiven. + You run about the house, + As with a winged descending flight and cry + Half song, half exclamation. + + We're sick so much. But then no human soul + Could be more sweet when one of us is sick. + We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our throats + Are weak, the doctor says. If rooms were warmer, + And clothes were warmer, food more regular, + And sleep more regular, it might be different. + Then there's the well. You fear the water. + He laughs at you, we children drink the water, + Though it tastes bitter, shows white particles: + It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well. + The village has no drainage, blights and mildews + Get in our throats. I spend a certain spring + Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times, + Sick to somnambulistic sense of things. + You blame him for the well, that's just one thing. + You seem to differ about everything-- + You seem to hate each other--when you quarrel + We cry, take sides, sometimes are whipped + For taking sides. + + Our broken school days lose us clues, + Some lesson has been missed, the final meaning + And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed-- + That shall not be made up in all our life. + The children, save a few, are not our friends, + Some taunt us with your quarrels. + We learn great secrets scrawled in signs or words + Of foulness on the fences. So it is + An American village, in a great Republic, + Where men are free, where therefore goodness, wisdom + Must have their way! + + We reach the budding age. + Sweet aches are in our breasts: + Is it spring, or God, or music, is it you? + I am all tenderness for you at times, + Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh + Crawls by an instinct from you. You repel me + Sometimes with an insidious smile, a look. + What are these phantasies I have? They breed + Strange hatred for you, even while I feel + My soul's home is with you, must be with you + To find my soul's rest. ... + + I must go back a little. At ten years + I play with Paula. + I plait her crowns of flowers, carry her books, + Defend her, watch her, choose her in the games. + You overhear us under the oak tree + Calling her doll our child. You catch my coat + And draw me in the house. + When I resist you whip me cruelly. + To think of whipping me at such time, + And mix the shame of smarting legs and back + With love of Paula! + So I lose Paula. + + I am a man at last. + I now can master what you are and see + What you have been. You cannot rout me now, + Or put me in the wrong. Out of old wounds, + Remembrance of your baffling days, + I take great strength and show you + Where you have been untruthful, where a hater, + Where narrow, bitter, growing in on self, + Where you neglected us, + Where you heaped fast destruction on our father-- + For now I know that you devoured his soul, + And that no soul that you could not devour + Could have its peace with you. + You've dwindled to a quiet word like this: + "You are unfilial." Which means at last + That I have conquered you, at least it means + That you could not devour me. + + Yet am I blind to you? Let me confess + You are the world's whole cycle in yourself: + You can be summer rich and luminous; + You can be autumn, mellow, mystical; + You can be winter with a cheerful hearth; + You can be March, bitter, bright and hard, + Pouring sharp sleet, and showering cutting hail; + You can be April of the flying cloud, + And intermittent sun and musical air. + I am not you while being you, + While finding in myself so much of you. + It tears my other self, which is not you. + My tragedy is this: I do not love you. + Your tragedy is this: my other self + Which triumphs over you, you hate at heart. + Your solace is you have no faith in me. + + All quiet now, no March days with you now, + Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, + I saw you totter over a ravine! + Your eyes averted, watching steps, + A light of resignation on your brow. + Your thin-spun hair all gray, blown by the wind + Which swayed the blossomed cherry trees, + Bent last year's reeds, + Shook early dandelions, and tossed a bird + That left a branch with song-- + I saw you totter over a ravine! + + What were you at the start? + What soul dissatisfaction, sense of wrong, + Of being thwarted, stung you? + What was your shrinking of the flesh; + What fear of being soiled, misunderstood, + What wrath for loneliness which constant hope + Saw turned to fine companionship; + What in your marriage, what in seeing me, + The fruit of marriage, recreated traits + Of face or spirit which you loathed; + What in your father and your mother, + And in the chromosomes from which you grew, + By what mitosis could result at last + In you, in issues of such moment, + In our dissevered beings, + In what the world will take from me + In children, in events? + All quiet now, no March days with you now, + Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, + I saw you totter over a ravine, + And back of you the Furies! + + + + +JOHNNY APPLESEED + + When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples + Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River, + I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander + From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Crossing. + + I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the orchards, + Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and planted, + Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing, + Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit and smoke. + + For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones + That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some orchards around here, + When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and the beeches, + And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the river. + + Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me: + My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side, + There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him + Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard. + + Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the people + For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards + All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here, + Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois. + + Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me: + I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and be here + For children to come, who will gather and eat hereafter. + And few will know who planted, and none will understand. + + I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed: Some fellow buys this timber + Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for barley. + And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple orchard. + How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before me? + + Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of worship, + Labor and laughter and gain in the late October. + Why did I do it, eh? Some folks say I am crazy. + Where do my labors end? Far west, God only knows! + + Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen! + Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the apple. + Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the raising. + You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for sweet. + + No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as bitter: + The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and fails, + Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever. + Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil. + + And after that is the fight: the foe curled up at the root, + The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the blossoms + Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of beauty: + You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue! + + And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen. + So many things love an apple as well as ourselves. + A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it: + Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen. + + + + +THE LOOM + + + My brother, the god, and I grow sick + Of heaven's heights. + We plunge to the valley to hear the tick + Of days and nights. + We walk and loiter around the Loom + To see, if we may, + The Hand that smashes the beam in the gloon + To the shuttle's play; + Who grows the wool, who cards and spins, + Who clips and ties; + For the storied weave of the Gobelins, + Who draughts and dyes. + + But whether you stand or walk around + You shall but hear + A murmuring life, as it were the sound + Of bees or a sphere. + No Hand is seen, but still you may feel + A pulse in the thread, + And thought in every lever and wheel + Where the shuttle sped, + Dripping the colors, as crushed and urged-- + Is it cochineal?-- + Shot from the shuttle, woven and merged + A tale to reveal. + Woven and wound in a bolt and dried + As it were a plan. + Closer I looked at the thread and cried + The thread is man! + + Then my brother curious, strong and bold, + Tugged hard at the bolt + Of the woven life; for a length unrolled + The cryptic cloth. + He gasped for labor, blind for the moult + Of the up-winged moth. + While I saw a growth and a mad crusade + That the Loom had made; + Land and water and living things, + Till I grew afraid + For mouths and claws and devil wings, + And fangs and stings, + And tiger faces with eyes of hell + In caves and holes. + And eyes in terror and terrible + For awakened souls. + + I stood above my brother, the god + Unwinding the roll. + And a tale came forth of the woven slain + Sequent and whole, + Of flint and bronze, trowel and hod, + The wheel and the plane, + The carven stone and the graven clod + Painted and baked. + And cromlechs, proving the human heart + Has always ached; + Till it puffed with blood and gave to art + The dream of the dome; + Till it broke and the blood shot up like fire + In tower and spire. + + And here was the Persian, Jew and Goth + In the weave of the cloth; + Greek and Roman, Ghibelline, Guelph, + Angel and elf. + They were dyed in blood, tangled in dreams + Like a comet's streams. + And here were surfaces red and rough + In the finished stuff, + Where the knotted thread was proud and rebelled + As the shuttle proved + The fated warp and woof that held + When the shuttle moved; + And pressed the dye which ran to loss + In a deep maroon + Around an altar, oracle, cross + Or a crescent moon. + Around a face, a thought, a star + In a riot of war! + + Then I said to my brother, the god, let be, + Though the thread be crushed, + And the living things in the tapestry + Be woven and hushed; + The Loom has a tale, you can see, to tell, + And a tale has told. + I love this Gobelin epical + Of scarlet and gold. + If the heart of a god may look in pride + At the wondrous weave + It is something better to Hands which guide-- + I see and believe. + + + + +DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S + + + Look here, Jack: + You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh. + You haven't told me any stories. You + Just lie there half asleep. What's on your mind? + + JACK + + What time is it? Where is my watch? + + FLORENCE + + Your watch + Under your pillow! You don't think I'd take it. + Why, Jack, what talk for you. + + JACK + + Well, never mind, + Let's pack no ice. + + FLORENCE + + What's that? + + JACK + + No quarreling-- + What is the time? + + FLORENCE + + Look over towards my dresser-- + My clock says half-past eleven. + + JACK + + Listen to that-- + That hurdy-gurdy's playing Holy Night, + And on this street. + + FLORENCE + + And why not on this street? + + JACK + + You may be right. It may as well be played + Where you live as in front of where I work, + Some twenty stories up. I think you're right. + + FLORENCE + + Say, Jack, what is the matter? Come! be gay. + Tell me some stories. Buy another bottle. + Just think you make a lot of money, Jack. + You're young and prominent. They all know you. + I hear your name all over town. I see + Your picture in the papers. What's the matter? + + JACK + + I've lost my job for one thing. + + FLORENCE + + You don't mean it! + + JACK + + They used me and then fired me, same as you. + If you don't make the money, out you go. + + FLORENCE + + Yes, out I go. But, there are other places. + + JACK + + On further down the street. + + FLORENCE + + Not yet a while. + + JACK + + Not yet for me, but still the question is + Whether to fight it out for up or down, + Or run from everything, be free. + + FLORENCE + + You can't do that. + + JACK + + Why not? + + FLORENCE + + No more than I. + Oh well perhaps, if a nice man came by + To marry me then I could get away. + It happens all the time. Last week in fact + Christ Perko married Rachel who lived here. + He's rich as cream. + + JACK + + What corresponds to marriage + To take me from slavery? + + FLORENCE + + Money is everything. + + JACK + + Yes, everything and nothing. + Christ Perko's rich, Christ Perko runs this house, + The madam merely acts as figure-head; + Keeps check upon the girls and on the wine. + She's just the editor, and yet I'd rather + Be editor than owner. I was editor. + My Perko was the owner of a pulp mill, + Incorporate through some multi-millionaires, + And all our lesser writers were the girls, + Like you and Rachel. + + FLORENCE + + But you know before + He married Rachel, he was lover to + The madam here. + + JACK + + The stories tally, for + The pulp mill took my first assistant editor + To wife by making him the editor. + And I was fired just as the madam here + Lost out with Perko. + + FLORENCE + + This is growing funny... + Ahem! I'll ask you something-- + As if I were a youth and you a girl-- + How were you ruined first? + + JACK + + The same as you: + You ran away from school. It was romance. + You thought you loved this flashy travelling man. + And I--I loved adventure, loved the truth. + I wanted to destroy the force called "They." + There is no "They"--we're all together here, + And everyone must live, Christ Perko too, + The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate, + The alderman, the precinct captain too, + And you the girls, myself the editor, + And all the lesser writers. Here we are + Thrown in one integrated lot. You see + There is no "They," except the terms, the thought + Which ramifies and vivifies the whole. ... + So I came to the city, went to work + Reporting for a paper. Having said + There is no "They"--I've freed myself to say + What bitter things I choose. For how they drive you, + And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you, + And call you cub and greenhorn, send you round + To courts and dirty places, make you risk + Your body and your life, and make you watch + The rules about your writing; what's tabooed, + What names are to be cursed or to be praised, + What interests, policies to be subserved, + And what to undermine. So I went through, + Until I had a desk, wrote editorials-- + Now said I to myself, I'm free at last. + But no, my manager, your madam, mark you, + Kept eye on me, for he was under watch + Of some Christ Perko. So my manager + Blue penciled me when I touched certain subjects. + But, as he was a just man, loved me too. + He gave me things to write where he could let + My conscience have full scope, as you might live + In this house where you saw the man you loved, + And no one else, though living in this hell. + For I lived in a hell, who saw around me + Such lying, hatred, malice, prostitution. + And when this offer came to be an editor + Of a great magazine, I seemed to feel + My courage and my virtue given reward. + Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories, + Creations of free souls. It was not so. + The poems and the stories one could see + Were written to be sold, to please a taste, + Placate a prejudice, keep still alive + An era dying, ready for the tomb, + Already smelling. And that was not all. + Just as the madam here must make report + To Perko, so the magazine had to run + To suit the pulp mill. As the madam here, + Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friends + With alderman, policemen, magistrates, + So I was just a wheel in a machine + To keep it running with such larger wheels, + And by them run, of policies, and politics + Of State and Nation. Here was I locked in + And given dope to keep me still lest I + Cry out and wake the copper-who's the copper + For such as I was? If he heard me cry + How could he raid the magazine? If he raided + Where was the court to take me and the rest-- + That's it, where is the court? + + FLORENCE + + It seems to me + You're bad as I am. + + JACK + + I am worse than you: + I poison minds with thoughts they take as good. + I drug an era, make it foul or dull-- + You only sicken bodies here and there. + But you know how it is. You have remorse, + You fight it down, hush it with sophistry. + You think about the world, about your fellows: + You see that everyone is selling self, + Little or much somehow. You feed your body, + Try to be hearty, take things as they come. + You take athletics, try to keep your strength, + As you hear music, laugh, drink wine, and smoke, + Are bathed and coifed to keep your beauty fresh. + And through it all the soul's and body's needs, + The pleasures, interests, passions of our life, + The cry that comes from somewhere: "Live, O Soul, + The time is passing," move and claim your strength. + Till you forget yourself, forget the boy + And man you were, forget the dreams you had, + The creed you wished to live by--yes, what's worse, + See dreams you had, grown tawdry, see your creed + Cracked through and crumbled like a falling house. + And then you say: What is the difference? + As you might ask what virtue is and why + Should woman keep it. + + I have reached this place + Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to: + As long as I have breath: The man who sees not, + Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world + From vast disintegration is a brute, + And marked for a brute's death--that is his hell. + 'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose + My place as editor. For when they came + And tried to make me pass an article + To poison millions with, I said, "I won't, + I won't by God. I'll quit before I do." + And then they said, "You quit," and so I quit. + + FLORENCE + + And so you took to drink and came to me! + And that's the same as if I came to you + And used you as an editor. I am nothing + But just a poor reporter in this house-- + But now I quit. + + JACK + + Where are you going, Florence? + + FLORENCE + + I'm going to a village or a farm + Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve, + Where I'll wear calico instead of silk, + And where there'll be no furnace in the house. + And where the carpet which has kept me here + And keeps you here as editor is not. + I'm going to economize my life + By freeing it of systems which grow rich + By using me, and for the privilege + Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed. + I hate you now, because I hate my life. + + JACK + + Wait! Wait a minute. + + FLORENCE + + Dinah, call a cab! + + + + +SIR GALAHAD + + + I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street + Who said to me: "I'm going for the train, + I want you with me." + + And it happened then + My mind was hard, as muscles of the back + Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain + And need the osteopath to be made supple, + To give the nerves and streams of life a chance. + Hosea Job was just the osteopath + To loose, relax my mood. And so I said + "All right"--and went. + + Hosea was a man + Whom nothing touched of danger, or of harm. + His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one + Seems like to fall before a truck or train-- + Instead he walks across them. Or you see + Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple, + Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners + And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles. + The buildings slant and sway like monstrous searchlights, + But never touch him. And the mad piano + Comes up to him, puts down its angry head, + Runs out a friendly tongue and licks his hand, + And lows a symphony. + + By which I mean + Hosea had some money, and would sign + A bond or note for any man who asked him. + He'd rent a house and leave it, rent another, + Then rent a farm, move out from town and in. + He'd have the leases of superfluous places + Cancelled some how, was never sued for rent. + One time he had a fancy he would see + South Africa, took ship with a load of mules, + First telegraphing home from New Orleans + He'd be back in the Spring. Likewise he went + To Klondike with the rush. I think he owned + More kinds of mining stock than there were mines. + He had more quaint, peculiar men for friends + Than one could think were living. He believed + In every doctrine in its time, that promised + Salvation for the world. He took no thought + For life or for to-morrow, or for health, + Slept with his windows closed, ate what he wished. + And if he cut his finger, let it go. + I offered him peroxide once, he laughed. + And when I asked him if his soul was saved + He only said: "I see things. I lie back + And take it easy. Nothing can go wrong + In any serious sense." + + So many thought + Hosea was a nut, and others thought, + That I was just a nut for liking him. + And what would any man of business say + If he knew that I didn't ask a question, + But simply went with him to take the train + That day he asked me. + + And the train had gone + Five miles or so when I said: "Where you going?" + Hosea answered, and it made me start-- + Hosea answered simply, "We are going + To see Sir Galahad." + + It made me start + To hear Hosea say this, for I thought + He was now really off. But, I looked at him + And saw his eyes were sane. + + "Sir Galahad? + Who is Sir Galahad?" + + Hosea answered: + "I'm going up to see Sir Galahad, + And sound him out about re-entering + The game and run for governor again." + + So then I knew he was the man our fathers + Worked with and knew and called Sir Galahad, + Now in retirement fifteen years or so. + Well, I was twenty-five when he was famous. + Sir Galahad was forty then, and now + Must be some fifty-five while I am forty. + So flashed across my thought the matter of time + And ages. So I thought of all he did: + Of how he went from faith to faith in politics + And ran for every office up to governor, + And ran for governor four times or so, + And never was elected to an office. + He drew more bills to remedy injustice, + Improve the courts, relieve the poor, reform + Administration, than the legislature + Could read, much less digest or understand. + The people beat him and the leaders flogged him. + They shut the door against his face until + He had no place to go except a farm + Among the stony hills, and there he went. + And thither we were going to see the knight, + And call him from his solitude to the fight + Against injustice, greed. + + So we got off + The train at Alden, just a little village + Of fifty houses lying beneath the sprawl + Of hills and hills. And here there was a stillness + Made lonelier by an anvil ringing, by + A plow-man's voice at intervals. + + Here Hosea + Engaged a horse and buggy, and we drove + And wound about a crooked road between + Great hills that stood together like the backs + Of elephants in a herd, where boulders lay + As thick as hail in places. Ruined pines + Stood like burnt matches. There was one which stuck + Against a single cloud so white it seemed + A bursted bale of cotton. + + We reached the summit + And drove along past orchards, past a field + Level and green, kept like a garden, rich + Against the coming harvest. Here we met + A scarecrow man, driving a scarecrow horse + Hitched to a wobbly wagon. And we stopped, + The scarecrow stopped. The scarecrow and Hosea + Talked much of people and of farming--I + Sat listening, and I gathered from the talk, + And what Hosea told me as we drove, + That once this field so level and so green + The scarecrow owned. He had cleaned out the stumps, + And tried to farm it, failed, and lost the field, + But raged to lose it, thought he might succeed + In further time. Now having lost the field + So many years ago, could be a scarecrow, + And drive a scarecrow horse, yet laugh again + And have no care, the sorrow healed. + + It seemed + The clearing of the stumps was scarce a starter + Toward a field of profit. For in truth, + The soil possessed a secret which the scarecrow + Never went deep enough to learn about. + His problem was all stumps. Not solving that, + He sold it to a farmer who out-slaved + The busiest bee, but only half succeeded. + He tried to raise potatoes, made a failure. + He planted it in beans, had half a crop. + He sowed wheat once and reaped a stack of straw. + The secret of the soil eluded him. + And here Hosea laughed: "This fellow's failure + Was just the thing that gave another man + The secret of the soil. For he had studied + The properties of soils and fertilizers. + And when he heard the field had failed to raise + Potatoes, beans and wheat, he simply said: + There are other things to raise: the question is + Whether the soil is suited to the things + He tried to raise, or whether it needs building + To raise the things he tried to raise, or whether + It must be builded up for anything. + At least he said the field is clear of stumps. + Pass on your field, he said. If I lose out + I'll pass it on. The field is his, he said + Who can make something grow. + + And so this field + Of waving wheat along which we were driving + Was just the very field the scarecrow man + Had failed to master, as that other man + Had failed to master after him. + + Hosea + Kept talking of this field as we drove on. + That field, he said, is economical + Of men compared with many fields. You see + It only used two men. To grub the stumps + Took all the scarecrow's strength. That other man + Ran off to Oklahoma from this field. + I have known fields that ate a dozen men + In country such as this. The field remains + And laughs and waits for some one who divines + The secret of the field. Some farmers live + To prove what can't be done, and narrow down + The guess of what is possible. It's right + A certain crop should prosper and another + Should fail, and when a farmer tries to raise + A crop before it's time, he wastes himself + And wastes the field to try. + + We now were climbing + To higher hills and rockier fields. Hosea + Had fallen into silence. I was thinking + About Sir Galahad, was wondering + Which man he was, the scarecrow, or the farmer + Who didn't know the seed to sow, or whether + He might still prove the farmer raising wheat, + Now we were come to give him back the field + With all the stumps grubbed out, the secret lying + Revealed and ready for the appointed hands. + + We passed an orchard growing on a knoll + And saw a barn perked on a rocky hill, + And near the barn a house. Hosea said: + "This is Sir Galahad's." We tied the horse. + And we were in the silence of the country + At mid-day on a day in June. No bird + Was singing, fowl was cackling, cow was lowing, + No dog was barking. All was summer stillness. + We crossed a back-yard past a windlass well, + Dodged under clothes lines through a place of chips, + Walked in a path along the house. I said: + "Sir Galahad is ploughing, or perhaps + Is mending fences, cutting weeds." It seemed + Too bad to come so far and not to find him. + "We'll find him," said Hosea. "Let us sit + Under that tree and wait for him." + + And then + We turned the corner of the house and there + Under a tree an old man sat, his head + Bowed down upon his breast, locked fast in sleep. + And by his feet a dog half blind and fat + Lay dozing, too inert to rise and bark. + + Hosea gripped my arm. "Be still" he said. + "Let's ask him where Sir Galahad is," said I. + And then Hosea whispered, "God forgive me, + I had forgotten, you too have forgotten. + The man is old, he's very old. The years + Go by unnoticed. Come! Sir Galahad + Should sleep and not be waked." + + We tip-toed off + And hurried back to Alden for the train. + + + + +ST. DESERET + + You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips + Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette. + Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch, + And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice. + But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds + Your vision not at all, and you have passion + For me and what I am. How can you be so? + Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours, + Bury your face in these my russet tresses, + And yet not lose your vision? So I love you, + And fear you too. How idle to deny it + To you who know I fear you. + + Here am I + Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask. + You stride about my rooms and open books, + And say when did he give you this? You pick + His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl + Out of ironic strength, and smile the while: + "You did not love this man." You probe my soul + About his courtship, how I ran away, + How he pursued with gifts from city to city, + Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood + + Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard, + Watchful and waiting at the green-room door. + So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks, + One little question at a time, you've inked + The story in my flesh. And now at last + You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true. + But what a death he had! Envy him that. + Your frigid soul can never win the death + I gave him. + + Listen since you know already + All but the subtlest matters. How you laugh! + You know these too? Well, only I can tell them. + + First 'twas a piteous thing to see a man + So love a woman, see a living thing + So love another. Why he could not touch + My hand but that his heart went up ten beats. + His eyes would grow as bright as flames, his breath + Come short when speaking. When he felt my breast + Crush soft around him he would reel and walk + Away from me, while I stood like a snake + Poised for the strike, as quiet and possessed + As a dead breeze. And you can have me wholly, + And pet and pat me like a favored child, + And let me go my way, while you turn back + To what you left for me. + + Not so with him: + I was all through his blood, had made his flesh + My flesh, his nerves, brain, soul all mine at last, + Dreams, thoughts, emotions, hungers all my own. + So that he lived two lives, his own and mine, + With one poor body, which he gave to me. + Save that he could not give what I pushed back + Into his hands to use for me and live + My pities, hatreds, loves and passions with. + I loved all this and thrived upon it, still + I did not love him. Then why marry him? + Why don't you see? It meant so much to him. + And 'twas a little thing for me to do. + His loneliness, his hunger, his great passion + That showed in his poor eyes, his broken breath, + His chivalry, his gifts, his poignant letters, + His failing health, why even woman's cruelty + Cannot deny such passion. Woman's cruelty + Takes other means for finding its expression. + And mine found its expression--you have guessed + And so I tell you all. + + We were married then. + He made a sacrament of our nuptials, + Knelt with closed eyes beside the bed, my lips + Pressed to his brow and throat. Unveiled my breast + And looked, then closed his eyes. He did not take me + As man takes his possession, nature's way, + In triumph of life, in lightning, no, he came + A suppliant, a worshipper, and whispered: + "What angel child may lie upon the breast + Of this it's angel mother." + + Well, you see + The tears came in my eyes, for pity of him, + Who made so much of what I had to give, + And could give easily whether 'twas my rapture + To give or to withhold. And in that moment + Contempt of which I had been scarcely conscious + Lying diffused like dew around my heart + Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup + To one bright drop of vital power, where + He could not see it, scarcely knew that something + Gradually drugged the potion that he drank + In life with me. + + So we were wed a year, + And he was with me hourly, till at last + I could not breathe for him, while he could breathe + No where but where I was. Then the bazaar + Was coming on where I was to dance, and he + Had long postponed a trip to England where + Great interests waited for him, and with kisses + I pushed him to his duty, and he went + Shame stricken for a duty long postponed, + Unable to retort against my words + When I said "You must go;" for well he knew + He should have gone before. And as for going + I pleaded the bazaar and hate of travel, + And got him off, and freed myself to breathe. + + His life had been too fast, his years too many + To stand the strain that came. There was the worry + About the business, and the labor over it. + There was the war, and all the fear and turmoil + In London for the war. But most of all + There was the separation. And his letters! + You've read them, wretch. Such letters never were + Of aching loneliness and pining love + And hope that lives across three thousand miles, + And waits the day to travel them, and fear + Of something which may bar the way forever: + A storm, a wreck, a submarine and no day + Without a letter or a cablegram. + And look at the endearments--oh you fiend + To pick their words to pieces like a botanist + Who cuts a flower up for his microscope. + And oh myself who let you see these letters. + Why did I do it? Rather why is it + You master me, even as I mastered him? + + At last he finished, got his passage back. + He had been gone three months. And all these letters + Showed how he starved for me, and scarce could wait + To take me in his arms again, would choke + With fast and heavy feeding. + + Well, you see + The contempt I spoke of which lay long diffused + Like dew around my heart, and which at once + Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup + Grew brighter, bitterer, for this obvious hunger, + This thirst which could not wait, the piteous trembling. + And all the while it seemed he thought his love + Grew sacreder as it grew uncontrolled, + And marked by trembling, choking, tears and sighs. + This is not love which should be, has no use + In this or any world. And as for me + I could not stand it longer. And I thought + Of what was best to do: if 'twas not best + To kill him as the queen bee kills the mate + In rapture's own excess. + + Then he arrived. + I went to meet him in the car, pretended + The feed pipe broke while I was on the way. + I was not at the station when he came. + I got back to the house and found him gone. + He had run through the rooms calling my name, + So Mary told me. Then he went around + From place to place, wherever in the village + He thought to find me. + + Soon I heard his steps, + The key in the door, his winded breath, his call, + His running, stumbling up the stairs, while I + Stood silent as a shadow in our room, + My round bright eyes grown brighter for the light + His life was feeding them. And then he stood + Breathless and trembling in the door-way, stood + Transfixed with ecstacy, then rushed and caught me + And broke into loud tears. + + It had to end. + One or the other of us had to die. + I could not die but by a violence, + And he could die by love alone, and love + I gave him to his death. + + Why tell you details + And ways with which I maddened him, and whipped + The energies of love? You have extracted + The secret in the main, that 'twas from love + He came to death. His life had been too fast, + His years too many for the daily rapture + I gave him after three months' separation. + And so he died one morning, made me free + Of nothing but his presence in the flesh. + His love is on me yet, and its effect. + And now you're here to slave me differently-- + No soul is ever free. + + + + +HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR + + + Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain, + Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold. + And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold + The guarded heart against excess of rain. + Hands spirit tipped through which a genius plays + With paints and clays, + And strings in many keys-- + Clothed in an aura of thought as soundless as a flood + Of sun-shine where there is no breeze. + So is it light in spite of rhythm of blood, + Or turn of head, or hands that move, unite-- + Wind cannot dim or agitate the light. + From Plato's idea stepping, wholly wrought + From Plato's dream, made manifest in hair, + Eyes, lips and hands and voice, + As if the stored up thought + From the earth sphere + Had given down the being of your choice + Conjured by the dream long sought. + + * * * * * + + For you have moved in madness, rapture, wrath + In and out of the path + Drawn by the dream of a face. + You have been watched, as star-men watch a star + That leaves its way, returns and leaves its way, + Until the exploring watchers find, can trace + A hidden star beyond their sight, whose sway + Draws the erratic star so long observed-- + So have you wandered, swerved. + + * * * * * + + Always pursued and lost, + Sometimes half found, half-faced, + Such years we waste + With the almost: + The lips flower pressed like buds to hold + Guarded the heart of the flower, + But over them eyes not hued as the Dream foretold. + Or to find the lips too rich and the dower + Of eyes all gaiety + Where wisdom scarce can be. + Or to find the eyes, but to find offence + In fingers where the sense + Falters with colors, strings, + Not touching with closed eyes, out of an immanence + Of flame and wings. + Or to find the light, but to find it set behind + An eye which is not your dream, nor the shadow thereof, + As it were your lamp in a stranger's window. + And so almost to find + In the great weariness of love. + + * * * * * + + Now this is the tragedy: + If the Idea did not move + Somewhere in the realm of Love, + Clothing itself in flesh at last for you to see, + You could scarcely follow the gleam. + And the tragedy is when Life has made you over, + And denied you, and dulled your dream, + And you no longer count the cost, + Nor the past lament, + You are sitting oblivious of your discontent + Beside the Almost-- + And then the face appears + Evoked from the Idea by your dead desire, + And blinds and burns you like fire. + And you sit there without tears, + Though thinking it has come to kill you, or mock your youth + With its half of the truth. + + * * * * * + + A beach as yellow as gold + Daisied with tents for a lovely mile. + And a sea that edges and walls the sand with blue, + Matching the heaven without a seam, + Save for the threads of foam that hold + With stitches the canopy rare as the tile + Of old Damascus. And O the wind + Which roars to the roaring water brightened + By the beating wings of the sun! + And here I walk, not seeking the Dream, + As men walk absent of heart or mind + Who have no wish for a sorrow lightened + Since all things now seem lost or won. + And here it is that your face appears! + Like a star brushed out from leaves by a breeze + When day's in the sky, though evening nears. + You are here by a tent with your little brood, + And I approach in a quiet mood + And see you, know that the Destinies + Have surrendered you at last. + Voice, lips and hands and the light of the eyes. + + * * * * * + + And I who have asked so much discover + That you find in me the man and lover + You have divined and visualized, + In quiet day dreams. And what is strange + Your boy of eight is subtly guised + In fleeting looks that half resemble + Something in me. Two souls may range + Mid this earth's billion souls for life, + And hide their hunger or dissemble. + For there are two at least created, + Endowed with alien powers that draw, + And kindred powers that by some law + Bind souls as like as sister, brother. + There are two at least who are for each other. + If we are such, it is not fated + You are for him, howe'er belated + The time's for us. + + * * * * * + + And yet is not the time gone by? + Your garden has been planted, dear. + And mine with weeds is over-grown. + Oh yes! 'tis only late July! + We can replant, ere frosts appear, + Gather the blossoms we have sown. + And I have preached that hearts should seize + The hour that brings realities. ... + + Yes, I admit it all, we crush + Under our feet the world's contempt. + But when I raise the cup, it's blush + Reveals the snake's eyes, there's a hush + While a hand writes upon the wall: + Life cannot be re-made, exempt + From life that has been, something's gone + Out of the soil, in life updrawn + To growths that vine, and tangle, crawl, + Withered in part, or gone to seed. + 'Tis not the same, though you have freed + The soil from what was grown. ... + + * * * * * + + Heaven is but the hour + Of the planting of the flower. + But heaven is the blossom to be, + Of the one Reality. + And heaven cannot undo the once sown ground. + But heaven is love in the pursuing, + And in the memory of having found. ... + + The rocks in the river make light and sound + And show that the waters search and move. + And what is time but an infinite whole + Revealed by the breaks in thought, desire? + To put it away is to know one's soul. + Love is music unheard and fire + Too rare for eyes; between hurt beats + The heart detects it, sees how pure + Its essence is, through heart defeats.-- + You are the silence making sure + The sound with which it has to cope, + My sorrow and as well my hope. + + + + +VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART + + + You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue, + Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh, + Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset, + Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare, + I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts. + Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be. + I'll tell you more than you can think to ask me. + I love this woman, but what is love to you? + What is it to your laws or courts? I love her. + She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room-- + She stood before me naked, shrank a little, + Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry + When she saw amiable passion in my eyes-- + She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes + More in those moments than whole hours of talk + From witness stands exculpate could make clear + My innocence. + + But if I did a crime + My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life. + Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love + Are walled in and locked up like coal or food + And only may be had by purchasers + From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold. + Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste, + While power and freedom skulk with famished lips + Too tightly pressed for curses. + + So do men, + Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves + And live in meagreness to make sure a life + Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale; + And live in ways, companionships as fixed + As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock. + You wonder at war? Why war lets loose desires, + Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war? + Then let men live. The moral equivalent + Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice-- + Religion is not life, but life is living. + And painted cherries to the hungry thrush + Is art to life. The artist lived his work. + You cannot live his life who love his work. + You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries + Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths, + The story's coming of her nakedness + Be patient for a time. + + All this I learned + While painting pictures no one ever bought, + Till hunger drove me to this servile work + As butler in her father's house, with time + On certain days to walk the galleries + And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw + I was not living while I painted pictures. + I was not living working for a crust, + I was not living walking galleries: + All this was but vicarious life which felt + Through gazing at the thing the artist made, + In memory of the life he lived himself: + As we preserve the fragrance of a flower + By drawing off its essence in a bottle, + Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away + To get the inner passion of the flower + Extracted to a bottle that a queen + May act the flower's part. + + Say what you will, + Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits, + Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches + Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite, + You call the State, has fashioned life aright-- + The secret is abroad, from eye to eye + The secret passes from poor eyes that wink + In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength + Roped down or barred, that what the human heart + Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame + Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out, + Is love for body and for spirit, love + To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it, + This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow + Where spirits are left free a little while + Within a little space, so long as strength, + Flesh, blood increases to the day of use + As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast, + Society may feed himself and keep + His olden shape and power? + + Fools go crop + The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself + For what you want, and count it righteousness, + No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing, + Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls + Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries, + Inhaling from a bottle what was lived + These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny + That what we men desire are horses, dogs, + Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change, + Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change, + And re-adjusted order. + + As I turned + From painting and from art, yet found myself + Full of all lusts while bound to menial work + Where my eyes daily rested on this woman + A thought came to me like a little spark + One sees far down the darkness of a cave, + Which grows into a flame, a blinding light + As one approaches it, so did this thought + Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman, + I wanted her, why should I lose this woman? + What was there to oppose possession? Will? + Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then + Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will + Deserves achievement? Which has rights above + The other? I desire her, her desire + Is not toward me, which of these two desires + Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers + For her, at least the stronger must prevail, + And wreck itself or bend all else before it. + That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain + To overwhelm her will with gold, and I + With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it, + And what's the difference? + + But as I said + I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard + Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came + And gazed upon me from her window. I + Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes. + Then in a concentration which was blindness + To all else, so bewilderment of mind, + I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope + Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back + The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness. + There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr + Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele, + Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning + Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames + Consumed her ravished beauty. + + So I looked, + And trembled, then returned perhaps to find + Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate, + And radiate with lashes of surprise, + Delight as when a star is still but shines. + And on this night somehow our natures worked + To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner + To show more back and bosom than before. + And as I served her, her down-looking eyes + Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin. + Before I could begin to bend she leaned + And let me see--oh yes, she let me see + The white foam of her little breasts caressing + The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore + Of bright carnations. It was from such foam + That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave + The napkin to her she pushed out a foot, + And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she + Concealed a smile--and you, you jailers laugh + Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger. + + I go on, + Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps! + At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir. + I finding errands in the hallway hear + The desultory taking up of books, + And through her open door, see her at last + Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath + Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps + The light on where the onyx tub and walls + Dazzle the air. I enter then her room + And stand against the closed door, do not pry + Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance + To fly me, fight me standing face to face. + I hear her flounder in the water, hear + Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms; + Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness + Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute + She stands with back toward me in the doorway, + A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair + Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold. + She turned toward her dresser then and shook + White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked + So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts, + Touching them under with soft tapering hands + To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame + Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these, + The thought ran through me, for her joy alone + And not for mine? + + So I stood there like Zeus + Coming in thunder to Semele, like + The diety of Watteau. Correggio + Had never painted me a satyr there + Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful, + My will subdued in worship of her beauty + To obey her will. + + And then she turned and saw me, + And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried + To hide it from me, faced me immovable + A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips. + And let me plead my cause, make known my love, + Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile. + Let me approach her till I almost touched + The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed + That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped + Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid-- + Oh no, it cannot be--what would they say?" + Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed + The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go--you beast." + My dream went up like paper charred and whirled + Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone + Amid her room and saw my life, our life + Embodied in this woman lately there + Lying and cowardly. And as I turned + To leave the room, her father and the gardener + Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs + And turned me over, stunned, to you the law + Here with these others who have stolen coal + To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty + To keep from freezing in this arid country + Of winter winds on which the dust of custom + Rides like a fog. + + Now do your worst to me! + + + + +THE LANDSCAPE + + + You and your landscape! There it lies + Stripped, resuming its disguise, + Clothed in dreams, made bare again, + Symbol infinite of pain, + Rapture, magic, mystery + Of vanished days and days to be. + There's its sea of tidal grass + Over which the south winds pass, + And the sun-set's Tuscan gold + Which the distant windows hold + For an instant like a sphere + Bursting ere it disappear. + There's the dark green woods which throve + In the spell of Leese's Grove. + And the winding of the road; + And the hill o'er which the sky + Stretched its pallied vacancy + Ere the dawn or evening glowed. + And the wonder of the town + Somewhere from the hill-top down + Nestling under hills and woods + And the meadow's solitudes. + + * * * * * + + And your paper knight of old + Secrets of the landscape told. + And the hedge-rows where the pond + Took the blue of heavens beyond + The hastening clouds of gusty March. + There you saw their wrinkled arch + Where the East wind cracks his whips + Round the little pond and clips + Main-sails from your toppled ships. ... + + Landscape that in youth you knew + Past and present, earth and you! + All the legends and the tales + Of the uplands, of the vales; + Sounds of cattle and the cries + Of ploughmen and of travelers + Were its soul's interpreters. + And here the lame were always lame. + Always gray the gray of head. + And the dead were always dead + Ere the landscape had become + Your cradle, as it was their tomb. + + * * * * * + + And when the thunder storms would waken + Of the dream your soul was not forsaken: + In the room where the dormer windows look-- + There were your knight and the tattered book. + With colors of the forest green + Gabled roofs and the demesne + Of faery kingdoms and faery time + Storied in pre-natal rhyme. ... + Past the orchards, in the plain + The cattle fed on in the rain. + And the storm-beaten horseman sped + Rain blinded and with bended head. + And John the ploughman comes and goes + In labor wet, with steaming clothes. + This is your landscape, but you see + Not terror and not destiny + Behind its loved, maternal face, + Its power to change, or fade, replace + Its wonder with a deeper dream, + Unfolding to a vaster theme. + From time eternal was this earth? + No less this landscape with your birth + Arose, nor leaves you, nor decay + Finds till the twilight of your day. + It bore you, moulds you to its plan. + It ends with you as it began, + But bears the seed of future years + Of higher raptures, dumber tears. + + * * * * * + + For soon you lose the landscape through + Absence, sorrow, eyes grown true + To the naked limbs which show + Buds that never more may blow. + Now you know the lame were straight + Ere you knew them, and the fate + Of the old is yet to die. + Now you know the dead who lie + In the graves you saw where first + The landscape on your vision burst, + Were not always dead, and now + Shadows rest upon the brow + Of the souls as young as you. + Some are gone, though years are few + Since you roamed with them the hills. + So the landscape changes, wills + All the changes, did it try + Its promises to justify?... + + * * * * * + + For you return and find it bare: + There is no heaven of golden air. + Your eyes around the horizon rove, + A clump of trees is Leese's Grove. + And what's the hedgerow, what's the pond? + A wallow where the vagabond + Beast will not drink, and where the arch + Of heaven in the days of March + Refrains to look. A blinding rain + Beats the once gilded window pane. + John, the poor wretch, is gone, but bread + Tempts other feet that path to tread + Between the barn and house, and brave + The March rain and the winds that rave. ... + O, landscape I am one who stands + Returned with pale and broken hands + Glad for the day that I have known, + And finds the deserted doorway strown + With shoulder blade and spinal bone. + And you who nourished me and bred + I find the spirit from you fled. + You gave me dreams,'twas at your breast + My soul's beginning rose and pressed + My steps afar at last and shaped + A world elusive, which escaped + Whatever love or thought could find + Beyond the tireless wings of mind. + Yet grown by you, and feeding on + Your strength as mother, you are gone + When I return from living, trace + My steps to see how I began, + And deeply search your mother face + To know your inner self, the place + For which you bore me, sent me forth + To wander, south or east or north. ... + Now the familiar landscape lies + With breathless breast and hollow eyes. + It knows me not, as I know not + Its secret, spirit, all forgot + Its kindred look is, as I stand + A stranger in an unknown land. + + * * * * * + + Are we not earth-born, formed of dust + Which seeks again its love and trust + In an old landscape, after change + In hearts grown weary, wrecked and strange? + What though we struggled to emerge + Dividual, footed for the urge + Of further self-discoveries, though + In the mid-years we cease to know, + Through disenchanted eyes, the spell + That clothed it like a miracle-- + Yet at the last our steps return + Its deeper mysteries to learn. + It has been always us, it must + Clasp to itself our kindred dust. + We cannot free ourselves from it. + Near or afar we must submit + To what is in us, what was grown + Out of the landscape's soil, the known + And unknown powers of soil and soul. + As bodies yield to the control + Of the earth's center, and so bend + In age, so hearts toward the end + Bend down with lips so long athirst + To waters which were known at first-- + The little spring at Leese's Grove + Was your first love, is your last love! + + * * * * * + + When those we knew in youth have crept + Under the landscape, which has kept + Nothing we saw with youthful eyes; + Ere God is formed in the empty skies, + I wonder not our steps are pressed + Toward the mystery of their rest. + That is the hope at bud which kneels + Where ancestors the tomb conceals. + Age no less than youth would lean + Upon some love. For what is seen + No more of father, mother, friend, + For hands of flesh lost, eyes grown blind + In death, a something which assures, + Comforts, allays our fears, endures. + Just as the landscape and our home + In childhood made of heaven's dome, + And all the farthest ways of earth + A place as sheltered as the hearth. + + * * * * * + + Is it not written at the last day + Heaven and earth shall roll away? + Yes, as my landscape passed through death, + Lay like a corpse, and with new breath + Became instinct with fire and light-- + So shall it roll up in my sight, + Pass from the realm of finite sense, + Become a thing of spirit, whence + I shall pass too, its child in faith + Of dreams it gave me, which nor death + Nor change can wreck, but still reveal + In change a Something vast, more real + Than sunsets, meadows, green-wood trees, + Or even faery presences. + A Something which the earth and air + Transmutes but keeps them what they were; + Clear films of beauty grown more thin + As we approach and enter in. + Until we reach the scene that made + Our landscape just a thing of shade. + + + + +TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY + + + Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows, + So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow + I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye, + To-morrow lacks two days of being a month-- + Here is a secret--since I made my will. + Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it? + That I should make a will! Yet it may be + That then and jump at this most crescent hour + Heaven inspired the deed. + + As a mad younker + I knew an aged man in Warwickshire + Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness + Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts. + If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall, + With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain + And with doleful suspiration kept + This habit of his grief. And on a time + As he stood looking at the flying clouds, + I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it, + Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me,' + Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off + And left me empty there. + + Now here am I! + Oh, it is strange to find myself this age, + And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled, + And, like this aged man of Warwickshire, + Slaved by a mood which must have breath--"Tra-la! + That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me." + For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la" + The moment I break sleep to see the day. + At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad + I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table + I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne + Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la' + Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so?" + Then I bethought me of that aged man + Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered: + "Perhaps I am so happy when awake + The song crops out in slumber--who can say?" + And Anne arose, began to keel the pot, + But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman? + + To-morrow is my birthday. If I die, + Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide, + What soul would interdict the poppied way? + Heroes may look the Monster down, a child + Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see + Such bland unreckoning of his strength--but I, + Having so greatly lived, would sink away + Unknowing my departure. I have died + A thousand times, and with a valiant soul + Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death + To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean. + But in this death that has no bottom to it, + No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul + Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink + From that inane which gulfs us, without place + For us to stand and see it. + + Yet, dear Ben, + This thing must be; that's what we live to know + Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it. + As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens + Spout learnedly of war, who never saw + A cannon aimed. You drink too much to-day, + Or get a scratch while turning Lucy's stile, + And like a beast you sicken. Like a beast + They cart you off. What matter if your thought + Outsoared the Phoenix? Like a beast you rot. + Methinks that something wants our flesh, as we + Hunger for flesh of beasts. But still to-morrow, + To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow + Creeps in this petty pace--O, Michael Drayton, + Some end must be. But 'twixt the fear of ceasing + And weariness of going on we lie + Upon these thorns! + + These several springs I find + No new birth in the Spring. And yet in London + I used to cry, "O, would I were in Stratford; + It's April and the larks are singing now. + The flags are green along the Avon river; + O, would I were a rambler in the fields. + This poor machine is racing to its wreck. + This grist of thought is endless, this old sorrow + Sprouts, winds and crawls in London's darkness. Come + Back to your landscape! Peradventure waits + Some woman there who will make new the earth, + And crown the spring with fire." + + So back I come. + And the springs march before me, say, "Behold + Here are we, and what would you, can you use us? + What good is air if lungs are out, or springs + When the mind's flown so far away no spring, + Nor loveliness of earth can call it back? + I tell you what it is: in early youth + The life is in the loins; by thirty years + It travels through the stomach to the lungs, + And then we strut and crow. By forty years + The fruit is swelling while the leaves are fresh. + By fifty years you're ripe, begin to rot. + At fifty-two, or fifty-five or sixty + The life is in the seed--what's spring to you? + Puff! Puff! You are so winged and light you fly. + For every passing zephyr, are blown off, + And drifting, God knows where, cry out "tra-la," + "Ah, mercy me," as it may happen you. + Puff! Puff! away you go! + + Another drink? + Why, you may drown the earth with ale and I + Will drain it like a sea. The more I drink + The better I see that this is April time. ... + + Ben! There is one Voice which says to everything: + "Dream what you will, I'll make you bear your seed. + And, having borne, the sickle comes among ye + And takes your stalk." The rich and sappy greens + Of spring or June show life within the loins, + And all the world is fair, for now the plant + Can drink the level cup of flame where heaven + Is poured full by the sun. But when the blossom + Flutters its colors, then it takes the cup + And waves the stalk aside. And having drunk + The stalk to penury, then slumber comes + With dreams of spring stored in the imprisoned germ, + An old life and a new life all in one, + A thing of memory and of prophecy, + Of reminiscence, longing, hope and fear. + What has been ours is taken, what was ours + Becomes entailed on our seed in the spring, + Fees in possession and enjoyment too. ... + + The thing is sex, Ben. It is that which lives + And dies in us, makes April and unmakes, + And leaves a man like me at fifty-two, + Finished but living, on the pinnacle + Betwixt a death and birth, the earth consumed + And heaven rolled up to eyes whose troubled glances + Would shape again to something better--what? + Give me a woman, Ben, and I will pick + Out of this April, by this larger art + Of fifty-two, such songs as we have heard, + Both you and I, when weltering in the clouds + Of that eternity which comes in sleep, + Or in the viewless spinning of the soul + When most intense. The woman is somewhere, + And that's what tortures, when I think this field + So often gleaned could blossom once again + If I could find her. + + Well, as to my plays: + I have not written out what I would write. + They have a thousand buds of finer flowering. + And over "Hamlet" hangs a teasing spirit + As fine to that as sense is fine to flesh. + Good friends, my soul beats up its prisoned wings + Against the ceiling of a vaster whorl + And would break through and enter. But, fair friends, + What strength in place of sex shall steady me? + What is the motive of this higher mount? + What process in the making of myself-- + The very fire, as it were, of my growth-- + Shall furnish forth these writings by the way, + As incident, expression of the nature + Relumed for adding branches, twigs and leaves?... + + Suppose I'd make a tragedy of this, + Focus my fancied "Dante" to this theme, + And leave my halfwrit "Sappho," which at best + Is just another delving in the mine + That gave me "Cleopatra" and the Sonnets? + If you have genius, write my tragedy, + And call it "Shakespeare, Gentleman of Stratford," + Who lost his soul amid a thousand souls, + And had to live without it, yet live with it + As wretched as the souls whose lives he lived. + Here is a play for you: Poor William Shakespeare, + This moment growing drunk, the famous author + Of certain sugared sonnets and some plays, + With this machine too much to him, which started + Some years ago, now cries him nay and runs + Even when the house shakes and complains, "I fall, + You shake me down, my timbers break apart. + Why, if an engine must go on like this + The building should be stronger." + + Or to mix, + And by the mixing, unmix metaphors, + No mortal man has blood enough for brains + And stomach too, when the brain is never done + With thinking and creating. + + For you see, + I pluck a flower, cut off a dragon's head-- + Choose twixt these figures--lo, a dozen buds, + A dozen heads out-crop. For every fancy, + Play, sonnet, what you will, I write me out + With thinking "Now I'm done," a hundred others + Crowd up for voices, and, like twins unborn + Kick and turn o'er for entrance to the world. + And I, poor fecund creature, who would rest, + As 'twere from an importunate husband, fly + To money-lending, farming, mulberry trees, + Enclosing Welcombe fields, or idling hours + In common talk with people like the Combes. + All this to get a heartiness, a hold + On earth again, lest Heaven Hercules, + Finding me strayed to mid-air, kicking heels + Above the mountain tops, seize on my scruff + And bear me off or strangle. + + Good, my friends, + The "Tempest" is as nothing to the voice + That calls me to performance--what I know not. + I've planned an epic of the Asian wash + Which slopped the star of Athens and put out, + Which should all history analyze, and present + A thousand notables in the guise of life, + And show the ancient world and worlds to come + To the last blade of thought and tiniest seed + Of growth to be. With visions such as these + My spirit turns in restless ecstacy, + And this enslaved brain is master sponge, + And sucks the blood of body, hands and feet. + While my poor spirit, like a butterfly + Gummed in its shell, beats its bedraggled wings, + And cannot rise. + + I'm cold, both hands and feet. + These three days past I have been cold, this hour + I am warm in three days. God bless the ale. + God did do well to give us anodynes. ... + So now you know why I am much alone, + And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips, + John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, + And do not have them here, dear ancient friends, + Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love. + Love is not love which alters when it finds + A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only + I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme: + I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch + Of hands of flesh. + + I am most passionate, + And long am used perplexities of love + To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder, + Seeing what I am, what my fate has been? + Well, hark you; Anne is sixty now, and I, + A crater which erupts, look where she stands + In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am, + As years go, but I am a youth afire + While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury + Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out + For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy! + I want them not, I want the love which springs + Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body + Is piled in reckless generosity. ... + You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know, + And think me nature's child, scarce understand + How much of physic, law, and ancient annals + I have stored up by means of studious zeal. + But pass this by, and for the braggart breath + Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups, + Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated, + Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth. + Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman, + According to the phrase or the addition + Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare + At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April, + Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry-- + Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I?-- + Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it: + I believe and say it as I would lightly speak + Of the most common thing to sense, outside + Myself to touch or analyze, this mind + Which has been used by Something, as I use + A quill for writing, never in this world + In the most high and palmy days of Greece, + Or in this roaring age, has known its peer. + No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed, + Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails + Of passions curious, countless lives explored + As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin, + The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this? + Since I know them by what I am, the essence + From which their utterance came, myself a flower + Of every graft and being in myself + The recapitulation and the complex + Of all the great. Were not brains before books? + And even geometries in some brain + Before old Gutenberg? O fie, Ben Jonson, + If I am nature's child am I not all? + Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale, + And say that reason in me was a fume. + But if you honor me, as you have said, + As much as any, this side idolatry, + Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be + In your regard, have come to fifty-two, + Defeated in my love, who knew too well + That poets through the love of women turn + To satyrs or to gods, even as women + By the first touch of passion bloom or rot + As angels or as bawds. + + Bethink you also + How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process + Working in man's soul from the woman soul + As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh, + Even as a malady may be, while this thing + Is health and growth, and growing draws all life, + All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment. + Till it become a vision paradisic, + And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost + Rung a place for stepping into heaven. ... + + This I have know, but had not. Nor have I + Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used + Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven + Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay + What grew within me, while I saw the blood + Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child + Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel + With my own blood stained. + + As a virgin shamed + By the swelling life unlicensed needles it, + But empties not her womb of some last shred + Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body, + And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep, + And weakness to the last of life, so I + For some shame not unlike, some need of life + To rid me of this life I had conceived + Did up and choke it too, and thence begot + A fever and a fixed debility + For killing that begot. + + Now you see that I + Have not grown from a central dream, but grown + Despite a wound, and over the wound and used + My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever + Which longed for that which nursed the malady, + And fed on that which still preserved the ill, + The uncertain, sickly appetite to please. + My reason, the physician to my love, + Angry that his prescriptions are not kept + Has left me. And as reason is past care + I am past cure, with ever more unrest + Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are, + And my discourse at random from the truth, + Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair + And thought her bright, who is as black as hell + And dark as night. + + But list, good gentlemen, + This love I speak of is not as a cloak + Which one may put away to wear a coat, + And doff that for a jacket, like the loves + We men are wont to have as loves or wives. + She is the very one, the soul of souls, + And when you put her on you put on light, + Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire, + Which if you tear away you tear your life, + And if you wear you fall to ashes. So + 'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine, + That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost, + And broken hope that we could find each other, + And that mean more to me and less to her. + 'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me + Without a sense of loss, without a tear, + And make me fool and perjured for the oath + That swore her fair and true. I feel myself + As like a virgin who her body gives + For love of one whose love she dreams is hers, + But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, + And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite + For other conquests. For I gave myself, + And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss + Of myself never to myself restored. + The urtication of this shame made plays + And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds + That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, + But, better, love. + + To hell with punks and wenches, + Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, + Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. + And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers, + All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, + Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. + I think I have a fever--hell and furies! + Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. + Ben, if I die before you, let me waste + Richly and freely in the good brown earth, + Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. + What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see + What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets? + Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil + I take the veil and hide, and like great Caesar + Who drew his toga round him, I depart. + + Good friends, let's to the fields--I have a fever. + After a little walk, and by your pardon, + I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, + Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, + I pass you like an orange to a child: + I can no more with you. Do what you will. + What should my care be when I have no power + To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me + As little as I need you: go your way! + Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, + But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars + The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek + And clap their gushing wounds--but I shall sleep, + Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon + Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators + Shall fulmine over London or America + Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters + And cut each others' throats when reason fails-- + But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed + The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" + But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. + I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep-- + Let's walk and hear the lark. + + + + +SWEET CLOVER + + + Only a few plants up--and not a blossom + My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? + Old John comes by. I show him my result. + Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure, + I wanted you to sow it. Now you see + What comes of letting Hunter do your work. + The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps, + Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed + Was sown. + + But John, who knows a clover field, + Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil + And studies them. + + He says, Look at the roots! + Hunter neglected to inoculate + The seed, for clover seed must always have + Clover bacteria to make it grow, + And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover + The roots are studded thick with tubercles, + Like little warts, made by bacteria. + And somehow these bacteria lay hold + Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil, + And make the plants grow, make them blossom too. + When Hunter sowed this field he was not well: + He should have hauled some top-soil to this field + From some old clover field, or made a culture + Of these bacteria and soaked the seed + In it before he sowed it. + + As I said, + Hunter was sick when he was working here. + And then he ran away to Indiana + And left his wife and children. Now he's back. + His cough was just as bad in Indiana + As it is here. A cough is pretty hard + To run away from. Wife and children too + Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them + Stays with a fellow and cannot be left. + Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you. + He's straightening out his little farm and making + Provision for his family. Hunter's changed. + He is a better man. It almost seems + That Hunter's blossomed. ... + + I am sorry for him. + The doctor says he has tuberculosis. + + + + +SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL + + + To a western breeze + A row of golden tulips is nodding. + They flutter their golden wings + In a sudden ecstasy and say: + Something comes to us from beyond, + Out of the sky, beyond the hill + We give it to you. + + * * * * * + + And I walk through rows of jonquils + To a beloved door, + Which you open. + And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head + Nodding to me, and saying: + Something comes to me + Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty-- + I give it to you. + + * * * * * + + There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes, + And the freshness of June iris in your hands, + And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom. + But your voice is the voice of the robin + Singing at dawn amid new leaves. + It is like sun-light on blue water + Where the south-wind is on the water + And the buds of the flags are green. + It is like the wild bird of the sedges + With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed + Showering lyrics over the sun-light + Between rhythmical pauses + When his heart has stopped, + Making light and water + Into song. + + * * * * * + + Let me hear your voice, + And the voice of Eternal Beauty + Through the music of your voice. + Let me gather the iris of your hands. + Against my face. + And close my eyes with your eyes. + Let me listen with you + For the Voice. + + + + +FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE + + + How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed + In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told, + Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you + From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work, + Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose, + The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands, + The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene. + How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless, + You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here + Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you, + And think of your work--how nothing could balk you + Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned, + Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh, + Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear + For your eighty-four years! + + And they say of you still + You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn, + And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always. + Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived + In your day and your place? It was never their due! + Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be-- + A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes + Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places. + Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God gave you. + And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe-- + Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light? + But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric. + Did France bar her door? Geneva remained--good enough! + Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know. + Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing, + You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path; + You stand at your door and step by another to France-- + Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies + Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman. + And here you have printers to print what you write and a house + For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin. + O busy Voltaire, never resting. ... + + So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke, + The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State, + The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire: + The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you essayed + To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil. + It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter, + A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast + Was thrown on the handles. + + And yet to this day, O Voltaire, + They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did + Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the roots to the sun, + And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light, + And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it. + But listen + The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still + But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others, + That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides. + The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment + To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French? + + Did you give up three years of your life + To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas? + Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well, + Six lines in an article written in English are plenty + To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture, + Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them + Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble, + But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature, + Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record + Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, while batting + At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ... + + How well did you know that life to a genius, a god, + Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes + As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show: + Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp. + Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds. + Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying. + Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake + Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs, + Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships. + You saw through and laughed at--you saw above all + That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a laugh. + + So you smiled till the lines of your mouth + A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing + To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me, + I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing + Through eighty-four years for realities--O let them pass, + Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god? + Front the ages with a smile! + + + + +POOR PIERROT + + + Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes + I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons. + For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate? + Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate? + + Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor? + Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door? + Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie + Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye. + + I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and deep: + The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep. + They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or strife-- + When life fills full the soul then life kills life. + + I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune, + Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon. + And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee + Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea. + + + + +MIRAGE OF THE DESERT + + + Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door: + Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through. + There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds-- + But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue? + + * * * * * + + And there's the harp on which great fingers play + Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things; + And there's a soul that wanders out when called + By a voice afar from the answering strings. + + * * * * * + + And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears, + Till the vision, the mad music are wept away. + One cannot have them and live, but if one die + It might be better than living--who can say? + + * * * * * + + Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know + How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough? + Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul-- + But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love! + + * * * * * + + + + +DAHLIAS + + + The mad wind is the warden, + And the smiling dahlias nod + To the dahlias across the garden, + And the wastes of the golden rod. + + They never pray for pardon, + Nor ask his way nor forego, + Nor close their hearts nor harden + Nor stay his hand, nor bestow + + Their hearts filched out of their bosoms, + Nor plan for dahlias to be. + For the wind blows over the garden + And sets the dahlias free. + + They drift to the song of the warden, + Heedless they give him heed. + And he walks and blows through the garden + Blossom and leaf and seed. + + + + +THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES + + + Silvers and purples breathing in a sky + Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger, + Of the restrained but passionate July + Upon the marshes of the river lie, + Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly. + + * * * * * + + A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend + Under the flapping of the breeze's wing, + Departing and revisiting + The haunts of the river twisting without end. + + * * * * * + + The torsions of the river make long miles + Of the waters of the river which remain + Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles + Of water between the rushes, which restrain + The bewildered currents in returning files, + Twisting between the greens like a blue racer, + Too hurt to leap with body or uplift + Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift + + * * * * * + + Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes + The iron bridge's reticules + Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons. + But from the bridge, watching the little steamer + Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville, + The river loosened from the abandoned spools + Of earth and heaven wanders without will, + Between the rushes, like a silken streamer. + And two old men who turn the bridge + For passing boats sit in the sun all day, + Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs, + And smoke and talk of a glory passed away. + And of the ruthless sacrilege + Which mowed away the pines, + And cast them in the current here as logs, + To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver, + Making for a little hour heroes and heroines, + Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven, + When the great saws sent screeches up and whines, + And cries for more and more + Slaughter of forests up and down the river + And along the lake's shore. + + * * * * * + + But all is quiet on the river now + As when the snow lay windless in the wood, + And the last Indian stood + And looked to find the broken bough + That told the path under the snow. + All is as silent as the spiral lights + Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise, + Like the wings of swarming dragon flies, + Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies + Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights + Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare + Of dunes and purple air, + There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies. + + * * * * * + + The forests and the mills are gone! + All is as silent as the voice I heard + On a summer dawn + When we two fished among the river reeds. + As silent as the pain + In a heart that feeds + A sorrow, but does not complain. + As silent as above the bridge in this July, + Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky + Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane: + A man-bestridden dragon fly! + + + + +DELILAH + + + Because thou wast most delicate, + A woman fair for men to see, + The earth did compass thy estate, + Thou didst hold life and death in fee, + And every soul did bend the knee. + + [Sidenote: (Wherein the corrupt spirit of privilege is symbolized by + Delilah and the People by Samson.)] + + Much pleasure also made thee grieve + For that the goblet had been drained. + The well spiced viand thou didst leave + To frown on want whose throat was strained, + And violence whose hands were stained. + + The purple of thy royal cloak, + Made the sea paler for its hue. + Much people bent beneath the yoke + To fetch thee jewels white and blue, + And rings to pass thy gold hair through. + + Therefore, Delilah wast thou called, + Because the choice wines nourished thee + In Sorek, by the mountains walled + Against the north wind's misery, + Where flourished every pleasant tree. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah hath a taste for ease and luxury and wantoneth + with divers lovers.)] + + Thy lovers also were as great + In numbers as the sea sands were; + Thou didst requite their love with hate; + And give them up to massacre, + Who brought thee gifts of gold and myrrh. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah conceiveth the design of ensnaring Samson.)] + + At Gaza and at Ashkelon, + The obscene Dagon worshipping, + Thy face was fair to look upon. + Yet thy tongue, sweet to talk or sing, + Was deadlier than the adder's sting. + + Wherefore, thou saidst: "I will procure + The strong man Samson for my spouse, + His death will make my ease secure. + The god has heard this people's vows + To recompense their injured house." + + Thereafter, when the giant lay + Supinely rolled against thy feet, + Him thou didst craftily betray, + With amorous vexings, low and sweet, + To tell thee that which was not meet. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah attempteth to discover the source of Samson's + strength. Samson very neatly deceiveth her.)] + + And Samson spake to thee again; + "With seven green withes I may be bound, + So shall I be as other men." + Whereat the lords the green withes found-- + The same about his limbs were bound. + + Then did the fish-god in thee cry: + "The Philistines be upon thee now." + But Samson broke the withes awry, + As when a keen fire toucheth tow; + So thou didst not the secret know. + + But thou, being full of guile, didst plead: + "My lord, thou hast but mocked my love + With lies who gave thy saying heed; + Hast thou not vexed my heart enough, + To ease me all the pain thereof?" + + Now, in the chamber with fresh hopes, + The liers in wait did list, and then + He said: "Go to, and get new ropes, + Wherewith thou shalt bind me again, + So shall I be as other men." + + [Sidenote: (Samson retaineth his intellect and the lustihood of his + body and again misleadeth the subtle craft of Delilah.)] + + Then didst thou do as he had said, + Whereat the fish-god in thee cried, + "The Philistines be upon thy head," + He shook his shoulders deep and wide, + And cast the ropes like thread aside. + + Yet thou still fast to thy conceit, + Didst chide him softly then and say: + "Beforetime thou hast shown deceit, + And mocked my quest with idle play, + Thou canst not now my wish gainsay." + + Then with the secret in his thought, + He said: "If thou wilt weave my hair, + The web withal, the deed is wrought; + Thou shalt have all my strength in snare, + And I as other men shall fare." + + Seven locks of him thou tookest and wove + The web withal and fastened it, + And then the pin thy treason drove, + With laughter making all things fit, + As did beseem thy cunning wit. + + [Sidenote: (Delilah still pursueth her designs and Samson beginning to + be somewhat wearied hinteth very close to his secret.)] + + Then the god Dagon speaking by + Thy delicate mouth made horrid din; + "Lo the Philistine lords are nigh"-- + He woke ere thou couldst scarce begin, + And took away the web and pin. + + Yet, saying not it doth suffice, + Thou in the chamber's secrecy, + Didst with thy artful words entice + Samson to give his heart to thee, + And tell thee where his strength might be. + + Pleading, "How canst thou still aver, + I love thee, being yet unkind? + How is it thou dost minister + Unto my heart with treacherous mind, + Thou art but cruelly inclined." + + From early morn to falling dusk, + At night upon the curtained bed, + Fragrant with spikenard and with musk, + For weariness he laid his head, + Whilst thou the insidious net didst spread. + + [Sidenote: (Samson being weakened by lust and overcome by Delilah's + importunities and guile telleth her wherein his great strength + consisteth.)] + + Nor wouldst not give him any rest, + But vexed with various words his soul, + Till death far more than life was blest, + Shot through and through with heavy dole, + He gave his strength to thy control. + + Saying, "I am a Nazarite, + To God alway, nor hath there yet + Razor or shears done despite + To these my locks of coarsen jet, + Therefore my strength hath known no let." + + "But, and if these be shaven close, + Whereas I once was strong as ten, + I may not meet my meanest foes + Among the hated Philistine, + I shall be weak like other men." + + He turned to sleep, the spell was done, + Thou saidst "Come up this once, I trow + The secret of his strength is known; + Hereafter sweat shall bead his brow, + Bring up the silver thou didst vow." + + [Sidenote: (Samson having trusted Delilah turneth to sleep whereat her + minions with force falleth upon him and depriveth him of his + strength.)] + + They came, and sleeping on thy knees, + The giant of his locks was shorn. + And Dagon, being now at ease, + Cried like the harbinger of morn, + To see the giant's strength forlorn. + + For he wist not the Lord was gone:-- + "I will go as I went erewhile," + He said, "and shake my mighty brawn." + Without the captains, file on file, + Did execute Delilah's guile. + + [Sidenote: (Sansculottism, as it seemeth, is overthrown.)] + + At Gaza where the mockers pass, + Midst curses and unholy sound, + They fettered him with chains of brass, + Put out his eyes, and being bound + Within the prison house he ground. + + The heathen looking on did sing; + "Behold our god into our hand, + Hath brought him for our banqueting, + Who slew us and destroyed our land, + Against whom none of us could stand." + + [Sidenote: (Samson being no longer formidable and being deprived of + his eyes is reduced to slavery and made the sport of the heathen.)] + + Now, therefore, when the festival + Waxed merrily, with one accord, + The lords and captains loud did call, + To bring him out whom they abhorred, + To make them sport who sat at board. + + [Sidenote: (After a time Samson prayeth for vengeance even though + himself should perish thereby.)] + + And Samson made them sport and stood + Betwixt the pillars of the house, + Above with scornful hardihood, + Both men and women made carouse, + And ridiculed his eyeless brows. + + Then Samson prayed "Remember me + O Lord, this once, if not again. + O God, behold my misery, + Now weaker than all other men, + Who once was mightier than ten." + + "Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes, + And for this unrequited toil, + For fraud, injustice, perjuries, + For lords whose greed devours the soil, + And kings and rulers who despoil." + + [Sidenote: (Wherein by a very nice conceit revolution is symbolized.)] + + "For all that maketh light of Thee, + And sets at naught Thy holy word, + For tongues that babble blasphemy, + And impious hands that hold the sword-- + Grant vengeance, though I perish, Lord." + + He grasped the pillars, having prayed, + And bowed himself--the building fell, + And on three thousand souls was laid, + Gone soon to death with mighty yell. + And Samson died, for it was well. + + The lords and captains greatly err, + Thinking that Samson is no more, + Blind, but with ever-growing hair, + He grinds from Tyre to Singapore, + While yet Delilah plays the whore. + + So it hath been, and yet will be, + The captains, drunken at the feast + To garnish their felicity, + Will taunt him as a captive beast, + Until their insolence hath ceased. + + [Sidenote: (Wherein it is shown that while the people like Samson have + been blinded, and have not recovered their sight still that their hair + continueth to grow.)] + + Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet, + To Dagon and to Ashtoreth; + Of bloody stripes from head to feet, + He will endure unto the death, + Being blind, he also nothing saith. + + Then 'gainst the Doric capitals, + Resting in prayer to God for power, + He will shake down your marble walls, + Abiding heaven's appointed hour, + And those that fly shall hide and cower. + + But this Delilah shall survive, + To do the sin already done, + Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive, + At Gaza and at Ashkelon, + A woman fair to look upon. + + + + +THE WORLD-SAVER + + + If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, + Play whips for fun, or snares for game, + The liar full of ease goes free, + And Socrates must bear the shame. + + With the blunt sage he stands despised, + The Pharisees salute him not; + Laughter awaits the truth he prized, + And Judas profits by his plot. + + A million angels kneel and pray, + And sue for grace that he may win-- + Eternal Jove prepares the day, + And sternly sets the fateful gin. + + Satan, who hates the light, is fain, + To back his virtuous enterprise; + The omnipotent powers alone refrain, + Only the Lord of hosts denies. + + Whatever of woven argument, + Lacks warp to hold the woof in place, + Smothers his honest discontent, + But leaves to view his woeful face. + + Fling forth the flag, devour the land, + Grasp destiny and use the law; + But dodge the epigram's keen brand, + And fall not by the ass's jaw. + + The idiot snicker strikes more down, + Than fell at Troy or Waterloo; + Still, still he meets it with a frown, + And argues loudly for "the True." + + Injustice lengthens out her chain, + Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more; + But while the eons wax and wane, + He storms the barricaded door. + + Wisdom and peace and fair intent, + Are tedious as a tale twice told; + One thing increases being spent-- + Perennial youth belongs to gold. + + At Weehawken the soul set free, + Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill, + Drink life from that philosophy, + And flourish by the age's will. + + If he shall toil to clear the field, + Fate's children seize the prosperous year; + Boldly he fashions some new shield, + And naked feels the victor's spear. + + He rolls the world up into day, + He finds the grain, and gets the hull. + He sees his own mind in the sway, + And Progress tiptoes on his skull. + + Angels and fiends behold the wrong, + And execrate his losing fight; + While Jove amidst the choral song + Smiles, and the heavens glow with light! + + --_Trueblood_ + + * * * * * + + Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama-- + Only one drama, then to die. Enough + To win the heights but once! He writes me letters, + These later days marked "Opened by the Censor," + About his drama, asks me what I think + About this point of view, and that approach, + And whether to etch in his hero's soul + By etching in his hero's enemies, + Or luminate his hero by enshadowing + His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him + Which is the actual and the larger theme, + His hero or his hero's enemies? + And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind + Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan + The god misunderstood, the lover of man + Destroyed by heaven for his love of man. + In July, 1914, while in London + He took me to his house to dine and showed me + The verses as above. And while I read + He left the room, returned, I heard him move + The ash trays on the table where we sat + And set some object on the table. + + Then + As I looked up from reading I discovered + A skull and bony hand upon the table. + And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow! + And what a hand was this! A right hand too. + Those fingers in the flesh did miracles. + And when I have my hero's skull before me, + His hand that moulded peoples, I should write + The drama that possesses all my thought. + You'd think the spirit of the man would come + And show me how to find the key that fits + The story of his life, reveal its secret. + I know the secrets, but I want the secret. + You'd think his spirit out of gratitude + Would start me off. It's something, I insist, + To find a haven with a dramatist + After your bones have crossed the sea, and after + Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, + And reverent housing. + + Dying in New York + He lay for ten years in a lonely grave + Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe. + No grave yard in the city would receive him. + Neither a banker nor a friend of banks, + Nor falling in a duel to awake + Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity + Was not so much as offered. He was poor, + And never had a tomb like Washington. + Of course he wasn't Washington--but still, + Study that skull a little! In ten years + A mad admirer living here in England + Went to America and dug him up, + And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then + Our country was in turmoil over France-- + (The details are so rich I lose my head, + And can't construct my acts.)--hell's flaming here, + And we are fighting back the roaring fire + That France had lighted. England would abort + The era she embraced. Here is a point + That vexes me in laying out the scenes, + And persons of the play. For parliament + Went into fury that these bones were here + On British soil. The city raged. They took + The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison + For crying on the streets the bones' arrival. + I'd like to put that crier in my play. + The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case + I put it on a background understood, + And showing why the fellow was arrested, + And what a high offence to heaven it was. + Then here's another thing: The monument + This zealous friend had planned was never raised. + The city wouldn't have it--you can guess + The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand + Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me! + He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets. + He had the English gift of writing pamphlets. + He stirred up peoples with his English gift + Against the mother country. How to show this + In action, not in talk, is difficult. + + Well, then here is our friend who has these bones + And cannot honor them in burial. + And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt. + And look! the bones pass to our friend's receiver. + Are they an asset? Our Lord Chancellor + Does not regard them so. I'd like to work + Some humor in my drama at this point, + And satirize his lordship just a little. + Though you can scarcely call a skull an asset + If it be of a man who helped to cost you + The loss of half the world. So the receiver + Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer + Took care of them. He sold them to a man + Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin + About this time turned up in Guilford--then + It's 1854, the man is dead + Near forty years, when just the skull and hand + Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades + All questions touching on that ownership, + And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are-- + The rest in short. + + And as for me--no matter + Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me. + Behold the good right hand, behold the skull + Of _Thomas Paine_, theo-philanthropist, + Of Quaker parents, born in England! Look, + That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote + The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied + Americans against the mother country, + With just that English gift of pamphleteering. + You see I'd have to bring George Washington, + And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson + Upon the stage, and put into their mouths + The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine, + To get before the audience that they thought + He did as much as any man to win + Your independence; that your Declaration + Was founded on his writings, even inspired + A clause against your negro slavery--how-- + Look at this hand!--he was the first to write + _United States of America_--there's the hand + That was the first to write those words. Good Lord + This drama would out-last a Chinese drama + If I put all the story in. But tell me + What to omit, and what to stress? + + And still + I'd have the greatest drama in the world + If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted, + Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast, + His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery. + And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine + Because he was too great, and by this showing + Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers + For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done-- + I know that; but it puzzles me to think + That Hamilton--we'll say, is so revered, + So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied + On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs! + Great genius! and so forth--and there's the Crisis + And Common Sense which only little Shelleys + Haunting the dusty book shops read at all. + It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank + Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt-- + For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed + In money matters to another's wrong + For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know + The world cares more for chastity and temperance + Than for a faultless life in money matters. + No use to dramatize that vital contrast, + The world to-day is what it always was. + But you don't call this Hamilton an artist + And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler? + Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world + As much as any. There is Leonardo-- + The point's not here. + + I think it's more like this: + Some men are Titans and some men are gods, + And some are gods who fall while climbing back + Up to Olympus whence they came. And some + While fighting for the race fall into holes + Where to return and rescue them is death. + Why look you here! You'd think America + Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine + Of Thomas Paine, in fiery gratitude. + He's there in France's national assembly, + And votes to save King Louis with this phrase: + Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office. + They think him faithless to the revolution + For words like these--and clap! the prison door + Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter + To president--of what! to Washington + President of the United States of America, + A title which Paine coined in seventy-seven + Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state! + And Washington is silent, never answers, + And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell, + Who hears the guillotine go slash and click! + Perhaps this is the nucleus of my drama. + Or else to show that Washington was wise + Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas, + And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas, + Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas + For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense." + That may be just the story for my drama. + Old Homer satirized the human race + For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian. + But there's not stuff for satire in a war + Ensuing on the insult for the rescue + Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets, + And won a continent for the rescuer. + That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow + Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man. + This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate + Of England and her power, America's + Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama + As showing how the more you do in life + The greater shall you suffer. This is true, + If what you battered down gets hold of you. + This drama almost drives me mad at times. + I have his story at my fingers' ends. + But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands. + I think I'll have to give it up. What's that? + Well, if an audience of to-day would turn + From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage + What is the use to write it, if they'd turn + No matter how you wrote it? I believe + They wouldn't like it in America, + Nor England either, maybe--you are right! + A drama with no audience is a failure. + But here's this skull. What shall I do with it? + If I should have it cased in solid silver + There is no shrine to take it--no Cologne + For skulls like this. + + Well, I must die sometime, + And who will get it then? Look at this skull! + This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend: + A man who has a theme the world despises! + + + + +RECESSIONAL + + + IN TIME OF WAR + + MEDICAL UNIT-- + + Even as I see, and share with you in seeing, + The altar flame of your love's sacrifice; + And even as I bear before the hour the vision, + Your little hands in hospital and prison + Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes, + So do I suffer for splendor of your being + Which leads you from me, and in separation + Lays on my breast the pain of memory. + Over your hands I bend + In silent adoration, + Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end, + Asking for consolation + Out of the sacrament of our separation, + And for some faithful word acceptable and true, + That I may know and keep the mystery: + That in this separation I go forth with you + And you to the world's end remain with me. + + * * * * * + + How may I justify the hope that rises + That I am giving you to a world of pain, + And am a part of your love's sacrifices? + Is it so little if I see you not again? + You will croon soldier lads to sleep, + Even to the last sleep of all. + But in this absence, as your love will keep + Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall, + So I, though far away, shall kneel by you + If the last hour approaches, to bedew + Your lips that from their infant wondering + Lisped of a heaven lost. + I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost + As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving. + Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living + Bearing a solace in death. + God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,-- + You are transfigured + Before me, and I bow my head, + And leave you in the light that lights your way, + And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped, + And the hour we must obey-- + Look you, I will go pray! + + * * * * * + + + + +THE AWAKENING + + + When you lie sleeping; golden hair + Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink + Ears that nestle, I forbear + A moment while I look and think + How you are mine, and if I dare + To bend and kiss you lying there. + + * * * * * + + A Raphael in the flesh! Resist + I cannot, though to break your sleep + Is thoughtless of me--you are kissed + And roused from slumber dreamless, deep-- + You rub away the slumber's mist, + You scold and almost weep. + + * * * * * + + It is too bad to wake you so, + Just for a kiss. But when awake + You sing and dance, nor seem to know + You slept a sleep too deep to break + From which I roused you long ago + For nothing but my passion's sake-- + What though your heart should ache! + + * * * * * + + + + +IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR + + + I arise in the silence of the dawn hour. + And softly steal out to the garden + Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning. + And a wind moves out of the south-land, + Like a film of silver, + And thrills with a far borne message + The flowers of the garden. + Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them + To the south wind as he passes. + But the zinnias and calendulas, + In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly + As the south wind whispers the secret + Of the dawn hour! + + I stand in the silence of the dawn hour + In the garden, + As the star of morning fades. + Flying from scythes of air + The hare-bells, purples and golden glow + On the sand-hill back of the orchard + Race before the feet of the wind. + But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim + Begin to flutter and glisten. + And in a moment, in a twinkled passion, + The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed, + As he fences the lilac lights of the sky, + And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon + Is drowned in the waste of morning! + + * * * * * + + In the silence of the garden, + At the dawn hour + I turn and see you-- + You who knew and followed, + You who knew the dawn hour, + And its sky like a Favrile goblet. + You who knew the south-wind + Bearing the secret of the morning + To waking gardens, fields and forests. + You in a gown of green, O footed Iris, + With eyes of dryad gray, + And the blown glory of unawakened tresses-- + A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment, + In the silence of the dawn hour! + + * * * * * + + And here I behold you + Amid a trance of color, silent music, + The embodied spirit of the morning: + Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun + Caught in the twinkling oak leaves: + Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind; + And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas; + The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac + Turned white for the woe of the moon; + And the silence of the dawn hour! + + * * * * * + + And there to take you in my arms and feel you + In the glory of the dawn hour, + Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh! + To know your spirit by that oneness + Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion + Of life re-lit and visioned. + In dryad eyes beholding + The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing + Rapturous moment of the arisen sun; + And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile. + There to behold you, + Our spirits lost together + In the silence of the dawn hour! + + * * * * * + + + + +FRANCE + + + France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave! + France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal! + Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel + Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave. + Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave + Which Germany and England joined to seal, + And undismayed didst seek the human weal, + Through which thou couldst thyself and others save-- + The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise! + When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours. + Freedom remembers, and I can forget:-- + Great are we by the faith our past betrays, + And noble now the great Republic flowers + Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette. + + + + +BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES + + + Gourgaud, these tears are tears--but look, this laugh, + How hearty and serene--you see a laugh + Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes + Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves + When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend, + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me + Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy. + Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed, + Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves, + Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world. + And here we sit grown old, of memories + Top-full--your hand--my breast is all afire + With happiness that warms, makes young again. + + You see it is not what we saw to-day + That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:-- + But all that I remember, we remember + Of what the world was, what it is to-day, + Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see + Not in the rise of this man or of that, + Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow + That lifts or fells a nation--no, my friend, + God is not there, but in the living stream + Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows, + Cross-currents, what you will, to that result + Where stillness shows the star that fits the star + Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept + Through sorrow, blood and death,--God moves in that + And there I find Him. + + But these tears--for whom + Or what are tears? The Old Guard--oh, my friend + That melancholy remnant! And the horse, + White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing + The saddle and the bridle which he used. + My tears take quality for these pitiful things, + But other quality for the purple robe + Over the coffin lettered in pure gold + "Napoleon"--ah, the emperor at last + Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks + Over the land he loved, with what result? + Does just the army that acclaimed him rise + Which rose to hail him back from Elba?--no + All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, + And notables uncover! At the door + A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled + Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, + He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, + The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, + I place it on the coffin--dear Gourgaud, + Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh + For thinking that the Emperor is home; + For thinking I have laid upon his bed + The sword that makes inviolable his bed, + Since History stepped to where I stood and stands + To say forever: Here he rests, be still, + Bow down, pass by in reverence--the Ages + Like giant caryatides that look + With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold + With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, + Command your reverence. + + What have we seen? + Why this, that every man, himself achieving + Exhausts the life that drives him to the work + Of self-expression, of the vision in him, + His reason for existence, as he sees it. + He may or may not mould the epic stuff + As he would wish, as lookers on have hope + His hands shall mould it, and by failing take-- + For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye, + A cinder for that moment in the eye-- + A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise + Have all his work misvalued for the time, + And pump his heart up harder to subdue + Envy, or fear or greed, in any case + He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes + His soul's endowment in the vision of life. + And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau + He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps, + Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican, + Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists, + Conspirators, and clericals may shout + Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours + Kicking the gravel with his little heel, + Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud. + Well, what was he at Waterloo?--you know: + That piercing spirit which at mid-day power + Knew all the maps of Europe--could unfold + A map and say here is the place, the way, + The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here. + Why, all his memory of maps was blurred + The night before he failed at Waterloo. + The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it. + He could not ride a horse at Waterloo. + His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested? + The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris, + Now that our giant democrat was sick. + Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris + Helped by the Duke and Bluecher, damn their souls. + + What is a man to do whose work is done + And does not feel so well, has cancer, say? + You know he could have reached America + After his fall at Waterloo. Good God! + If only he had done it! For they say + New Orleans is a city good to live in. + And he had ceded to America + Louisiana, which in time would curb + The English lion. But he didn't go there. + His mind was weakened else he had foreseen + The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged + Would claw him if it got him, play with him + Before it killed him. Who was England then?-- + + An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king + Who lost a continent for the lust that slew + The Emperor--the world will say at last + It was no other. Who was England then? + A regent bad as husband, father, son, + Monarch and friend. But who was England then? + Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who + Had cut his country's long before. The duke-- + Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept-- + The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows + With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury, + To see the Duke waylay democracy. + The world's great conqueror's conqueror!--Eh bien! + Grips England after Waterloo, but when + The people see the duke for what he is: + A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry, + A spotless knight of ancient privilege, + They up and stone him, by the very deed + Stone him for wronging the democracy + The Emperor erected with the sword. + The world's great conqueror's conqueror--Oh, I sicken! + Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves + Are guarded and kept up, but falling down + To ruin and erasure when the graves + Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets, + Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk + Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor, + Melt up true metal at your peril, poets, + Sweet moralists, monopolists of God. + But who was England? Byron driven out, + And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct, + Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey, + The turn-coat panegyrist of King George, + An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last; + A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop + The progress of democracy and chanting + To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo, + Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped. + For England of to-day is freer--why? + The revolution and the Emperor! + They quench the revolution, send Napoleon + To St. Helena--but the ashes soar + Grown finer, grown invisible at last. + And all the time a wind is blowing ashes, + And sifting them upon the spotless linen + Of kings and dukes in England till at last + They find themselves mistaken for the people. + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me--_tiens_! + The Emperor is home again in France, + And Europe for democracy is thrilling. + Now don't you see the Emperor was sick, + The shadows falling slant across his mind + To write to such an England: "My career + Is ended and I come to sit me down + Before the fireside of the British people, + And claim protection from your Royal Highness"-- + This to the regent--"as a generous foe + Most constant and most powerful"--I weep. + They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship, + He thinks he's bound for England, and why not? + They dine him, treat him like an Emperor. + And then they tack and sail to St. Helena, + Give him a cow shed for a residence. + Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him, + Spy on his torture, intercept his letters, + Step on his broken wings, and mock the film + Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ... + + One day the packet brought to him a book + Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor." + Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned + Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed, + The Emperor said--I stood near by--"Who gave you + The right to slur my title? In a few years + Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself + Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered + For your indignities to me, that's all. + England expended millions on her libels + To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose + Obscure or bloody--how have they availed? + You have me here upon this scarp of rock, + But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun + And like the sun it cannot be destroyed. + Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam + The liberal stream, but only to make stronger + The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true? + That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend + And trust God as I have not trusted yet. + And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed? + A portion of the royal blood of Europe? + A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood + Is dated from the field of Montenotte, + And from my mother there in Corsica, + And from the revolution. I'm a man + Who made himself because the people made me. + You understand as little as she did + When I had brought her back from Austria, + And riding through the streets of Paris pointed + Up to the window of the little room + Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne, + A poor boy with my way to make--as poor + As Andrew Jackson in America, + No more a despot than he is a despot. + Your England understands. I was a menace + Not as a despot, but as head and front, + Eyes, brain and leader of democracy, + Which like the messenger of God was marking + The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies. + Your England understands I had to hold + By rule compact a people drunk with rapture, + And torn by counter forces, had to fight + The royalists of Europe who beheld + Their peoples feverish from the great infection, + Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop + Its spread to them. Your England understands. + Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey. + But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors, + My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures + Arts, sciences I builded, democratic + Triumphs which I won will live for ages-- + These are my witnesses, will testify + Forever what I was and meant to do. + The ideas which I brought to power will stifle + All royalty, all feudalism--look + They live in England, they illuminate + America, they will be faith, religion + For every people--these I kindled, carried + Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief + Torch bearer, soldier, representative." + + You were not there, Gourgaud--but wait a minute, + I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now: + Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor + Contemptuous but not the less bewitched. + And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled + "You make me smile." Why that is memorable: + It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone. + He was a prophet, founder of the sect + Of smilers and of laughers through the world, + Smilers and laughers that the Emperor + Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe, + What were it in this day except for France, + Napoleon's France, the revolution's France? + What will it be as time goes on but peoples + Made free through France? + + I take the good and ill, + Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed, + Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours, + Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched, + His child torn from him, Josephine and wife + Silent or separate, waiting long for death, + Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings + Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain + A little sun, and crying to the sea + With broken voice--I weep when I remember + Such things which you and I from day to day + Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then + There is that night of thunder, and the dawning + And all that day of storm and toward the evening + He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well, + I leave the room and say to Steward there: + "The Emperor is dead." That very moment + A crash of thunder deafened us. You see + A great age boomed in thunder its renewal-- + Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend. + + + + +DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC! + + + By the blue sky of a clear vision, + And by the white light of a great illumination, + And by the blood-red of brotherhood, + Draw the sword, O Republic! + Draw the sword! + + For the light which is England, + And the resurrection which is Russia, + And the sorrow which is France, + And for peoples everywhere + Crying in bondage, + And in poverty! + + You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic! + And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks; + And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory: + Now the leaven must be stirred, + And the brands themselves carried and touched + To the jungles and the black-forests. + Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling, + They are crying to each other from the peaks-- + They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight, + Eager for battle! + + As a strong man nurses his youth + To the day of trial; + But as a strong man nurses it no more + On the day of trial, + But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength! + And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth! + You shall neither save your youth, + Nor hoard your strength + Beyond this hour, O Republic! + + For you have sworn + By the passion of the Gaul, + And the strength of the Teuton, + And the will of the Saxon, + And the hunger of the Poor, + That the white man shall lie down by the black man, + And by the yellow man, + And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh, + Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy. + And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold + Aught beside them, + You have dedicated the earth, O Republic, + To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy! + + By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom, + And by the Power that makes us love our fellows, + And by the Power that comforts us in death, + Dying for great races to come-- + Draw the sword, O Republic! + Draw the Sword! + + + + +DEAR OLD DICK + + (Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke) + + + Said dear old Dick + To the colored waiter: + "Here, George! be quick + Roast beef and a potato. + I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one, + You black old scoundrel, get a move on you! + I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun. + This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you, + You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon--" + "Yas sah! Yas sah,"answered the coon. + "Now don't you talk back," said dear old Dick, + "Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick + With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor, + Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick." + And the nigger all the time was moving round the table, + Rattling the silver things faster and faster-- + "Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able + I'll bring yo' dinnah as shore as yo's bawn." + "Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone, + You low-down nigger," said dear old Dick. + + Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick + A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard; + Or how would you relish some spit in your broth? + Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard? + Or something in your coffee to make your stomach froth? + Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie? + That's a gentlemanly nigger or he'd black your eye/' + + Then dear old Dick made this long reply: + "You know, I love a nigger, + And I love this nigger. + I met him first on the train from California + Out of Kansas City; in the morning early + I walked through the diner, feeling upset + For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly. + And there sat this nigger by a table all dressed, + Waiting for the time to serve the omelet, + Buttered toast and coffee to the passengers. + And this is what he said in a fine southern way: + 'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest, + I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.' + Now think! here's a human who has no other cares + Except to please the white man, serve him when he's starving, + And who has as much fun when he sees you carving + The sirloin as you do, does this black man. + Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel, + Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan? + There's music in their soul as original + As any breed of people in the whole wide earth; + They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth. + There are only two things real American: + One is Christian Science, the other is the nigger. + Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure + Anything beside that is not imitation + Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation. + Return to this globe five hundred years hence-- + You'll see how the fundamental color of the coon + In art, in music, has altered our tune; + We are destined to bow to their influence; + There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone, + And that is America put into tone." + + And dear old Dick gathered speed and said: + "Sometimes through Dvorak a vision arises + To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red: + 'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow, + I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow + Of the life of Temu, the god who prizes + Favorite souls and the souls of kings.' + Now these are the words, and here is the dream, + No wonder you think I am seeing things: + The desert of Egypt shimmers in the gleam + Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight. + And a giant negro as black as night + Is walking by a camel in a caravan. + His great back glistens with the streaming sweat. + The camel is ridden by a light-faced man, + A Greek perhaps, or Arabian. + And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying + With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down. + He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing; + His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening + To the negro keeping time like a tabouret. + And what cares he for Memphis town, + Merneptah the bloody, or Books of the Dead, + Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread? + A tune is in his heart, a reality: + The camel, the desert are things that be, + He's a negro slave, but his heart is free." + + Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner. + "Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner," + Said dear old Dick to the colored waiter. + "Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato. + I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do; + Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo', + And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took + From a dish set by, by the git-away cook. + I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do." + "Well, George," Dick said, "if Gabriel blew + His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend + To wait on St. Peter world without end." + + + + +THE ROOM OF MIRRORS + + + I saw a room where many feet were dancing. + The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing + Both flames of candles and the heaven's light, + Though windows there were none for air or flight. + The room was in a form polygonal + Reached by a little door and narrow hall. + One could behold them enter for the dance, + And waken as it were out of a trance, + And either singly or with some one whirl: + The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl. + And every panel of the room was just + A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust + Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize + Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease + Of music or of dancing, save by him + Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim + And unknown space behind the flashing mirrors, + And by his partner struck through by the terrors + Of sudden loss. + + And looking I could see + That scarcely any dancer here could free + His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze + Upon himself or others, till a craze + Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate + The hand that took each dancer soon or late. + Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced, + Some stared and paled and then more madly danced. + One dancer only never looked at all. + He seemed soul captured by the carnival. + There were so many dancers there he loved, + He was so greatly by the music moved, + He had no time to study his own face + There in the mirrors as from place to place + He quickly danced. + + Until I saw at last + This dancer by the whirling dancers cast + Face full against a mirrored panel where + Before he could look at himself or stare + He plunged through to the other side--and quick, + As water closes when you lift the stick, + The mirrored panel swung in place and left + No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick. + But all his partners thus so soon bereft + Went dancing to the music as before. + But I saw faces in that mirrored door + Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching + Their faces over shoulders, even matching + Their terror with each other's to repress + A growing fear in seeing it was less + Than some one else's, or to ease despair + By looking in a face who did not care, + While watching for the hand that through some door + Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor + With every time-beat of the orchestra. + What is this room of mirrors? Who can say? + + + + +THE LETTER + + + What does one gain by living? What by dying + Is lost worth having? What the daily things + Lived through together make them worth the while + For their sakes or for life's? Where's the denying + Of souls through separation? There's your smile! + And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings + Half uttered nothings of delight! But then + Now that I see you not, and shall again + Touch you no more--memory can possess + Your soul's essential self, and none the less + You live with me. I therefore write to you + This letter just as if you were away + Upon a journey, or a holiday; + And so I'll put down everything that's new + In this secluded village, since you left. ... + Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember, + After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom. + We had spring all at once--the long December + Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room, + And laid your things away. And then one morning + I saw the mother robin giving warning + To little bills stuck just above the rim + Of that nest which you watched while being built, + Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb, + With folded wings against an April rain. + On June the tenth Edward and Julia married, + I did not go for fear of an old pain. + I was out on the porch as they drove by, + Coming from church. I think I never scanned + A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it + Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet-- + I went into the house to have a cry. + A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife. + Between housework and hoeing in the garden + I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life. + My heart was numb and still I had to harden + All memory or die. And just the same + As when you sat beside the window, passed + Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed. + He did not die till late November came. + Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast, + 'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child. + Her husband was in Monmouth at the time. + She had no milk, the baby is not well. + The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell. + And after harvest Joseph Clifford tiled + His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime + Has shocked the village, for the monster killed + Glendora Wilson's father at his door-- + A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled. + I could go on, but wherefore tell you more? + The world of men has gone its olden way + With war in Europe and the same routine + Of life among us that you knew when here. + This gossip is not idle, since I say + By means of it what I would tell you, dear: + I have been near you, dear, for I have been + Not with you through these things, but in despite + Of living them without you, therefore near + In spirit and in memory with you. + + * * * * * + + Do you remember that delightful Inn + At Chester and the Roman wall, and how + We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth? + And afterward when you and I came down + To London, I forsook the murky town, + And left you to quaint ways and crowded places, + While I went on to Putney just to see + Old Swinburne and to look into his face's + Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on + A finer thing than any verse he wrote? + (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!) + He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason + To England's greatness. What was Camden like? + Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink? + And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think. + His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh! + Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half + My visit, so I left. + + The thing was this: + None of this talk was Swinburne any more + Than some child of his loins would take his hair, + Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,-- + His flesh was nothing but a poor affair, + A channel for the eternal stream--his flesh + Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book, + But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look + Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh + And liquid meaning. So I knew at last + His real immortal self is in his verse. + + * * * * * + + Since you have gone I've thought of this so much. + I cannot lose you in this universe-- + I first must lose myself. The essential touch + Of soul possession lies not in the walk + Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk + Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes + Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread + Broken together, nor the hour of love + When flesh surrenders depths of things divine + Beyond all vision, as they were the dream + Of other planets, but without these even + In death and separation, there is heaven: + By just that unison and its memory + Which brought our lips together. To be free + From accidents of being, to be freeing + The soul from trammels on essential being, + Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed + Into the only heaven God has made: + That's where we know each other as we are, + In the bright ether of some quiet star, + Communing as two memories with each other. + + + + +CANTICLE OF THE RACE + + + SONG OF MEN + + How beautiful are the bodies of men-- + The agonists! + Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong + For their strength's behests. + Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong + In games or tests + When they run or box or swim the long + Sea-waves crests + With their slender legs, and their hips so strong, + And their rounded chests. + + I know a youth who raises his arms + Over his head. + He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms + Of flood or fire. + He springs renewed from a lusty bed + To his youth's desire. + He drowses, for April flames outspread + In his soul's attire. + + The strength of men is for husbandry + Of woman's flesh: + Worker, soldier, magistrate + Of city or realm; + Artist, builder, wrestling Fate + Lest it overwhelm + The brood or the race, or the cherished state. + They sing at the helm + When the waters roar and the waves are great, + And the gale is fresh. + + There are two miracles, women and men-- + Yea, four there be: + A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man, + And God's decree. + And a babe from the womb in a little span + Ere the month be ten. + Their rapturous arms entwine and cling + In the depths of night; + He hunts for her face for his wondering, + And her eyes are bright. + A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring + Is man's delight. + + + SONG OF WOMEN + + How beautiful is the flesh of women-- + Their throats, their breasts! + My wonder is a flame which burns, + A flame which rests; + It is a flame which no wind turns, + And a flame which quests. + + I know a woman who has red lips, + Like coals which are fanned. + Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips + From her white-rose chin. + Her throat curves like a cloud to the land + Where her breasts begin. + I close my eyes when I put my hand + On her breast's white skin. + + The flesh of women is like the sky + When bare is the moon: + Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks, + And sea-shell loins. + I know a woman whose splendors vex + Where the flesh joins-- + A slope of light and a circumflex + Of clefts and coigns. + She thrills like the air when silence wrecks + An ended tune. + + These are the things not made by hands in the earth: + Water and fire, + The air of heaven, and springs afresh, + And love's desire. + And a thing not made is a woman's flesh, + Sorrow and mirth! + She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre, + And she drips the wine. + Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh + As buds on the vine: + For fire and water and air are flesh, + And love is the shrine. + + + SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT + + How beautiful is the human spirit + In its vase of clay! + It takes no thought of the chary dole + Of the light of day. + It labors and loves, as it were a soul + Whom the gods repay + With length of life, and a golden goal + At the end of the way. + + There are souls I know who arch a dome, + And tunnel a hill. + They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome, + And measure the sky. + They find the good and destroy the ill, + And they bend and ply + The laws of nature out of a will + While the fates deny. + + I wonder and worship the human spirit + When I behold + Numbers and symbols, and how they reach + Through steel and gold; + A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech, + And an hour foretold. + It ponders its nature to turn and teach, + And itself to mould. + + The human spirit is God, no doubt, + Is flesh made the word: + Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael, + And the souls who heard + Beyond the rim of the world the swell + Of an ocean stirred + By a Power on the waters inscrutable. + There are souls who gird + Their loins in faith that the world is well, + In a faith unblurred. + How beautiful is the human spirit-- + The flesh made the word! + + + + +BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE + + + This way and that way measuring, + Sighting from tree to tree, + And from the bend of the river. + This must be the place where Black Eagle + Twelve hundred moons ago + Stood with folded arms, + While a Pottawatomie father + Plunged a knife in his heart, + For the murder of a son. + Black Eagle stood with folded arms, + Slim, erect, firm, unafraid, + Looking into the distance, across the river. + Then the knife flashed, + Then the knife crashed through his ribs + And into his heart. + And like a wounded eagle's wings + His arms fell, slowly unfolding, + And he sank to death without a groan! + + And my name is Black Eagle too. + And I am of the spirit, + And perhaps of the blood + Of that Black Eagle of old. + I am naked and alone, + But very happy; + Being rich in spirit and in memories. + I am very strong. + I am very proud, + Brave, revengeful, passionate. + No longer deceived, keen of eye, + Wise in the ways of the tribes: + A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes. + A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains. + A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries. + A knower of harmless snakes, + And the livid copperhead. + Lastly a knower of the spirits, + For there are many spirits: + Spirits of hidden lakes, + And of pine forests. + Spirits of the dunes, + And of forested valleys. + Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields, + And great distances. + There are many spirits + Under the Great Spirit. + Him I know not. + Him I only feel + With closed eyes. + Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river + At a sky of stars, + When the leaves of the oak are asleep. + I will fill this birch bark full of writing + And hide it in the cleft of an oak, + Here where Black Eagle fell. + Decipher my story who can: + + When I was a boy of fourteen + Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs, + Rose from the door of his tent + And came to where we were running, + Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox, + And said to me in their hearing: + "You are the fastest of all. + Now run again, and let me see. + And if you can run + I will make you my runner, + I will care for you, + And you shall have pockets of gold." ... + + And then we ran. + And the others lagged behind me, + Like smoke behind the wind. + But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox + Grew dark. + They nudged each other. + They looked side-ways, + Toeing the earth in shame. ... + Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me. + And he went here and there + To find a match. + And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper, + And nuggets of gold. + And at last the match was made. + + It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell, + It was by a red and yellow mountain, + It was by a great river + That we ran. + Hundreds of Indians came to the race. + They babbled, smoked and quarreled. + And everyone carried a knife, + And everyone carried a gun. + And we runners-- + How young we were and unknowing + What the race meant to them! + For we saw nothing but the track, + We saw nothing but our trainers + And the starters. + And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim. + But the Indians and the squaws saw much else, + They thought of the race in such different ways + From the way we thought of it. + For with me it was honor, + It was triumph, + It was fame. + It was the tender looks of Indian maidens + Wherever I went. + But now I know that to Tobacco Jim, + And the old fathers and young bucks + The race meant jugs of whiskey, + And new guns. + It meant a squaw, + A pony, + Or some rise in the life of the tribe. + + So the shot of the starter rang at last, + And we were off. + I wore a band of yellow around my brow + With an eagle's feather in it, + And a red strap for my loins. + And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang: + "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle, + They are all behind you." + And they were all behind me, + As the cloud's shadow is behind + The bend of the grass under the wind. + But as we neared the end of the race + The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians, + And the young bucks, + Crowded close to the track-- + I fell and lost. + + Next day Tobacco Jim went about + Lamenting his losses. + And when I told him they tripped me + He cursed them. + But later he went about asking in whispers + If I was wise enough to throw the race. + Then suddenly he disappeared. + And we heard rumors of his riches, + Of his dogs and ponies, + And of the joyous life he was leading. + + Then my father took me to New Mexico, + And here my life changed. + I was no longer the runner, + I had forgotten it all. + I had become a wise Indian. + I could do many things. + I could read the white man's writing + And write it. + + And Indians flocked to me: + Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel, + Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet, + And many others. + They flocked to me, for I could help them. + For the Great Spirit may pick a chief, + Or a leader. + But sometimes the chief rises + By using wise Indians like me + Who are rich in gifts and powers ... + But at least it is true: + All little great Indians + Who are after ponies, + Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets + Gain their ends through the gifts and powers + Of wise Indians like me. + They come to you and ask you to do this, + And to do that. + And you do it, because it would be small + Not to do it. + And until all the cards are laid on the table + You do not see what they were after, + And then you see: + They have won your friend away; + They have stolen your hill; + They have taken your place at the feast; + They are wearing your feathers; + They have much gold. + And you are tired, and without laughter. + And they drift away from you, + As Tobacco Jim went away from me. + And you hear of them as rich and great. + And then you move on to another place, + And another life. + + Billy the Pelican has built him a board house + And lives in Guthrie. + Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace. + Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News; + He is helping the government + To reclaim stolen lands. + (Many have told me it was Hungry Mole + Who tripped me in the race.) + Big Jawed Prophet is very rich. + He has disappeared as an eagle + With a rabbit. + And I have come back here + Where twelve hundred moons ago + Black Eagle before me + Had the knife run through his ribs + And through his heart. ... + + I will hide this writing + In the cleft of the oak + By this bend in the river. + Let him read who can: + I was a swift runner whom they tripped. + + + + +MY LIGHT WITH YOURS + + + I + + When the sea has devoured the ships, + And the spires and the towers + Have gone back to the hills. + And all the cities + Are one with the plains again. + And the beauty of bronze, + And the strength of steel + Are blown over silent continents, + As the desert sand is blown-- + My dust with yours forever. + + + II + + When folly and wisdom are no more, + And fire is no more, + Because man is no more; + When the dead world slowly spinning + Drifts and falls through the void-- + My light with yours + In the Light of Lights forever! + + + + +THE BLIND + + Amid the din of cars and automobiles, + At the corner of a towering pile of granite, + Under the city's soaring brick and stone, + Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand + With eyeless sockets playing on a flute. + And an old woman holds the cup for you, + Wherein a curious passer by at times + Casts a poor coin. + + You are so blind you cannot see us men + As walking trees! + I fancy from the tune + You play upon the flute, you have a vision + Of leafy trees along a country road-side, + Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks + Rise singing in the sun-shine! + In your darkness + You may see such things playing on your flute + Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago! + + And here's another on a farther corner, + With head thrown back as if he searched the skies, + He's selling evening papers, what's to him + The flaring headlines? Yet he calls the news. + That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call, + Or play the flute in blindness. + + Yet I think + It's neither news nor music with these blind ones-- + Rather the hope of re-created eyes, + And a light out of death! + "How can it be," I hear them over and over, + "There never shall be eyes for me again?" + + + + +"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU" + + + --_His Own Words_ + + IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL + + * * * * * + + Eagle, whose fearless + Flight in vast spaces + Clove the inane, + While we stood tearless, + White with rapt faces + In wonder and pain. ... + + Heights could not awe you, + Depths could not stay you. + Anguished we saw you, + Saw Death way-lay you + Where the storm flings + Black clouds to thicken + Round France's defender! + Archangel stricken + From ramparts of splendor-- + Shattered your wings! ... + + But Lafayette called you, + Rochambeau beckoned. + Duty enthralled you. + For France you had reckoned + Her gift and your debt. + Dull hearts could harden + Half-gods could palter. + For you never pardon + If Liberty's altar + You chanced to forget. ... + + Stricken archangel! + Ramparts of splendor + Keep you, evangel + Of souls who surrender + No banner unfurled + For ties ever living, + Where Freedom has bound them. + Praise and thanksgiving + For love which has crowned them-- + Love frees the world! ... + + + + +CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT + + + Who is that calling through the night, + A wail that dies when the wind roars? + We heard it first on Shipley's Hill, + It faded out at Comingoer's. + + Along five miles of wintry road + A horseman galloped with a cry, + "'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer, + "When I heard clattering hoofs go by." + + "I flung the winder up to listen; + I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge; + I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle + When he went over Houghton's Bridge." + + Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin' + A heifer in the barn, and then + My boy says: 'Pap, that's Billy Paris.' + 'There,' says my boy, it is again." + + "Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris, + We seed 'im at the Christmas tree. + It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy + I seed go home with Emily.' + + "'He is too old for galavantin' + Upon a night like this,' says I. + 'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty, + Good-natured huskiness in that cry.' + + "'It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin' + The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine, + 'I never thought--it makes me shiver, + And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'" + + Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it + I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns. + Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse + Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's." + + Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle + And held it up to the winder pane. + But when I heerd again the holler + 'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane." + + Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed + I thought he'd thump the door away. + I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?' + 'O, Emily,' I heard him say. + + "And there stood Billy Paris tremblin', + His face so white, he looked so queer. + 'O Andy'--and his voice went broken. + 'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.' + + "'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, + 'What brings you here?--I would be told.' + Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers, + It teched her hand ... and it war cold. + + "'We got back from the Christmas doin's + And went to bed, and she was sayin', + (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin' + To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.' + + "'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, + And then I thought I heerd her moan. + It war the wind, I guess, for Emily + War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.' + + "I left him then to call my woman + To tell her that her mother died. + When we come back his voice was steady, + The big tears in his eyes was dried. + + "He just sot there and quiet like + Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had, + And said for her to die on Christmas + Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad. + + "He grew so cam he almost skeered us. + Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.' + Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman + That ever walked this Vale of Care.' + + "Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang, + I never heerd her once complain.' + Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas + When she can go and have no pain.' + + "Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.' + Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.' + He hid his face then in his muffler + And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'" + + + + +WIDOW LA RUE + + + I + + What will happen, Widow La Rue? + For last night at three o'clock + You woke and saw by your window again + Amid the shadowy locust grove + The phantom of the old soldier: + A shadow of blue, like mercury light-- + What will happen, Widow La Rue? + + * * * * * + + What may not happen + In this place of summer loneliness? + For neither the sunlight of July, + Nor the blue of the lake, + Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, + Nor the song of larks and thrushes, + Nor the bravuras of bobolinks, + Nor scents of hay new mown, + Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, + Nor the snow of nodding yarrow, + Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest + Of the bluff by the lake + Can take away the loneliness + Of this July by the lake! + + * * * * * + + Last night you saw the old soldier + By your window, Widow La Rue! + Or was it your husband you saw, + As he lay by the gate so long ago? + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue, + And specks of blood on his face, + Like a wall specked by a shake a brush; + And something like blubber or pinkish wax, + Hiding the gash in his throat---- + The serum and blood blown up by the breath + From emptied lungs. + + + II + + So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend + For the afternoon and the night, + Where the phantom will not come, + Where the phantom may be forgotten. + And scarcely has she turned the road, + Round the water-mill by the creek, + When the telephone rings and daughter Flora + Springs up from a drowsy chair + And the ennui of a book, + And runs to answer the call. + And her heart gives a bound, + And her heart stops still, + As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses + Quick as poison through all her frame. + And something like bees swarming in her breast + Comes to her throat in a surge of fear, + Rapture, passion, for what is the voice + But the voice of her lover? + And just because she is here alone + In this desolate summer-house by the lake; + And just because this man is forbidden + To cross her way, for a taint in his blood + Of drink, from a father who died of drink; + And just because he is in her thought + By night and day, + The voice of him heats her through like fire. + She sways from dizziness, + The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ... + He is in the village, is walking out, + He will be at the door in an hour. + + + III + + The sun is half a hand above the lake + In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness. + On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover + Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow + Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters + Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end. + A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire + Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet. + Over the olive green of the darkening forest + A thin moon slits the sky and down the road + Two lovers walk. + + It is night when they reappear + From the forest, walking the hay-field over. + And the sky is so full of stars it seems + Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, + Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, + And in the silence of the scented hay-field + Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water + A hundred feet below. + And at last they sit by a cock of hay, + As warm as the nest of a bird, + Hand clasped in hand and silent, + Large-eyed and silent. + + * * * * * + + O, daughter Flora! + Delicious weakness is on you now, + With your lover's face above you. + You can scarcely lift your hand, + Or turn your head + Pillowed upon the fragrant hay. + You dare not open your moistened eyes + For fear of this sky of stars, + For fear of your lover's eyes. + The trance of nature has taken you + Rocked on creation's tide. + And the kinship you feel for this man, + Confessed this night--so often confessed + And wondered at-- + Has coiled its final sorcery about you. + You do not know what it is, + Nor care what it is, + Nor care what fate is to come,-- + The night has you. + You only move white, fainting hands + Against his strength, then let them fall. + Your lips are parted over set teeth; + A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body + Maddens your lover, + And in a swift and terrible moment + The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ... + + Then your lover sits up with a sigh. + But you lie there so still with closed eyes. + So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars. + A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr + Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, + But you do not move. + And the sun comes up at last + Finding you asleep in his arms, + There by the hay cock. + And he kisses your tears away, + And redeems his word of last night, + For down to the village you go + And take your vows before the Pastor there, + And then return to the summer house. ... + All is well. + + + IV + + Widow La Rue has returned + And is rocking on the porch-- + What is about to happen? + For last night the phantom of the old soldier + Appeared to her again-- + It followed her to the house of her friend, + And appeared again. + But more than ever was it her husband, + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue. + And while she thinks of it, + And wonders what is about to happen, + She hears laughter, + And looking up, beholds her daughter + And the forbidden lover. + + * * * * * + + And then the daughter and her husband + Come to the porch and the daughter says + "We have just been married in the village, mother; + Will you forgive us? + This is your son; you must kiss your son." + And Widow La Rue from her chair arises + And calmly takes her child in her arms, + And clasps his hand. + And after gazing upon him + Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked + Upon returning Agamemnon, + With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed, + She kissed him, + And in a calm voice blessed them. + Then sent her daughter, singing, + On an errand back to the village + To market for dinner, saying: + "We'll talk over plans, my dear." + + + V + + And the young husband + Rocks on the porch without a thought + Of the lightning about to strike. + And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue + Enters the house. + And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic rapture, + The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room + By a window back of the chair where he rocks, + And drawing the shade + She speaks: + + "These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the old soldier + Who haunts the midnights + Of this summer loneliness. + And I knew that a doom was at hand. ... + You have married my daughter, and this is the doom. ... + O, God in heaven!" + Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness + Winds out of the July glare + And stops the flow of his blood, + As he hears from the re-echoing room + The voice of Widow La Rue + Moving darkly between banks + Of delirious fear and woe! + + "Be calm till you hear me through. ... + Do not move, or enter here, + I am hiding my face from you. ... + Hear me through, and then fly. + I warned her against you, but how could I tell her + Why you were not for her? + But tell me now, have you come together? + No? Thank God for that. ... + For you must not come together. ... + Now listen while I whisper to you: + My daughter was born of a lawless love + For a man I loved before I married, + And when, for five years, no child came + I went to this man + And begged him to give me a child. ... + Well then ... the child was born, your wife as it seems. ... + And when my husband saw her, + And saw the likeness of this man in her face + He went out of the house, where they found him later + By the entrance gate + With the iris of his eyes so black, + And the white of his eyes so china-blue, + And specks of blood on his face, + Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush. + And something like blubber or pinkish wax + Hiding the gash in his throat-- + The serum and blood blown up by the breath + From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God! + Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand? + Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go! + Leap from the bluff to the rocks on the shore! + Take down the sickle and end yourself! + You don't care, you say, for all I've told you? + Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. ... + And her father died when she was a baby. ... + And you were four when your father died. ... + And her father died on the very day + That your father died, + At the verv same moment. ... + On the very same bed. ... + Don't you understand?" + + + VI + + He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch, + He runs and stumbles to reach the road. + He yells and curses and tears his hair. + He staggers and falls and rises and runs. + And Widow La Rue + With the eyes of Clytemnestra + Stands at the window and watches him + Running and tearing his hair. + + VII + + She seems so calm when the daughter returns. + She only says: "He has gone to the meadow, + He will soon be back. ..." + But he never came back. + + And the years went on till the daughter's hair + Was white as her mother's there in the grave. + She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left + And didn't say good-bye. + + + + +DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE + + + I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, + Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old + In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed + To deities or devils. To resume + We find it caused by morphological + Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes, + More times, indeed, the anatomical + Basis, if one be, escapes detection. + For many functions of the cortex are + Unknown, as I have said. + + And now remember + Mercier's analysis of heredity: + Besides direct transmission of unstable + Nervous systems, there remains the law + Hereditary of sanguinity. + Then here's another matter: Parents may + Have normal nervous systems, yet produce + Children of abnormal nerves and minds, + Caused by unsuitable sexual germs. + Let me repeat before I leave the matter + The factors in a perfect organization: + First quality in the germ producing matter; + Then quality in the sperm producing force, + And lastly relative fitness of the two. + We are but plants, however high we rise, + Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream + We are but plants, and all we are and do + Depends upon the seed and on the soil. + What Mendel found in raising peas may lead + To perfect knowledge of the human mind. + There is one law for men and peas, the law + Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men + And mind of certain matter, all depends + Not on a varying law, but on a law + Varied in its course by matter, as + The arm, which is a lever and which works + By lever principle cannot make use + And form cement with trowel to the forms + It makes of paint or marble. + + To resume: + A child may take the qualities of one parent + In some respects, and of the other parent + In some respects. A child may have the traits + Of father at one period of his life, + The mother at one period of his life. + And if the parents' traits are similar + Their traits may be prepotent in a child, + Thus giving rise to qualities convergent. + So if you take a circle and draw off + A line which would become another circle + If drawn enough, completed, but is left + Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind + Of cumulative heredity. Take John, + My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect, + John has a mind which is a perfect circle. + A perfect circle can be small, you know. + And so John has good sense within his sphere. + But if some force began to work like yeast + In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line + To make a larger thinking circle, say + About a great invention, heaven or God, + Then John would be abnormal, till this line + Shot round and joined, became a larger circle. + This is the secret of eccentric genius, + The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space + Does not enclose co-ordinated thought. + He's like a plant mutating, half himself + Half something new and greater. If we looked + To John's heredity we'd find this change + Was manifest in mother or in father + About the self-same period of life, + Most likely in his father. Attributes + Of fathers are inherited by sons, + Of mothers by the daughters. + + Now this morning + I take up paranoia. Paranoics + Are often noted for great gifts of mind. + Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics, + Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown, + Cellini, many others. All who think + Themselves inspired of God, and all who see + Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects + Of prophecies are paranoics. All + Who visions have of God or archangels, + Hear voices or celestial music, these + Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise + Enough above the earth to look along + A longer arc and see realities, + Or see strange things through atmospheric strata + Which build up or distort the things they see + Remains the question. Let us wait the proof. + + Last week I told you I would have to-day + The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here, + And lecture on his case. Here is the brain: + Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look + After the lecture at the brain and skull. + There's nothing anatomical at fault + With this fine brain, so far as I can find. + You'll note how deep the convolutions are, + Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull + Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note, + The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical. + But this is scarce significant. Let me tell + How Jacob Groesbell looked: + + The man was tall, + Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs. + His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high, + And ran back at an angle, temples full. + His nose was long and fleshy at the point, + Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray, + The iris flecked. They looked as if a light + As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears + Were very large, projected at right angles. + His neck was slender, womanish. His skin + Of finest texture, white and very smooth. + His voice was quiet, musical. His manner + Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable. + His parents, as I learned through inquiry, + Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved. + The mother healthy both in mind and body. + The father was eccentric, perhaps insane. + They were first cousins. + + I knew Jacob Groesbell + Ten years before he died. I knew him first + When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman + With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then + As time went on I saw him when he came + At my request to do my carpentry. + I grew to know him, and by slow degrees + He told me of his readings in the Bible, + And gave me his interpretations. At last + Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach, + Which took him off. He sent for me, and said + He wished me to attend him, which I did. + He told me I could have his body and brain + To lecture on, dissect, since some had said + He was insane, he told me, and if so + I should find something wrong with brain or body. + And if I found a wrong then all his visions + Of God and archangels were just the fancies + That come to madmen. So he made provision + To give his brain and body for this cause, + And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing + On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic. + + As I have said before, in making tests + And observations of the patient, have + His conversation taken stenographically, + In order to preserve his speech exactly, + And catch the flow if he becomes excited. + So we determine if he makes new words, + If he be incoherent, or repeats. + I took my secretary once to make + A stenographic record. Strange enough + He would not talk while she was writing down. + And when I asked him why, he would not tell. + So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel, + And put in it a dictaphone, and when + A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put + My hand among my bottles in the satchel, + As if I was compounding medicine, + Instead I'd put another cylinder on. + And thus I got his story in his voice, + Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all, + Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone + The students in the farthest gallery + Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me, + And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain + Here in this jar beside me. Listen now + To Jacob Groesbell's voice: + + "Will you repeat + From the beginning connectedly the story + Of your religious life, illumination, + Vhat you have called your soul's escape?" + + "I will, + Since I shall never tell it again." + + "I grew up + Timid and sensitive, not very strong, + Not understood of father or of mother. + They did not love me, and I never felt + A tenderness for them. I used to quote: + 'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?' + At school I was not liked. I had a chum + From time to time, that's all. And I remember + My mother on a day put with my luncheon + A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came + I missed it, found some boys had taken it, + And when I asked for it, they made the cry: + 'Bottle of milk, bottle of milk,' and I + Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour + It hurts me to remember it. Such days, + All misery! For all my clothes were patched. + They hooted at me. So I lived alone. + At twelve years old I had great fears of death, + And hell, heard devils in my room. One night + During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains, + And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day + As I was walking on the village street + Close to the church I heard a voice which said + 'Behold, my son'--and falling on my knees + I prayed in ecstacy--but as I prayed + Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me. + A heat ran through me, I arose and fled. + Well, then I joined the church and was baptized. + But something left me in the ceremony, + I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back + Into the trap. I took to wandering + In solitary places, could not bear + To see a human face. I slept for nights + In still ravines, or meadows. But one time + Returning to my home, I found the room + Filled up with visitors--my heart stopped short, + And glancing at the faces of my parents + I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak, + Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So + I tell this just to illustrate my shyness, + Which cursed my youth and made me miserable, + Something I fought but could not overcome. + And pondering on the Scriptures I could see + How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even, + How even as my brothers called me mad + They called our Saviour so. + + "At fourteen years + My father taught me carpentry, his trade, + And made me work with him. I seemed to be + The butt for jokes and laughter with the men-- + I know not why. For now and then they'd drop + A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew + I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts + Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years, + God was not with me though I sought Him ever + And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain + Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights, + Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves, + Clouds, trunks of trees,--illusions of the devil. + I was turned twenty years when on an evening + Calm, beautiful in June, after a day + Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch, + The sun just sinking, at my left I heard + A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ." + My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil + Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought, + So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy. + I ran into my room and seized a pistol + To end my life. God willed it otherwise. + I fainted and awoke upon the floor + After some hours. To heap my suffering full + A few days after this while in the village + I went into a store. The friendly clerk-- + I knew him always--said 'What will you have? + I wait first always on the little boys.' + I laughed and went my way. But in an hour + His saying rankled, I began to brood + On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last + His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin, + So devil tangled, tortured--which not prayer + Nor watching could deliver. So I thought + To save my soul from murder I must fly-- + I felt an urging as one does in sleep + Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly + From terror, death, from blankness on the scene, + From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world + Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps + Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme + Impels all steps. So packing up my kit, + My Bible in my pocket, secretly + I disappeared. Next day took up my life + In Barrington, a village thirty miles + From all I knew, besides a lovely lake, + Reached by a road that crossed a bridge + Over a little bay, the bridge's ends + Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here + Night after night I fished, or stood and watched + The star-light on the water. + + I grew calmer + Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived + Under a widow's roof, who was devout + And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor, + To every word: I was now twenty-five, + In perfect health, no longer persecuted, + At peace with all the world, if not my soul + Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell + It had an ache which sometimes I could feel, + And yet I had this soul awakening. + I know I have been counted mad, so watch + Each detail here and judge. + + At four o'clock + The thirtieth day of June, my work being done, + My kit upon my back I walked this road + Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon + Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle + Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence + Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot + I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy + The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats + Along the bay, the blueness of the lake, + The ripple of the water at my feet, + The rythmic babble of the little boats + Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing, + Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds + Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down + Over the waters gloriously to rest. + So as I stared upon the sun on the water, + Some minutes, though I know not for how long, + Out of the splendor of the shining sun + Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth + Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow, + His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view, + And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise + And come with me.' + + "And in an instant there + Something fell from me, I became a cloud, + A soul with wings. A glory burned about me. + And in that glory I perceived all things: + I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets + Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns + And I knew God, and knew all things as God: + The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom, + Truth, love and purity. And in that instant + Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces, + And how they are arranged order to order, + With no break in the order, one harmonious + Whole of universal life all blended + And interfused with universal love. + And as it was with Shelley so I cried, + And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose + And started back to climb the hill again, + Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did, + Nor where I went, and thinking if this be + A fancy only of the Saviour then + He will not follow me, and if it be + Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall + After the revelation. As I reached + The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me + And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son, + Who knowest me, when they who walked with me + Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told + All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses, + Who knew me not till I brake bread and then, + As after thought could say, Did not our heart + Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell, + Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed + With visions and my Father's love, this walk + Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked, + Expounding all the scriptures, telling me + About the race of men who live and move + Along a life of meat and drink and sleep + And comforts of the flesh, while here and there + A hungering soul is chosen to lift up + And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet + Must seek and must find God to keep the race + Awake to the divine and to the orders + Of universal and harmonious life, + All interfused with Universal love, + Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism, + Which sees no order, reason, no intent + Beat down the race to welter in the mire + When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God, + The leaders of the race from age to age + Are chosen for their separate work, each work + Fits in the given order. All who suffer + The martyrdom of thought, whether they think + Themselves as servants of my Father, or even + Mock at the images and rituals + Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize + The mystery they sensed, or whether they be + Spirits of laughter, logic, divination + Of human life, the human soul, all men + Who give their essence, blindly or in vision + In faith that life is worth their utmost love, + They are my brothers and my Father's sons.' + So Jesus told me as we took my walk + Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned + And walked through heading rye and purple vetch + Into an orchard where great rows of pears + Sloped up a hill. It was now evening: + Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west, + And a half moon was hanging just above + The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening! + We came back to the boats at last and loosed + One of them and rowed out into the bay, + And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said + 'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.' + A haziness came on me now. I seem + To find myself alone there in that boat. + At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk, + The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home + Back to the village in a silence, peace, + A happiness profound. + + "And the next morning + I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet + With spiritual vision so intense I looked + Through things material as if they were + But shadows--old things passed away or grew + A lovelier order. And my heart was full. + Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved. + My landlady looked at me sharply, asked + What hour I entered, where I was so late. + I only answered fishing. For I told + No person of my vision, went my way + At carpentry in silence, in great joy. + For archangels and powers were at my side, + They led me, bore me up, instructed me + In mysteries, and voices said to me + 'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John. + I wrote and printed and the village read, + And called me mad. And so I grew to see + The deepest truths of God, and God Himself, + The geniture of all things, of the Word + Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages, + Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness + Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained, + And how the search for something (it is God) + Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts + Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries + Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth + At harvest time have praise or reverence. + I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God + Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains + Are but the wires in the bulb which stays, + Resists the current and makes human thought. + As the electric current is not light + But heat and power as well. Our little brains + Resist God and make thought and love as well. + But God is more than these. Oh I heard much + Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels, + Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still. + That is the axis of profoundest life + Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry + And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages, + The epochs of this earth as it were the feet + Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew + The agony of genius and the woe + Of prophets and the great. + + "From that next morning + I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal + Than I had ever done. I could not open + Its pages anywhere but I could find + Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to. + I could not doubt my destiny was bound + With man's salvation. Jeremiah said + 'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words + To me were spoken, and to no one else. + And so I searched the scriptures. And I found + I never had a thought, experience, pang, + A state in human life our Saviour had not. + He was a carpenter, and so was I. + He had his soul's illumination, so had I. + His brethren called him mad, they called me mad. + He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph. + For I could, I can feel my way along + Death's stages as a man can reach and feel + Ahead of him along a wall. I know + This body is a shell, a butterfly's + Excreta pushed away with rising wings. + + "I searched the scriptures. How should I believe + Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see + At mid-day in the way a light from heaven + Above the brightness of the sun and hear + The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,' + Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus, + Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself, + Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake + Such words as none but men inspired can speak, + As well as words of truth and soberness, + Such as myself speak now. + + "And from the scriptures + I passed to studies of the men who came + To great illuminations. You will see + There are two kinds: One's of the intellect, + The understanding, one is of the soul. + The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh + To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men + In their illumination see the frame-work + Of life or see its spirit, so align + Themselves with Science, Satire, or align + Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy. + So being Aristotle, Rabelais, + Paul, Swedenborg. + + "And as the years + Went on, as I had time, was fortunate + In finding books I read of many men + Who had illumination, as I had it. Read + Of Dante's vision, how he found himself + Saw immortality, lost fear of death. + Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect + At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven + Before he quitted life and saw behind + The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth. + Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest + My manhood's visionary meditations + Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge. + Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable + Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.' + Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth + Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused, + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean and the living air, + And the blue skies, and in the mind of man-- + A motion and a spirit that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought + And rolls through all things.' + + "And at last they called me + The mad, and learned carpenter. And then-- + I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold ..." + + At this point + He fainted, sank into a stupor. There + I watched him, to discover if 'twas death. + But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke. + There was some other talk, but not of moment. + I had to change the cylinder--the talk + Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things, + Throws no light on the case, being sane enough. + He died next morning. + + Students who desire + To examine the skull and brain may do so now + At their convenience in the laboratory. + + + + +FRIAR YVES + + + Said Friar Yves: "God will bless + Saint Louis' other-worldliness. + Whatever the fate be, still I fare + To fight for the Holy Sepulcher. + If I survive, I shall return + With precious things from Palestine-- + Gold for my purse, spices and wine, + Glory to wear among my kin. + Fame as a warrior I shall win. + But, otherwise, if I am slain + In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn + Immortal life washed white from sin." + + Said Friar Yves: "Come what will-- + Riches and glory, death and woe-- + At dawn to Palestine I go. + Whether I live or die, I gain + To fly the tepid good and ill + Of daily living in Champagne, + Where those who reach salvation lose + The treasures, raptures of the earth, + Captured, possessed, and made to serve + The gospel love of Jesus' birth, + Sacrifice, death; where even those + Passing from pious works and prayer + To paradise are not received + As those who battled, strove, and lived, + And periled bodies, as I choose + To peril mine, and thus to use + Body and soul to build the throne + Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care + Lay Jesus under a granite stone." + + Then Friar Yves buckled on + His breastplate, and, at break of dawn, + With crossboy, halberd took his way, + Walked without resting, without pause, + Till the sun hovered at midday + Over a tree of glistening leaves, + Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws + My stomach," whispered Friar Yves. + "If I," he sighed, "could only gain, + Like yonder spring, an inner source + Of life, and need not dew or rain + Of human love, or human friends, + And thus accomplish my soul's ends + Within myself! No," said the friar; + "There is one water and one fire; + There is one Spirit, which is God. + And what are we but streams and springs + Through which He takes His wanderings? + Lord, I am weak, I am afraid; + Show me the way!" the friar prayed. + "Where do I flow and to what end? + Am I of Thee, or do I blend + Hereafter with Thee?" + + Yves heard, + While praying, sounds as when the sod + Teems with a swarm of insect things. + He dropped his halberd to look down, + And then his waking vision blurred, + As one before a light will frown. + His inner ear was caught and stirred + By voices; then the chestnut tree + Became a step beside a throne. + Breathless he lay and fearfully, + While on his brain a vision shone. + Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone: + "The time has come when I must take + The form of man for mankind's sake. + This drama is played long enough + By creatures who have naught of me, + Save what comes up from foam of the sea + To crawling moss or swimming weeds, + At last to man. From heaven in flame, + Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly, + And take a mortal's form and name, + And labor for the race's needs." + Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky + Flushed like a bride's face rosily, + And shot to lightning from its bloom. + The world leaped like a babe in the womb, + And choral voices from heaven's cope + Circled the earth like singing stars: + "O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope, + O passion realized at last; + O end of hunger, fear, and wars, + O victory over the bottomless, vast + Valley of Death!" + + A silence fell, + Broke by the voice of Gabriel: + "Music may follow this, O Lord! + Music I hear; I hear discord + Through ages yet to be, as well. + There will be wars because of this, + And wars will come in its despite. + It's noon on the world now; blackest night + Will follow soon. And men will miss + The meaning, Lord! There will be strife + 'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, + Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, + 'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. + There will be war to win the place + Where you bend death to sovereign life. + Armed kings will battle for the grace + Of rulership, for power and gold + In the name of Jesus. Men will hold + Conclaves of swords to win surcease + Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. + The seed is good, Lord, make the ground + Good for the seed you scatter round!" + + Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: + "The gardener sprays his plants and trees + To drive out lice and stop disease. + After the spraying, fruit is grown + Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes + Of men can see this end, although + Leaves wither or a whole tree dies + From what the gardener does to grow + Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. + The gardener lives outside the tree; + The gardener knows the tree can see + What cure is needed, plans afresh + An end foreseen, and there's the will + Wherewith the gardener may fulfil + The orchard's destiny." + + So He spake. + And Friar Yves seemed to wake, + But did not wake, and only sunk + Into another dreaming state, + Wherein he saw a woman's form + Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. + Her body was virginal, white, and straight, + And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, + Behind a robe of writhing green: + As when a rock's wall makes a screen + Whereon the crisscross reflect moves + Of circling water under the rays + Of April sunlight through the sprays + Of budding branches in willow groves-- + A liquid mosaic of green and gold-- + Thus was her robe. + + But to behold + Her face was to forget the youth + Of her white bosom. All her hair + Was tangled serpents; she did wear + A single eye in the middle brow. + Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth + Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough + O'ershadowed her the while she gripped + A pail in either hand. One dripped + Clear water; one, ethereal fire. + Then to the Graia spoke the friar: + "Have mercy! Tell me your desire + And what you are?" + + Then the Graia said: + "My body is Nature and my head + Is Man, and God has given me + A seeing spirit, strong and free, + Though by a single eye, as even + Man has one vision at a time. + I lift my pails up; mark them well. + With this fire I will burn up heaven, + And with this water I will quench + The flames of hell's remotest trench, + That men may work in righteousness. + Not for the fears of an after hell, + Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless + The soul with when the mountains nod + And the sun darkens, but for love + Of Man and Life, and love of God. + Now look!" + + She dashed the pail of fire + Against the vault of heaven. It fell + As would a canopy of blue + Burned by a soldier's careless torch. + She dashed the water into hell, + And a great steam rose up with the smell + Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch + All things which on the good earth grew. + "Now," said the Graia, "loiterer, + Awake from slumber, rise and speed + To fight for the Holy Sepulcher-- + Nothing is left but Life, indeed-- + I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell." + + Friar Yves no longer slept; + Friar Yves awoke and wept. + + + + +THE EIGHTH CRUSADE + + + June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, + And every day it rained. And every morning + I heard the wind and rain among the leaves. + Try as I would my spirits grew no better. + What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind? + I spent the whole day working with my hands, + For there was brush to clear and corn to plant + Between the gusts of rain; and there at night + I sat about the room and hugged the fire. + And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered + For cold and it was June. I ached all through + For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not + To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body, + Or soul if it were soul? + + But there at night + As I sat aching, worn, before the hour + Of sleep, and restless in this interval + Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors, + Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap + Of cards upon a table by a boarder + Who passed the time in playing solitaire, + Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe, + And scrape away the dust of long past years + To show me what had happened in his life. + And as he smoked and talked his aged wife + Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches + Formed by a slender island, flow together. + Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch, + An episode or version. And sometimes + He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend + While she went on to what she wished to finish, + When he'd resume. They talked together thus. + He found the story and began to tell it, + And she hung on his story, told it too. + + This night the rain came down in buckets full, + And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath + Between the opening of the outer door + And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air. + And my host who had hoed the whole day long, + Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe + Reading the organ of the Adventists, + His wife beside him knitting. + + On the table + Are several magazines with their monthly grist + Of stories and of pictures. O such stories! + Who writes these stories? How does it happen people + Are born into the world to read these stories? + But anyway the lamp is very bad, + And every bone in me aches--and why always + Must one be either reading, knitting, talking? + Why not sit quietly and think? + + At last + Between the clicking needles and the slap + Of cards upon the table and the swish + Of rain upon the window my host speaks: + "It says here when the Germans are defeated, + And that means when the Turks are beaten too, + The Christian world will take back Palestine, + And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so." + "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live + To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back + From Jaffa if the Allies win." + + To me + The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk, + At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and + It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back, + But his trunk never came." + + And then the husband: + "What are you saying, mother, you go on + As if our friend here knew the story too. + And then you talk as if our hope of the war + Was centered on recovering that trunk." + + "Oh, not at all + But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there + In Jaffa you might get it back. You know + You'll never get it back while infidels + Rule Palestine." + + The husband says to me: + "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine, + Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago, + Is in existence yet, when chances are + They kept it for awhile, and sold it off, + Or threw it away." + + "They never threw it away. + Why I made him a dozen shirts or more, + And knitted him a lot of lovely socks, + And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained + Everything that a man might need in absence + A year from home. And yet they threw it away!" + + "They might have done so." + + "But they never did, + Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?" + "They were too valuable." + + "Too valuable, + Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes." + + "Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable." + He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools + Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this: + To work at cabinet making while observing + Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready + To drive the Turks from Palestine." + + What's this? + I rub my eyes and wake up to this story. + I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house + Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in. + And in a moment Turks and Palestine, + And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise + And show me how the world is small, and a man + Native to Illinois may travel forth + And mix his life with ancient things afar. + To-day be raising corn here and next month + Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycenae, + Digging for Grecian relics. + + So I asked + "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick: + "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it." + And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke. + You see it was this way, myself and the bishop, + He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains, + Had planned to meet in Switzerland." + + "Montreaux" + The wife broke in. + + "Montreaux" the husband added. + "You said you two had planned it," she went on. + Now looking over specks and speaking louder: + "The bishop came to him, he planned it out. + My husband didn't plan the trip at all. + He knows the bishop planned it." + + Then the husband: + "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first, + And I acceded and we worked it out. + He was to go ahead of me, I was + To come in later, soon as I could raise + What funds my congregation could afford + To spare for this adventure." + + "Guess," she said, + "How much it was." + + I shook my head and she + Said in a lowered and a tragic voice: + "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe + It strapped his church to raise so great a sum. + And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come + Scarcely before the plan could be put through + Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum + Had never been made up and put in gold + For him to carry in a chamois belt." + + And then the husband said: "Mother, be still, + I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me." + "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that. + Go on," she said. + + And so he started over: + "The bishop came to me and said he thought + The Advent would be June of seventy-six. + This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one. + He said he had a dream; and in this dream + An angel stood beside him, told him so, + And told him to get me and go to Jaffa, + And live there, learn the people and the country, + We were to live disguised the better to learn + The people and the country. I was to work + At my trade as a cabinet maker, he + At carpentry, which was his trade, and so + No one would know us, or suspect our plan. + And thus we could live undisturbed and work, + And get all things in readiness, that in time + The Lord would send us power, and do all things. + We were the messengers to go ahead + And make the ways straight, so I told her of it." + + "You told me, yes, but my trust was as great + As yours was in the bishop, little the good + To tell me of it." + + "Well, I told you of it. + And she said, 'If the Lord commands you so + You must obey.' And so she knit the socks + And made that trunk of things, as she has said, + And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia." + + "'Twas nearer two months," said the wife. + + "Perhaps, + Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop + Left Springfield in a month from our first talk. + I knew, for I went over when he left. + And I remember how his poor wife cried, + And how the children cried. He had a family + Of some eight children." + + "Only seven then, + The son named David died the year before." + + "Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then. + The oldest was not more than twelve, I think, + And all the children cried, and at the train + His congregation almost to a man + Was there to see him off." + + "Well, one was missing. + You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly. + + "I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still. + Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks, + Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux + To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk + To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now + I must tell you my dream. The night before + I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream: + I saw the bishop on the station platform + His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing + His gold head cane. And sure enough next day + As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop + His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing + His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong, + And still I didn't act upon the thought." + + "I should say not," the wife broke in again. + + "Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought + More clearly than I did that things were wrong. + You can't uproot the confidence of years + Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms + I knew his face was red, but didn't know, + Or think just then, that brandy made it red. + And so I went up to the house he lived in-- + A mansion beautiful, and we sat down. + And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker, + Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger + Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me + Silently for a moment, when he said: + 'What money did you bring?' And so I told him. + And he said quickly 'let me have it.' So + I took my belt off, counted out the gold + And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it + With this hand in this pocket, that in that, + And sat there and said nothing more, just looked! + And then before a word was spoke again + I heard a step upon the stair, the stair + Came down into this room where we were sitting. + And I looked up, and there--I rubbed my eyes-- + I looked again, rose from my chair to see, + And saw descending the most lovely woman, + Who was"-- + + "A lovely woman," sneered the wife + "Well, she was just affinity to the bishop, + That's what she was." + + "Affinity is right-- + You see she was the leader in the choir, + And she had run away with him, or rather + Had gone abroad upon another boat + And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time + For forty hours or so all is a blank. + I just remember trying to speak and choking, + And flying from the room, the bishop clutching + At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that + I can't recall a thing until I saw + A little cottage way up in the Alps. + I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick, + The door was opened and they took me in, + And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me + In a good bed where I slept half a week. + It seems in my bewilderment I wandered, + Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so + By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes." + + "He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed. + + "These were the kindest people in the world, + A French family. They gave me splendid food, + And when I left two francs to reach the place + Where lived the English Consul, who arranged + After some days for money for my passage + Back to America, and in six weeks + I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains." + + "Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said. + + And I who heard this story through spoke up: + "The thing about this that I fail to get + Concerns this woman, the affinity. + If, as seems evident, she and the bishop + Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith, + And you, the congregation to get money + To do it with, or used you in particular + To get the money for themselves to live on + After they had arrived there in Montreaux, + If all this be" I said, "why did this woman + Descend just at the moment when he asked you + For the money that you had. You might have seen her + Before you gave the money, if you had + You might have held it back." + + "I would indeed, + You can be sure I should have held it back." + + And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting. + + "Now, James, you let me answer that, I know. + She was done with the bishop, that's the reason. + Be still and let me answer. Here's the story: + We found out later that the bishop's trunk + And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa + There to Montreaux, were there that very day, + Which means the bishop never meant to go + To Palestine at all, but meant to meet + This woman in Montreaux and live with her. + Well, that takes money. So he used my husband + To get that money. Now you wonder I see + Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme, + Descend into the room before my husband + Had given up this money, and this money, + You see, was treated as a common fund + Belonging to the church and to be used + To get back Palestine, and so the bishop + As head of the church, superior to my husband, + Could say 'give me the money'--that was natural, + My husband could not be surprised at that, + Or question it. Well, why did she descend + And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat! + I know what she did, as well as I had seen + Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing. + And when she heard my husband tell the sum + Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her, + And Satan entered in her heart, and she + Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets + Clink with the double eagles, then descended + To expose the bishop and disgrace him there + And everywhere in all the world. Now listen: + She got that money or the most of it + In spite of what she did. For in six weeks + After my husband had returned, she walked, + The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield + As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon + The bishop died and all the papers printed + The story of his shame." + + She had scarce finished + When the man at solitaire threw down the deck + And make a whacking noise and rose and came + Around in front of us and stood and looked + The old man and old woman over, me + He studied too. Then in an organ voice: + "Is there a single verse in the New Testament + That hasn't sprouted one church anyway, + Letting alone the verses that have sprouted + Two, three or four or five? I know of one: + Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"? + Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept." + With that he went out in the rain and slammed + The door behind him. + + The old clergyman + Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said, + "That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid." + + + + +THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE + + + A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner + And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns + Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle. + I stand a moment listening, then my friend + Who studies all religions, finds a wonder + In orphic spectacles like this, lays hold + Upon my arm and draws me to a door + Through which we look and see a room of seats, + A platform at the end, a table on it, + And signs upon the wall, "Jesus is Waiting," + And "God is Love." + + We enter, take a seat. + The band comes in and fills the room to bursting + With horns and drums. They cease and feet are heard, + The crowd has followed, half the seats are full. + After a prayer, a song, the captain mounts + The platform by the table and begins: + "Praise God so many girls are here to-night, + And Sister Trickey, by the grace of God + Saved from the wrath to come, will speak to you." + So Sister Trickey steps upon the platform, + A woman nearing forty, one would say. + Blue-eyed, fair skinned, and yellow haired, a figure + Once trim enough, no doubt, grown stout at last. + She was a pretty woman in her time, + 'Twas plain to see. A shrewd intelligence + From living in the world shines in her face. + We settle down to hear from Sister Trickey + And in a moment she begins: + + "Young girls: + I thank the Lord for Jesus, for he saved me, + I thank the Lord for Jesus every hour. + No woman ever stained with redder sins. + Had greater grace than mine. Praise God for Jesus! + Praise God for blood that washes sins away! + I was a woman fallen till Lord Jesus + Forgave me, helped me up and made me clean. + My name is Lilah Trickey. Let me tell you + How music was my tempter. Oh, you girls, + If there be one before me who can sing + Beware the devil and beware your voice + That it be used for Jesus, not for Satan." + + "I had a voice, was leader of the choir, + But Satan entered in my voice to tempt + The bishop of the church, and in my heart + To tempt and use the bishop; in the bishop + Old Satan slipped to lure me from the path. + He fell from grace for listening. And I + Whose voice had turned him over to the devil + Fell as he fell. He dragged me down with him. + No use to make it long, one word's enough: + Old Satan is the first word and the last, + And all between is nothing. It's enough + To say the bishop and myself eloped + Went to Montreaux. He left a wife and children. + And I poor silly thing with promises + Of culture of my voice in Paris, lost + Good name and all. And he lost all as well. + Good name, his soul I fear, because he took + The church's money saying he would use it + To win the Holy Sepulchre, in fact + Intending all the while to use the money + For travel and for keeping up a house + With me as soul-mate. For he never meant + To let me go to Paris for my voice, + He never got enough to pay for that. + On that point he betrayed me, now I see + 'Twas God who used him to deceive me there, + And leave me to return to Springfield broken, + An out-cast, fallen woman, shamed and scorned." + + "We took a house in Montreaux, plain enough + As we looked at it passing, but within + 'Twas sweet and fair as Satan could desire: + Engravings on the wall and marble mantels, + Gilt clocks upon the mantels, lovely rugs, + Chests full of linen, silver, pewter, china, + Soft beds with canopies of figured satin, + The scent of apple blossoms through the rooms. + A little garden, vines against the wall. + There were the lake and mountains. Oh, but Satan + Baited the hook with beauty. But the bishop + Seemed self-absorbed, depressed and never smiled. + And every time his face came close to mine + I smelled the brandy on him. Conscience whipped + Its venomed tail against his peace of mind. + And so he took the brandy to benumb + The sting of conscience and to dull the pain. + He told me he had business in Montreaux + Which would require some weeks, would there be met + By people who had money for him. I + Was twenty-three and green, besides I walked + In dreamland thinking of the promised schooling + In Paris--oh 'twas music, as I said.". ... + + "At last one day he said a friend was coming, + And he went to the station. Very soon + I heard their steps, the bishop and his friend. + They entered. I was curious and sat + Upon the stair-way's landing just to hear. + And this is what I heard. The bishop asked: + 'You've brought some money, how much have you brought?' + + The man replied 'four hundred dollars.' Then + The bishop said: 'I'll take it.' In a moment + I heard the clinking gold and heard the bishop + Putting it in his pocket.' + + "God forgive me, + I never was so angry in my life. + The bishop had been talking in big figures, + We would have thousands for my voice and Paris, + And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing + Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see + The American who brought the money--well, + No matter what it was, I walked in view + Upon the landing, stood there for a moment + And saw our visitor, a clergyman + From all appearances. He stared, grew red, + Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose, + Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door, + Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked + The door ajar, with open mouth backed out + Upon the street and ran. I heard him run + A square at least." + + "The bishop looked at me, + His face all brandy blossoms, left the room, + Came back at once with brandy on his breath. + And all that day was tippling, went to bed + So drunk I had to take his clothing off + And help him in." + + "Young girls, beware of music, + Save only hymns and sacred oratorios. + Beware the theatre and dancing hall. + Take lesson from my fate. + + "The morning came. + The bishop called me, he was very ill + And pale with fear. He had a dream that night. + Satan had used him and abandoned him. + And Death, whom only Jesus can put down, + Was standing by the bed. He called to me, + And said to me: + + "'That money's in that drawer. + Use it to reach America, but use it + To send my body back. Death's in the corner + Behind that cabinet--there--see him look! + I had a dream--go get a pen and paper, + And write down what I tell you. God forgive me-- + Oh what a blasphemer am I. O, woman, + To lie here dying and to know that God + Has left me--hell awaits me--horrible! + Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money, + This man and I were walking from Damascus, + And in a trice came down to Olivet. + Just then great troops of men sprang up around us + And hailed us as expecting our approach. + And there I saw the faces--hundreds maybe, + Of congregations who had trusted me + In all the long past years--Oh, sinful woman, + Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times, + 'And wreck my ministry.' + + "'And so these crowds + Armed as it seemed, exulted, called me general, + And shouted forward. So we ran like mad + And came before a building with a dome-- + You know--I've seen a picture of it somewhere. + And so the crowds yelled: let the bishop enter + And see the sepulchre, while we keep guard. + They pushed me in. But when I was inside + There was no dome, above us was the sky, + And what seemed walls was nothing but a fence. + Before us was a stable with a stall + Where two cows munched the hay. There was a farmer + Who with a pitchfork bedded down the stall. + "Where is the holy sepulchre?" I asked-- + "My army's at the door." He kept at work + And never raised his eyes and only said: + "Don't know; I haven't time for things like that. + You're 'bout the hundredth man who's asked me that. + We don't know where it is, nor do we care. + We live here and we knew him, so we feel + Less interest than you. But have you thought + If you should find it it would only be + A tomb like other tombs? Why look at this: + Here is the very manger where he lay-- + What is it? Just a manger filled with straw. + These cows are not the very cows you know-- + But cows are cows in every age and place. + I think that board there has been nailed on since. + Outside of that the place is just the same. + Now what's the good of seeing it? His mother + Lay in that corner there, what if she did? + That lantern on the wall's the very one + They came to see the child with from the inn-- + What of it? Take your army and go on, + And leave me with my barn and with my cows." + + "'So all the glory vanished! Devil magic + Stripped all the glory off. No angels singing, + No star of Bethlehem, no magi kneeling, + No Mary crowned, no Jesus King, no mystic + Blood for sins' remission--just a barn, + A stall, two cows, a lantern--all the glory-- + Swept from the gospel. That's my punishment: + My poor weak brain filled full of all this dream, + Which seems as real as life--to lie here dying + Too weak to shake the dream! To see Death there + Behind that cabinet--there--see him look-- + By God forsaken--all theology, + All mystery, all wonder, all delight + Of spiritual vision swept away as clean + As winds sweep up the clouds, and thus to see + While dying, just a manger, and two cows, + A lantern on the wall. + + "'And thus to see, + For blasphemy that duped an honest heart, + And took the pitiful dollars of the flock + To win you with--oh, woman, woman, woman, + A barn, a stall, a lantern limned so clear + In such a daylight of clear seeing senses + That all the splendor, the miraculous + Wonder of the virgin, nimbused child, + The star that followed till it rested over + The manger (such a manger) all are wrecked, + All blotted from belief, all snatched away + From hands pushed off by God, no longer holding + The robes of God.' + + "And so the bishop raved + While I stood terrified, since I could feel + Death in the room, and almost see the monster + Behind the cabinet. + + "Then the bishop said: + "'My dream went on. I crossed the stable yard + And passed into a place of tombs. And look! + Before I knew I stepped into a hole, + A sunken grave with just a slab at head, + And "Jesus" carven on it, nothing else, + No date, no birth, no parentage.'" + + "'I lie + Tormented by the pictures of this dream. + Woman, take to your death bed with clear mind + Of gospel faith, clean conscience, sins forgiven. + The thoughts that we must suffer with and die with + Are worth the care of all the days of life. + All life should be directed to this end, + Lest when the mind lies fallen, vultures swoop, + And with their wings blot out the sun of faith, + And with their croakings drown the voice of God.' + + "He ceased, became delirious. So he died, + And I still unrepentant buried him + There in Montreaux, and with what gold remained + Went on to Paris. + + "See how I was marked + For God's salvation. + + "There I went to see + The celebrated teacher Jean Strakosch, + Who looked at me with insolent, calm eyes, + And face impassive, let me sing a scale, + Then shook his head. A diva, as I thought, + Came in just then. They talked in French, and I, + Prickling from head to foot with shame, ignored, + Left standing like a fool, passed from the room. + So music turned on me, but God received me, + And I came back to Springfield. But the Lord + Made life too hard for me without the fold. + I was so shunned and scorned, I had no place + Save with the fallen, with the mockers, drinkers. + Thus being in conviction, after struggles, + And many prayers I found salvation, found + My work in life: which is to talk to girls + And stand upon this platform and relate + My story for their good." + + She ceased. Amens + Went up about the room. The big drum boomed, + And the raucous brass horns mingled with the cymbals, + The silver triangle and the singing voices. + + My friend and I arose and left the room. + + + + +NEANDERTHAL + + + "Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry + I woke from deeper slumber--was it sleep?-- + And saw a hooded figure standing by + The bed whereon I lay. + + "Why do you keep, + O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard + About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep + Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard, + As that unearthly shape was veiled to you + At Casa Magni?" + + Then the room was starred + With light as I was speaking, and I knew + The god, my brother, from whose face the veil + Melted as mist. + + "What mission fair and true, + While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale + Amid this solemn stillness, for your face + Unutterably majestic." + + As when the dale + At midnight echoes for a little space, + The night-bird's cry, the god responded "Come," + And nothing more. I left my bed apace, + And followed him with wings above the gloom + Of clouds like chariots driven on to war, + Between whose wheels the swift moon raced and swum. + + A mile beneath us lay the earth, afar + Were mountains which as swift as thought drew near + As we passed over pines, where many a star + And heaven's light made every frond as clear + As through a glass or in the lightning's flash. ... + Yet I seemed flying from an olden fear, + A bulk of black that sought to sting or gnash + My breast or side--which was myself, it seemed, + The flesh or thinking part of me grown rash + And violent, a brain soul unredeemed, + Which sometime earlier in the grip of Death + Forgot its terror when my soul which streamed + Like ribbons of silk fire, with quiet breath + Said to the body, as it were a thing + Separate and indifferent: "How uneath + That fellow turns, while I am safe yet cling + Close to him, both another and the same." + Now was this mood reversed: That self must wing + Its fastest flight to fly him, lest he maim + With fleshly hands my better, stronger part, + As dragon wings my flap and quench a flame. ... + But as we passed o'er empires and athwart + A bellowing strait, beholding bergs and floes + And running tides which made the sinking heart + Rise up again for breath, I felt how close + The god, my brother, was, who would sustain + My wings whatever dangers might oppose, + And knowing him beside me, like a strain + Of music were his thoughts, though nothing yet + Was spoken by him. + + When as out of rain + Suddenly lights may break, the earth was set + Beneath us, and we stood and paused to see + The Duessel river from a parapet + Of earth and rock. Then bending curiously, + As reaching, in a moment with his hand + He scraped the turf and stones, pried up a key + Of harder granite, and at his command, + When he had made an opening, I slid + And sank, down, down through the Devonian land + Until with him I reached a cavern hid + From every eye but ours, and where no light + But from our faces was, a pyramid + Of hills that walled this crypt of soundless night. + Then in a mood, it seemed more fanciful, + He bent again and raked, and to my sight + Upheaved and held the remnant of a skull-- + Gorilla's or a man's, I could not guess. + Yet brutal though it was, it was a hull + Too fine and large to house the nakedness + Of a beast's mind. + + But as I looked the god + Began these words: "Before the iron stress + Of the north pole's dominion fell, he trod + The wastes of Europe, ere the Nile was made + A granary for the east, or ere the clod + In Babylon or India baked was laid + For hovels, this man lived. Ten thousand years + Before the earliest pyramid cast its shade + Upon the desolate sands this thing of fears, + Lusts, hungers, lived and hunted, woke and slept, + Mated, produced its kind, with hairy ears, + And tiger eyes sensed all that you accept + In terms of thought or vision as the proof + Of immanent Power or Love. But this skull kept + The intangible meaning out. This heavy roof + Of brutish bone above the eyes was dead + Even to lower ethers, no behoof + Of seasons, stars or skies took, though they bred + Suspicions, fears, or nervous glances, thought, + Which silent as a lizard's shadow fled + Before it graved itself, passed over, wrought + No vision, only pain, which he deemed pangs + Of hunger or of thirst." + + As you have sought + The meaning of life's riddle, since it hangs + In waking or in slumber just above + The highest reach of prophecy, and fangs + With poison of despair all moods but love, + Behold its secret lettered on this brow + Placed by your own! + + This is the word thereof: + _Change and progression from the glazed slough, + Where life creeps and is blind, ascending up + The jungled slopes for prey till spirits bow + On Calvaries with crosses, take the cup + Of martyrdom for truth's sake._ + + It may be + Men of to-day make monstrous war, sleep, sup, + Traffic, build shrines, as earliest history + Records the earliest day, and that the race + Is what it was in virtue, charity, + And nothing better. But within this face + No light shone from that realm where Hindostan, + Delving in numbers, watching stars took grace + And inspiration to explore the plan + Of heaven and earth. And of the scheme the test + Is not five thousand years, which leave the van + Just where it was, but this change manifest + In fifty thousand years between the mind + Neanderthal's and Shelley's. + + Man progressed + Along these years, found eyes where he was blind, + Put instinct under thought, crawled from the cave, + And faced the sun, till somewhere heaven's wind + Mixed with the light of Lights descending, gave + To mind a touch of divinity, making whole + An undeveloped growth. + + As ships that brave + Great storms at sea on masts a flaming coal + From heaven catch, bear on, so man was wreathed + Somewhere with lightning and became a soul. + Into his nostrils purer fire was breathed + Than breath of life itself, and by a leap, + As lightning leaps from crag to crag, what seethed + In man from the beginning broke the sleep + That lay on consciousness of self, with eyes + Awakened saw himself, out of the deep + And wonder of the self caught the surmise + Of Power beyond this world, and felt it through + The flow of living. + + And so man shall rise + From this illumination, from this clue + To perfect knowledge that this Power exists, + And what man is to this Power, even as you + Have left Neanderthal lost in the mists + And ignorance of centuries untold. + What would you say if learned geologists + Out of the rocks and caverns should unfold + The skulls of greater races, records, books + To shame us for our day, could we behold + Therein our retrogression? Wonder looks + In vain for these, discovers everywhere + Proof of the root which darkly bends and crooks + Far down and far away; a stalk more fair + Upspringing finds its proof, buds on the stalk + The eye may see, at last the flowering flare + Of man to-day! + + I see the things which balk, + Retard, divert, draw into sluices small, + But who beholds the stream turned back to mock, + Not just itself, but make equivocal + A Universal Reason, Vision? No. + You find no proof of this, but prodigal + Proof of ascending Life! + + So life shall flow + Here on this globe until the final fruit + And harvest. As it were until the glow + Of the great blossom has the attribute + In essence, color of eternal things, + And shows no rim between its hues which suit + The infinite sky's. Then if the dead earth swings + A gleaned and stricken field amid the void + What matters it to you, a soul with wings, + Whether it be replanted or destroyed? + Has it not served you?" + + Now his voice was still, + Which in such discourse had been thus employed. + And in that lonely cavern dark and chill + I heard again, "Then what is life?" And woke + To find the moonlight on the window sill + That which had seemed his presence. And a cloak, + Whose hood was perked upon the moonbeams, made + The skull of the Neanderthal. The smoke + Blown from the fireplace formed the cavern's shade. + And roaring winds blew down as they had tuned + The voice which left me calm and unafraid. + + + + +THE END OF THE SEARCH + + + _There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole, + And the tiger banner, he cries. + Pantagruel breaks into a laugh + As the monarch dries his eyes.--The Search_ + + _"The tiger banyer, that is what you call much + Bad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer. + That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you call + Nature. See! Nature!"--King Joy_ + + * * * * * + + Said Old King Cole I know the banner + Of dragon and tiger too, + But I would know the vagrant fellows + Who came to my castle with you. + + * * * * * + + And I would know why they rise in the morning + And never take bread or scrip; + And why they hasten over the mountain + In a sorrowed fellowship. + + * * * * * + + Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not? + One said he goes to Spain. + One said he goes to Elsinore, + And one to the Trojan plain. + + * * * * * + + Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole, + There is a word that's more: + Who is it goes to Spain and Troy? + And who to Elsinore? + + * * * * * + + One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel, + Out for the final joust. + One may be Hamlet, said Pantagruel + And one I think is Faust. + + * * * * * + + Whoever they be, said Pantagruel, + Why stand at the window and drool? + Let's out and catch the runaways + While the morning hour is cool. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel runs to the castle court, + And King Cole follows soon. + The cobblestones of the court yard ring + To the beat of their flying shoon. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle, + And King Cole clutches his crown. + They throw the bolt of the castle gate + And race them through the town. + + * * * * * + + They cross the river and follow the road, + They run by the willow trees, + And the tiger banner and dragon banner + Wait for the morning breeze. + + * * * * * + + They clamber the wall and part the brambles, + And tear through thicket and thorn. + And a wild dove in an olive tree + Does mourn and mourn and mourn. + + * * * * * + + A green snake starts in the tangled grass, + And springs his length at their feet. + And a condor circles the purple sky + Looking for carrion meat. + + * * * * * + + And mad black flies are over their heads, + And a wolf looks out of his hole. + Great drops of sweat break out and run + From the brow of Old King Cole. + + * * * * * + + Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, + From the holy bottle, I pray. + My breath is short, my feet run blood, + My throat is baked as clay. + + * * * * * + + Anon they reach a mountain top, + And a mile below in the plain + Are the glitter of guns and a million men + Led by an idiot brain. + + * * * * * + + They come to a field of slush and flaw + Red with a blood red dye. + And a million faces fungus pale + Stare horribly at the sky. + + * * * * * + + They come to a cross where a rotting thing + Is slipping down from the nails. + And a raven perched on the eyeless skull + Opens his beak and rails: + + * * * * * + + "If thou be the Son of man come down, + Save us and thyself save." + Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven: + "How now blaspheming knave!" + + * * * * * + + "Come down and of my bottle drink, + And cease this scurvy rune." + But the raven flapped its wings and laughed + Loud as the water loon. + + * * * * * + + Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, + I faint, a drink in haste. + But when he drinks he pales and mutters: + "The wine has lost its taste." + + * * * * * + + "You have gone mad," said Pantagruel, + "In faith 'tis the same old wine." + Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottle + But the flavor is like sea brine. + + * * * * * + + And there on a rock is a cypress tree, + And a form with a muffled face. + "I know you, Death," said Pantagruel, + "But I ask of you no grace." + + * * * * * + + "Empty my bottle, sour my wine, + Bend me, you shall not break." + "Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a time + Before I come and take." + + * * * * * + + "You have lost everything in life but the bottle, + Youth and woman and friend. + Pass on and laugh for a little space yet + The laugh that has an end." + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel passes and looks around him + Brave and merry of soul. + But there on the ground lies a dead body, + The body of Old King Cole. + + * * * * * + + And a Voice said: Take the body up + And carry the body for me + Until you come to a silent water, + By the sands of a silent sea. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel takes the body up + And the dead fat bends him down. + He climbs the mountains, runs the valleys + With body, bottle and crown. + + * * * * * + + And the wastes are strewn with skulls, + And the desert is hot and cursed. + And a phantom shape of the holy bottle + Mocks his burning thirst. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel wanders seven days, + And seven nights wanders he. + And on the seventh night he rests him + By the sands of the silent sea. + + * * * * * + + And sees a new made fire on the shore, + And on the fire is a dish. + And by the fire two travelers sleep, + And two are broiling fish. + + * * * * * + + Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping, + And Faust is stirring the fire. + But the fourth is a stranger with a face + Starred with a great desire. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts, + Pantagruel falls to his knees. + He flings down the body of Old King Cole + As a man throws off disease. + + * * * * * + + And rolls his burden away and cries: + "Take and watch, if you will. + But as for me I go to France + My bottle to refill." + + * * * * * + + "And as for me I go to France + To fill this bottle up." + He felt at his side for the holy bottle, + And found it turned a cup. + + * * * * * + + And the stranger said: Behold our friend + Has brought my cup to me. + That is the cup whereof I drank + In the garden Gethsemane. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel hands the cup to Jesus + Who dips it in sea brine. + This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth, + Whereof I make your wine. + + * * * * * + + And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth, + And his lips wear a purple stain. + And Faust hands the cup to Pantagruel + With the dregs for him to drain. + + * * * * * + + Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber, + And Jesus strokes his hair. + And Faust sings a song of Euphorion + To hide his heart's despair. + + * * * * * + + And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth, + And they walk by the purple deep. + Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers, + And some grow tired and sleep." + + + + +BOTANICAL GARDENS + + + He follows me no more, I said, nor stands + Beside me. And I wake these later days + In an April mood, a wonder light and free. + The vision is gone, but gone the constant pain + Of constant thought. I see dawn from my hill, + And watch the lights which fingers from the waters + Twine from the sun or moon. Or look across + The waste of bays and marshes to the woods, + Under the prism colors of the air, + Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds, + Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the sky + In terrible glory. + + And earth charmed I lie + Before the staring sphinx whose musing face + Is this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyes + Are separate clouds of gold, whose pedestal + Is earth, whose silken sheathed claws + No longer toy with me, even while I stroke them: + Since I have ceased to tease her. + + Then behold + A breeze is blown out of a world becalmed, + And as I see the multitudinous leaves + Fluttered against the water and the light, + And see this light unveil itself, reveal + An inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor, + I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels; + And I have fears of dieties shown or spun + From nothingness. But when I look again + The earth has stayed itself, I see the lake, + The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoods + Of thunder heads, yet feel upon my arm + A hand I know, and hear a voice I know-- + He has returned and brought with him the thought + And the old pain. + + The voice says: "Leave the sphinx. + The garden waits your study fully grown." + And I arise and follow down a slope + To a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone, + And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosing + An Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smile + Consciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love, + As he strokes with baby hand the slender arching + Neck of a swan. And here is a peristyle + Whose carven columns are pink as the long updrawn + Stalks of tulips bedded in April snow. + And sunk amid tiger lillies is the face + Of an Asian Aphrodite close to the seat + With feet of a Babylonian lion amid + This ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppies + And ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems, + Though here is our western moon as white and thin + As an abalone shell hung under the boughs + Of an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky between + His boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. ... + We walk to the water's edge and here he shows me + Green scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs, + That yield to trees beyond the levels, where + The beech and oak have triumph; for along + This gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses, + That builds the soil against the water's hands, + All things are fierce for place and garner life + From weaker things. + + And then he shows me root stocks, + And Alpine willow, growths that sneak and crawl + Beneath the soil. Or as we leave the lake + And walk the forest I behold lianas, + Smilax or woodbine climbing round the trunks + Of giant trees that live and out of earth, + And out of air make strength and food and ask + No other help. And in this place I see + Spiral bryony, python of the vines + That coils and crushes; and that banyan tree + Whose spreading branches drop new roots to earth, + And lives afar from where the parent trunk + Has sunk its roots, so that the healthful sun + Is darkened: as a people might be darkened + By ignorance or want or tyranny, + Or dogma of a jungle hidden faith. + Why is it, think I, though I dare not speak, + That this should be to forests or to men; + That water fails, and light decreases, heat + Of God's air lessens, and the soil goes spent, + Till plants change leaves and stalks and seeds as well, + Or migrate from the olden places, go + In search of life, or if they cannot move + Die in the ruthless marches. + + That is life, he said. + For even these, the giants scatter life + Into the maws of death. That towering tree + That for these hundred years has leafed itself, + And through its leaves out of the magic air + Drawn nutriment for annual girths, took root + Out of an acorn which good chance preserved, + While all its brother acorns cast to earth, + To make trees, by a parent tree now gone, + Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sprouted + Amid thick jealous growth wherein they fell. + All acorns but this one were lost. + + Then he reads + My questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactus + Whose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive. + And shows me leaves that must have rain, and roots + That must have water where the river flows. + And how the spirit of life, though turned or driven + This way or that beyond a course begun, + Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conforms + To soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves, + Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stem + To fashion forth itself, produce its kind. + Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not, + Is only changed or buried, re-appears + As other forms of life. + + We had walked through + A forest of sequoias, beeches, pines, + And ancient oaks where I could see the trace + Of willows, alders, ruined or devoured + By the great Titans. + + At last + We reached my hill and sat and overlooked + The garden at our feet, even to the place + Of tiger lilies and of asphodel, + By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser: + As where the wounded surface of the shell + Thickens its shimmering stuff in spiral coigns + Of the shell, so was the moon above the seat + Beside the Eros and the Aphrodite + Sunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass. + And here we sat and looked. And here my vision + Was over all we saw, but not a part + Of what we saw, for all we saw stood forth + As foreign to myself as something touched + To learn the thing it is. + + I might have asked + Who owns this garden, for the thought arose + With my surprise, who owns this garden, who + Planted this garden, why and to what end, + And why this fight for place, for soil and sun + Water and air, and why this enmity + Between the things here planted, and between + Flying or crawling life and plants, and whence + The power that falls in one place but arises + Some other place; and why the unceasing growth + Of all these forms that only come to seed, + Then disappear to enrich the insatiate soil + Where the new seed falls? But silence kept me there + For wonder of the beauty which I saw, + Even while the faculty of external vision + Kept clear the garden separate from me, + Envisioned, seen as grasses, sedges, alders, + As forestry, as fields of wheat and corn, + As the vast theatre of unceasing life, + Moving to life and blind to all but life; + As places used, tried out, as if the gardener, + For his delight or use, or for an end + Of good or beauty made experiments + With seed or soils or crossings of the seed. + Even as peoples, epochs, did the garden + Lie to my vision, or as races crowding, + Absorbing, dispossessing, killing races, + Not only for a place to grow, but under + A stimulus of doctrine: as Mahomet, + Or Jesus, like a vital change of air, + Or artifice of culture, made the garden, + Which mortals call the world, grow in a way, + And overgrow the world as neither dreamed. + Who is the Gardener then? Or is there one + Beside the life within the plant, within + The python climbers, wandering sedges, root stalks, + Thorn bushes, night-shade, deadly saprophytes, + Goths, Vandals, Tartars, striving for more life, + And praying to the urge within as God, + The Gardener who lays out the garden, sprays + For insects which devour, keeps rich the soil + For those who pray and know the Gardener + As One who is without and over-sees? ... + + But while in contemplation of the garden, + Whether from failing day or from departure + Of my own vision in the things it saw, + Bereft of penetrating thought I sank, + Became a part of what I saw and lost + The great solution. + + As we sat in silence, + And coming night, what seemed the sinking moon, + Amid the yellow sedges by the lake + Began to twinkle, as a fire were blown-- + And it was fire, the garden was afire, + As it were all the world had flamed with war. + And a wind came out of the bright heaven + And blew the flames, first through the ruined garden, + Then through the wood, the fields of wheat, at last + Nothing was left but waste and wreaths of smoke + Twisting toward the stars. And there he sat + Nor uttered aught, save when I sighed he said + "If it be comforting I promise you + Another spring shall come." + + "And after that?" + "Another spring--that's all I know myself, + There shall be springs and springs!" + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Toward the Gulf, by Edgar Lee Masters + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWARD THE GULF *** + +***** This file should be named 7845.txt or 7845.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/4/7845/ + +Produced by Dave Maddock, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +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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